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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Land of the Black Mountain, by
Reginald Wyon
Gerald Prance

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Title: The Land of the Black Mountain
       The Adventures of Two Englishmen in  Montenegro

Author: Reginald Wyon
Gerald Prance

Release Date: January 27, 2006 [EBook #17613]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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                              THE LAND OF
                          THE BLACK MOUNTAIN



                   THE ADVENTURES OF TWO ENGLISHMEN
                             IN MONTENEGRO



                                  BY

                    REGINALD WYON AND GERALD PRANCE


                     WITH FIFTY-ONE ILLUSTRATIONS





                "SOME GLIMPSING AND NO PERFECT SIGHT"

                                                 CHAUCER



                         NEW AND CHEAPER ISSUE


                             METHUEN & CO.
                         36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
                                LONDON



_First Published March 1903
New and Cheaper Issue 1905_


[Illustration: H.R.H. PRINCE NICOLAS OF MONTENEGRO]




DEDICATED BY KIND PERMISSION

TO

H.R.H. PRINCE NICOLAS
OF MONTENEGRO




CONTENTS


INTRODUCTION


CHAPTER I

Montenegro's geographical position--Character of the people--Their
honesty, patriotism, and love of arms--Likeness to the Homeric
Greeks--The women--Montenegrin manners, vices, heroism, lack of
privacy, police--Goodness of the Prince--The national
costume--Religion--Hatred of Austria--Russia's friendship


CHAPTER II

History from first conquest by the Romans, 300 B.C., down to the
present Prince--Fruits of the last campaign--Education--The
military system--Legal administration--Crime--Government--The
educated classes


CHAPTER III

The journey to Montenegro--Arrival in Cattaro--Beauty of the
Bocche, and the drive to the frontier--First impressions of
Montenegro--Njegusi--The national troubadours--Arrival in
Cetinje


CHAPTER IV

Cetinje and its sights--Prince Nicolas--The Archbishop--The
barracks--The princes--A visit to the prison and its system--Our
departure for Podgorica


CHAPTER V

The view from Bella Vista--New scenery--Promiscuous shooting--The
market in Rijeka--The shepherds--Their flocks--Wayside
hospitality--The plain of the Zeta--The Moraca--The
Vizier bridge--Old war-marks--First and last impressions of
Podgorica


CHAPTER VI

Podgorica--Its central position--Our headquarters--Easter in
Montenegro--Our experience of it--We view the town--The
prison and its inmates--Christian and Mahometan friction--The
modern town--The market and the armed buyers--The
Black Earth--Easter customs--Montenegrin methods of doing
business


CHAPTER VII

Medun--Voivoda Marko--His life and business--His part in Montenegrin
history--Our ride to Medun--His widow--We visit his grave--The Death
Dirge--Montenegrin customs at death--Target practice--Our critics--The
hermit of Daibabe--We visit Spuz--A typical country inn and a
meal--The Turkish renegade gives his views on warfare--Dioclea


CHAPTER VIII

Achmet Uiko tells his story--Sokol Baco, ex-Albanian chief--Shooting
on the Lake of Scutari--Our journey thither--Our frustrated
nap--Arrival at the chapel--The island of Vranjina--The
priest--Fishing and fishermen--Our visitors--We return to Podgorica


CHAPTER IX

Stephan our servant--Virpazar--The drive over the Sutormann
Pass--Antivari and Prstan--The beauty of the bay--We are
delayed by contrary winds--We are rowed to Dulcigno--We
make the acquaintance of Marko Ivankovic--A story concerning
him--We shoot together--An episode on a lake--Vaccination--The
Turkish inhabitants


CHAPTER X

We ride to Scutari--The Albanian Customs officials--We suffer
much from Turkish saddles--Arrival at Scutari, and again pass
the Customs--"Buon arrivato"--Scutari and its religious
troubles--The town and bazaar--A slight misunderstanding,
Yes and No--We return to Rijeka by steamer--The beauties
of the trip--Wrong change--The prodigal son's return, when
the fatted calf is _not_ killed


CHAPTER XI

Preparations for our tour in the Brda--We start--Where it is not good
to be giddy--A trying ride--Our inn--Nocturnal episodes--The journey
continued--Pleasant surroundings--The Montenegrin _quart
d'heure_--Arrival in Kolasin--We meet the Governor--Visiting--The Band
of Good Hope--The Crown Prince's birthday--We are ashamed


CHAPTER XII

Montenegro's oldest building--The ride to the Moraca Monastery--A
perilous bridge and ascent--The Abbot's tale--We inspect the
Monastery--The health of the King is drunk--The relative merits of
Boers and Montenegrins--The Abbot makes us presents--We visit a
peasant's house and a Homeric feast--A feu-de-joie--Departure from
Kolasin--We are mistaken for doctors again--Raskrsnica


CHAPTER XIII

A typical mountain hut--Costume of the north-eastern borderers--Supper
and a song--We go out hunting, and cause excitement--The Feast of
Honour--We ride to Andrijevica--Andrijevica and our inn--The
Voivoda--We go to church--Turkish visitors--Alarums


CHAPTER XIV

The Voivoda's invitation--Concerning an episode on our ride to
Velika--The fugitive from a blood-feud and his story--We arrive at
Velika--The men of Velika--The menu--Border jurisdiction--A
shooting-match--The Kom--Pleasant evenings--A young
philosopher--Sunset


CHAPTER XV

We leave Andrijevica--Our additional escort--The arrival at our
camping-place--In an enemy's country--The story of one Gjolic--Our
slumbers are disturbed--Sunrise on the Alps--We disappoint our
escort--"Albanian or Montenegrin?"--A reconnaissance--The Forest of
Vucipotok--The forbidden land--narrow escape--We arrive at
Rikavac--Rain damps our ardour--Nocturnal visitors


CHAPTER XVI

More memorial stones--We get wet again--Unwilling hosts--A fall--The
Franciscan of Zatrijebac--The ravine of the Zem--Methods of settling
tribal differences--A change of diet and more pleasant evenings--A
fatalist--Sunday morning


CHAPTER XVII

A modern hero, and our sojourn under his roof--Keco's story--The laws
of vendetta and their incongruity--We return to Podgorica--The
Montenegrin telephone--An elopement causes excitement--The Sultan's
birthday--The reverse of the picture--A legal anomaly


CHAPTER XVIII

S. Vasili and Ostrog--Our drive thither--Joyful pilgrims--Varied
costumes--We meet the Vladika of Montenegro--The ordeal of hot
coffee--A real pilgrimage--The shrine of S. Vasili--The ancient
hermit--A miracle--Niksic--The gaudy cathedral and the Prince's
palace--We are disappointed at Niksic


CHAPTER XIX

The Club and its members--Gugga--Irregularities of time--The absence
of the gentle muse and our surprise--The musician's story and his
subsequent fate--The Black Earth--A typical border house--The ordeal
of infancy--A realistic performance which is misunderstood--Concerning
a memorable drive--A fervent prayer


CHAPTER XX

We reconsider our opinion of Cetinje--A Montenegrin wake and its
consequences--A hero's death--Montenegrin conversation--Needless
appeals to the Deity--We visit the hospital


CHAPTER XXI

The Law Court in Cetinje--The Prince as patriarch--A typical
lawsuit--Pleasant hours with murderers--Our hostel--A Babel of
tongues--Our sojourn draws to a close--The farewell cup of coffee and
apostrophe


INDEX




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


H.R.H. PRINCE NICOLAS OF MONTENEGRO        _Frontispiece_

THE GRAF WURMBRAND, IN THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO

THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO

NJEGUSI

THE GUSLAR

MONTENEGRIN INFANTRY

THE VLADIKA AT THE MONASTERY OF IVAN BEG

THE PRINCE'S PALACE

GENERAL VIEW OF CETINJE

THE FEMALE PRISONERS

THE PRISONERS DANCING

THE VIZIER BRIDGE

GENERAL VIEW OF PODGORICA

THE RIBNICA

THE GRAVE SCENE AT MEDUN

VOIVODA MARKO

SIMEON POPOVIC AND HIS CHAPEL

SPUZ

ACHMET UIKO

SOKOL BACO

THE POP OF VRANJINA

AN ALBANIAN GIRL

VIRPAZAR

ANTIVARI OR BAR

MARKO IVANKOVIC

THE BRIDGE AT RIJEKA

VACCINATION

BAZAAR LIFE, DULCIGNO

THE CONSULAR QUARTER, SCUTARI

KOLASIN--THE MARKET-PLACE

THE KOLO

A TYPICAL ROAD

THE MORACA MONASTERY

OUR HUT AT RASKRSNICA

ANDRIJEVICA

CHURCH PARADE

VELIKA

MORINA

THE FUGITIVE OF VELIKA

THE VASOJEYICKI KOM

ALBANIANS AND MONTENEGRINS AT ANDRIJEVICA

THE RAVINE OF TERPETLIS

THE PATH THROUGH THE VUCIPOTOK

AFTER MASS AT ZATRIJEBAC

MONTENEGRIN WOMEN

THE LOWER MONASTERY, OSTROG

THE UPPER MONASTERY

THE CHURCH, NIKSIC

THE CHURCH AND THE PALACE

A REALISTIC PERFORMANCE

AN ALBANIAN HOME ON THE CRNA ZEMLJA




INTRODUCTION


"What a terrible country!" said a lady tourist to me once in Cetinje,
"nothing but barren grey rocks; and what poverty! I declare I shan't
breathe freely till I am out of it again."

This is a common opinion of travellers to Montenegro, and one that is
spread by them all over Europe. And yet how unjust! A fairly large
number of tourists take the drive from beautiful little Cattaro up
that wild mountain-side and through the barren Katunska to Cetinje. A
few hours later they return the way they came, convinced that they
have seen Montenegro. A few, very few, prolong the tour to Podgorica
and Niksic, returning with a still firmer conviction that they have
penetrated into the very fastnesses of that wonderful little land.
These chosen few have at least seen that all is not bare and rocky,
that there are rich green valleys, rushing mountain torrents, and
pleasant streams.

If they are very observant they will likewise notice that the men of
these parts are more wildly clad and fiercer-looking than their more
polished brethren of the "residence." Rifles are carried more
universally the nearer lies Albania, and in Podgorica itself they will
have seen--particularly if chance has brought them there on a
market-day--crowds of savage-looking hill-men, clad in the white serge
costume of Albania, standing over their handful of field produce with
loaded rifles; stern men from the borders with seamed faces; sturdy
plains-men tanned to a mahogany tint by the almost tropical sun of the
valleys; shepherds in great sheepskins, be it ever so hot; and haughty
Turks, hodjas, and veiled women, all in a crowded confusion, haggling
and bartering. Quaint wooden carts drawn by patient oxen, their huge
clumsy wheels creaking horribly; gypsies with thunderous voices acting
as town criers; madmen shrieking horribly; blind troubadours droning
out songs of heroes on their guslars. If the tourist has witnessed and
understood all this, then he has seen something of Montenegro. But
beyond those lofty mountains which rise on either side of the carriage
road, live these same people in their rude villages. There are towns
far away, unconnected by any road, to reach which the traveller must
journey wearily by horse and on foot, over boulder-strewn paths, by
the side of roaring torrents, through the cool depths of primeval
forests, and over the snow-clad spurs of rugged mountains. There he
will find men accustomed to face death at any moment, who delight in
giving hospitality, and who talk of other lands as "the world
outside." These are the Montenegrins to whom we owe some of the most
pleasant reminiscences of our lives.

Our book does not describe the whole country, as unfortunately we were
unable to visit the northern districts and the lofty Durmitor, but we
certainly saw the more interesting half, namely, the whole of the
Albanian frontier.

Amongst those hardy borderers we made many warm friends, but it would
be invidious to mention names amongst so many. We came to the country
with a single introduction, to Dr. Stefanelli, the companion of many
of our journeys, and we left at the conclusion of six months with a
host of friends. Still to two we wish humbly to express our gratitude
for many acts of, at the time, unknown courtesy, namely, H.R.H. Prince
Nicolas, and the Metropolitan of Montenegro, Mitrofanban. As a slight
token of our thanks to, and admiration of, that true father of his
people, Prince Nicolas, we respectfully dedicate this book to the
soldier-poet and prince of the Land of the Black Mountain.

Since we finished the story of our travels, I have had the honour of
speaking long with Prince Nicolas and of seeing him on many occasions;
for during our first travels in the land we were always strangely
unlucky in this respect. I then learnt how our progress through
Montenegro had been watched over, and contingencies provided for,
which we had taken as a matter of course.

Some, alas! of our friends are now no more. The Governor of Podgorica
was shot down in broad daylight a short while ago whilst taking his
midday promenade in which we so often shared. Others, too, have fallen
on the borders. Friends are easily lost in Montenegro, where a charge
of powder and a bullet settle differences.

Disagreeable episodes happened to us--they happen everywhere--but
these we have rightly or wrongly omitted. The good that we experienced
certainly outweighed the bad, and that shall be our reason for so
doing.

And again, throughout the book we have given our _first_ impressions,
much of it was written during our actual progress through the land. It
may be that our feelings will thus be more interesting than a
cut-and-dried treatise of the land and its inhabitants.

In conclusion, it will not be amiss to add an explanation of the Serb
names which appear throughout the book in the original spelling. The
names have often an unpronounceable appearance, and look harsh and
forbidding. This is far from the case, for the Serb language is
full-toned and musical.

In common with the Slav languages it has a sixth vowel, viz.
"r"--hence such words as "Srb" (Serb), "trg" (place or square), and
"Trst" (Triest). It is only necessary to roll the "r" to overcome this
seeming anomaly of a collection of consonants. The language is spoken
exactly as it is written, as for instance Italian, but the consonants
s, c, and z vary according to their accents.

"s" is our sharp s; but with inverted circumflex

"s" it becomes "ssh," as in "show."

"c" is pronounced "tz": thus Cetinje is spoken Tzetinje; Podgorica as
Podgoritza.

"c" and "c" are accentuated "tsch": as Petrovic, Petrovitsch; Moraca,
Moratcha.

"z" is soft, as "s" in "rose."

"z" is sounded like the French "j" in "journal."

"dz" is sounded like the "j" in "James."

"nj" is sounded like the "gn" in French "campagne": Tzetigne
(Cetinje), and so on.

We are fully aware of many shortcomings, and for these we crave
pardon, but if we benefit little Montenegro by the publication of our
work, then we shall not have written it in vain.

England has once before proved the friend of Montenegro; the fighting
instincts of that brave race, their love of freedom, and the
possession of their most glorious of histories appeal to all of us.

I fear there are troublous times ahead for that gallant little nation,
perhaps another bitter disappointment is in store for them, when they
will need a friend.

Times have changed now, personal valour avails but little against
overwhelming armies and modern artillery.

"We little nations must beseech the Almighty to give us peace," said
Prince Nicolas to me not so very long ago.

May it be His will!

R.W.

VIENNA, _February, 1903_




THE LAND OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER I

Montenegro's geographical position--Character of the people--Their
honesty, patriotism, and love of arms--Likeness to the Homeric
Greeks--The women--Montenegrin manners, vices, heroism, lack of
privacy, police--Goodness of the Prince--The national
costume--Religion--Hatred of Austria--Russia's friendship.


Roughly Montenegro is diamond-shaped, with its points towards north
and south, east and west. To the north-east it is bounded by the
Sandjak of Novipazar, held by Turkey and Austria jointly, and dividing
it from its parent country, the kingdom of Servia. To the south-east
lies Albania, while Austria again borders Montenegro in Bosnia and the
Hercegovina in the north-west and in Dalmatia to the south-west.
Dalmatia and a narrow strip of the Adria complete the circuit, so
Austria practically surrounds Montenegro on three sides.

The land may be said to possess three distinct belts of vegetation,
each of an entirely different character. It is divided from north to
south by the River Zeta, and the low-lying plains are fertile and
rich, and this district also comprises the sea coast. To the west is
the Katunska or "Shepherds' huts," those barren and rocky mountains of
old Montenegro, from which the country derives its name; while to the
east lies the Brda, mountains vying with Switzerland in beauty, rich
grazing grounds and densely-wooded hills abounding with game, and the
streams well stocked with fish.

The plains are the granaries of Montenegro, unfortunately too limited
in area to give an abundance, but there is a mine of wealth in the
Brda, when that part shall be opened up by connecting roads. The vast
primeval forests and mineral products will be an important source of
income in the times to come. Even at the present day the district
constitutes the chief source of revenue from the export of cattle,
sheep, and horses which flourish on the magnificent mountain
pasturages. Montenegrin wool, greatly famed, comes too from the Brda.

It is chiefly in the Katunska, the cradle of the Montenegrin nation,
that the most interesting geological formations are to be found, and
in these formations lay its former strength. The most prominent
features of the Karst region are imperfect valleys which have no
outlet. As a consequence of this, the water cannot escape by an
overground bed, so it forces itself through the porous surface to
reappear in a lower valley, undermining the subsoil, which in time
collapses, and forms the oases of this otherwise barren land. The
rain washes down the little earth that there is on the hillside, the
chemical action of the limestone oxidises the same, and the so-called
"terra rossa" is formed in these depressions, sufficient to give
nourishment to the trees and bushes which grow there. The frugal
peasant cultivates these tiny patches of earth and derives enough
crops to subsist on, the goats and cattle living on the bushes and
smaller trees.

In olden times the little nation found barely enough substance for
themselves, consisting as they did of but a few thousand, but an
invading army starved. It was in truth a land "where a small army is
beaten, a large one dies of hunger."

The character of the people has been formed by their surroundings.
Hardy and frugal, capable of subsisting on the smallest amount of
nourishment, lithe and active, and open and fearless as their native
mountains.

Their food consists of a piece of maize bread at daybreak, and they
eat nothing again till sunset, when bread and a little milk form their
evening meal. Meat is eaten but rarely, and then they feast. The
athletic feat of crossing rock-strewn surfaces, bounding from rock to
rock at a great pace, rivalling their goats in sure-footedness at dizzy
and precipitous heights, has lent their gait that perfect grace of
motion which characterises the mountaineer, and in particular the
Montenegrin. The danger in which they have perpetually lived,
accustomed to look death in the face at any moment, has stamped upon
them that open and fearless look which most forcibly strikes the
stranger.

Their blood is of the purest and noblest in the Balkans, for they are
largely descended from the noble families of the old Servian Empire
who fled to the Katunska after the bloody field of Kossovo, which
destroyed the might of the Serbs for ever. It is probably from these
ancestors that their noble bearing and perfect manners, in even
strange and unaccustomed surroundings, are derived. Their notion of
honour is of the highest, and thieving and robbery are practically
unknown.

Prince Nicolas, like King Alfred, trusts his subjects in this matter
of thieving implicitly. Should a man drop a case of banknotes on the
road, the law says that the finder shall pick it up and place it on
the nearest stone, so that the loser has but to retrace his steps,
glancing at the wayside stones. This law is invariably followed.

The Montenegrins are still an armed nation, and the following proverbs
illustrate their love of weapons. One says, "A man without arms is a
man without freedom"; the other says, "Thou mayest as well take away
my brother as my rifle."

Their patriotism and unswerving loyalty to the reigning Prince have
ever been their most brilliant virtues.

The famous traveller Kohl has likened the Montenegrins to the ancient
Greeks of Homeric times, and the comparison holds good to this day.

"Love of freedom and pride of weapons, simplicity of life--remember
the love of mutton and wine, as described by Homer--hospitality, the
superiority of man over woman, all these features, together with the
fact that the heroes are themselves the singers of their deeds," says
Kohl, "are to be found in the Montenegrins, as well as in the Greeks
of Homer."

Woman takes a very inferior position in Montenegro. She is respected
in a sense, and her position has improved greatly in recent times,
chiefly owing to the example set by the Prince himself. At the
official reception held on New Year's Day, when the humblest peasant
can go to Cetinje and kiss the Prince's hand, Prince Nicolas places
his wife to his right, and every man must first kiss her hand. Thus in
the highest classes woman takes very nearly the same place as in
civilised lands, but as the social scale descends, so does the
position of woman.

In the lowest classes she is still not much more than a beast of
burden, given to man to ease his lot. She carries heavy burdens to
market, while her lord rides; she may not walk at his side, but a few
paces to the rear; neither may she sit at table in the presence of
strange men. The kiss with which men salute each other is not allowed
to her, and she must kiss the hand only of the man. Likewise, she must
rise to her feet when men pass by, and in some districts, should she
meet a man on the way, she must stop and remain standing meekly at the
side of the path; also, she must leave the room backwards. Neither of
these last-mentioned customs is universal, but are to be found largely
in the Brda.

The men are handsome and often of immense stature. Giants of 6 feet 8
inches are by no means uncommon; in fact, a few such men will be seen
in every town. The average height is quite 5 feet 10 or 11 inches,
broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with pleasant faces.

The women are often strikingly beautiful, especially when young, but
hard work ages them very quickly; in the upper classes, however,
middle-aged and elderly women of regal appearance can often be seen.
It is the manners of such women and universally of the men which comes
as the greatest surprise, when it is remembered that none or very few
have ever seen anything of the outside world.

The faults of the nation are inordinate vanity in their appearance,
causing them to impoverish themselves for the sake of gorgeous
clothes, and gambling. They gamble to an excessive degree, heaping
debt after debt upon their heads. Both these vices have caused an
active legislation. Gold embroidery has been abolished on the uniforms
of the army officers, and Prince Danilo has already declared that on
coming to the throne he will abolish the national costume altogether,
_i.e._ amongst the officials and the upper classes.

They love money and will do a good deal to get it, but when they have
money, they spend it in a reckless and freehanded manner. Thus they
will overcharge a stranger in an exorbitant fashion, thinking, in
their simple minds, that travellers are possessed of unlimited means.
Tourists are largely to blame for this, and pay, without audible
comment, what is asked. If a strong remonstrance is made, the charge
will be reduced in most cases. The dawn of civilisation has brought
the love of money, the frugal Montenegrins are now awakening to what
money will procure them, and they take as much as they can get without
thought, and without swindling intentions. Perhaps the lack of banks
or any institute where money can be saved up, may account for this.
Merchants buy houses or increase their stock. The peasant, as often as
not, gambles it away or buys fine clothes, a few thrifty ones
purchasing an extra cow.

No doubt the influence of civilisation, and in particular the
long-delayed prosperity of the land which is now slowly raising its
head, will alter this.

They very rarely quarrel, never brawl, and are hardly ever to be seen
in a state of intoxication.

On the other hand, they are merry, convivial, boon companions, and are
never happier than when dancing, singing their war songs and love
romances, or listening to the "guslar"--the national troubadour.

The characteristic bravery is still manifested in reckless deeds of
"derring do" on the Albanian borders. Shepherds will deliberately
drive their flocks across the frontier, thereby courting instant
death. Many instances have been given illustrating their love of
danger.

Privacy of dwellings is non-existent. Men walk in and out, seating
themselves in the room and talking. In the evening the men will
congregate, stand and squat in a large ring, and solemnly discuss the
events of the day, or in towns will walk majestically up and down the
main street swinging the graceful "struka" or shawl from their
shoulders. Likewise, the drinking-houses are used as common
meeting-places, and there is no need to order refreshment.

Marriages, baptisms, deaths are occasions for great feasting, when the
national sheep is killed and roasted whole, and wine and spirits
consumed in appalling quantities, without however affecting the heads
of these iron people.

To keep order, there is a ridiculously small force of police or
gendarmes, and their object is more to preserve the peace in places
where different races meet, animated with fanatical hatred of each
other. But during the whole time of our sojourn in Montenegro, we
never witnessed a single case of men arrested for petty offences, or
for breaking the peace by common brawling or drunkenness. The only
cases that we did see were connected with the vendetta, which still
flourishes. In the course of our travels in the land we have
sufficiently illustrated this lamentable feature that no further
comments are necessary.

Prince Nicolas is said to know the name of every one of his subjects,
and will accost him by it. This is doubtless a great exaggeration, and
probably means that he knows personally all those who fought under him
in the last war, when the nation was considerably smaller than it is
now.

No man is too humble but that the Prince will stop and speak to him,
and ask him how the world is using him. The man rarely goes
empty-handed away. In these latter days the Prince is not so
open-handed as formerly, neither does he make so free with his
presence, but still it is no difficult thing for any of his subjects
to obtain an audience. He will stop a man at haphazard on the road
and examine his weapons, and woe betide him if his revolver is carried
empty. Every chamber but one must be loaded.

A characteristic instance of the Prince's observancy was once given in
Cetinje. An incongruous habit is creeping into the country of carrying
a huge cotton umbrella in the great heat. The Prince met a man
carrying one open, and promptly broke it over his head, saying--

"Art thou a hero, to carry a woman's sunshade?"

For even to-day the youngest man will maintain that he is a "hero" by
right of ancestry, and has no doubt of his capability to act up to the
traditions of his country in the event of war.

The national costume is worn by all, and in the richer classes is very
gorgeous. The combination of colour is in exquisite taste. There are
many variations, but a description of the gala uniform will suffice.

The cap, or "kapa," is the same for Prince and peasant. It is red with
a deep black border, which only leaves a small crown of the foundation
colour. On this crown in one corner are the letters "H.I." (in Latin
characters "N.I." or Nicolas 1st) and five semicircles in gold. The
explanations as to the meanings are slightly different. Both say the
black border is symbolic of mourning for the losses at Kossovo, while
the five lines are explained either as signifying the five centuries
which have elapsed since that terrible battle or as symbolic of a
rainbow--the sign of hope that one day the glories of the old Serb
empire will be restored. The red crown signifies "the field of blood,"
as the Hebrews have it. Furthermore, the different insignia of rank
are worn on the rim of the cap, from the double eagle and lion of the
senator in brass, the different combinations of crossed swords of the
officer, to the simple star of lead of the corporal.

The costume consists of a "dzamadan," a red waistcoat, embroidered
with gold or black silk--the former on gala occasions--over which the
"gunj" is worn, a long, white or very pale blue coat, cut so that the
breast is left open and free. Another sleeveless jacket is worn,
again, over the gunj, called the "jelek," and is a mass of heavy gold
and silk embroidery, quite stiff in fact, and a marvel of beautiful
tracing and patterns.

Round the waist are three separate belts, the first a common belt,
then the leather "kolan" for the support of the weapons, and over all
a silk sash, the "pas," sometimes twenty yards long, wound round and
round many times and of brilliant colours.

Below, knee-breeches of dark blue material and voluminous proportions,
called "gace," bordered round the pockets with gold-work, and high,
patent-leather boots. This latter is merely modern dandyism; the still
invariably worn "dokoljenice" are white gaiters, fastened at the back
with hooks and eyes, which reach to the "opanki"--shoes made of a flat
leather sole, bound over with a thick network of whipcord.

The ordinary costume of the better classes for everyday wear (and this
is the uniform of the officers) is a short red jacket, embroidered
like the waistcoat in black silk, with sleeves carried either hussar
fashion, hanging behind, or over the sleeves of the waistcoat.

Then there are green gunj and even dark blue. The peasant wears
usually a coarse white serge gunj for every day and an ordinary shirt.

In the mountain districts and borderlands of the Brda the Albanian
costume of tight-fitting white serge trousers, bordered with black
braid, is largely worn.

The women wear a somewhat modified array of colour. The girls wear the
kapa, without the letters or rainbow; the married women a lace
mantilla over their shoulders. The hair is worn, in the case of the
married women, in a heavy crown-like plait.

A white, slightly embroidered bodice, silver girdle, and silk skirt,
over which is worn a similar open coat to the gunj. And again over
this comes the "jecerma," a jacket of red, blue, or violet velvet,
according to the age of the woman.

The effect in both men and women is tasteful and picturesque in the
extreme.

The struka, or shawl, is greatly worn by men, and the sweeping,
swinging effect is most pleasing. It is a shawl of sufficient length
that when folded to a narrow width and worn over the shoulders the
tassels just touch the ground.

Some of the poorest peasants wear huge sheepskin jackets, even in hot
weather.

At the head of the Greek Orthodox Church, which is the religion of the
land, is an Archbishop, or "Vladika." Hardly more than half a century
ago, the Vladika was Prince and Bishop in one. To-day the Vladika is
absolute spiritual head of the Church in Montenegro, and only in
matters pertaining to divorce are his rulings reversible by the
Prince.

The hatred of the Roman Catholic religion is most marked. The term
"Catholic" is an epithet of opprobrium. Hence the hatred of Albania,
which on the borders is entirely Roman Catholic. The hated Catholics
also, in the shape of Austria, hem in Montenegro on three sides, and
this factor, added to the unfriendly part that Austria played at the
Berlin Congress, may account for the growing animosity which is now
slowly making itself manifest against her in Montenegro. Turkey is no
longer feared; in fact, friendly relations are cultivated and steadily
increasing; but against Austria very different feelings are held.
Austria holds the Bocche de Cattaro, which the Montenegrins took
possession of in the Napoleonic wars, commands Antivari, and has edged
herself in between the kingdom of Servia and Montenegro in the
Sandjak of Novipazar. The inhabitants of the Bocche and a large part
of the population of Bosnia and the Hercegovina look to the Prince of
Montenegro as their lawful ruler.

It is the oft and open stated dream of Prince Nicolas to see the great
Serb-speaking nations re-united, and much as Russia has helped and is
fostering this wish, Austria relentlessly checkmates every move in
this direction. Austria is even striving to gain influence in Albania
through the means of the Roman Catholic priests, who are said to be
largely in her pay.

Thus Austria, surrounding Montenegro as she does at present, and
enlisting the sympathies of the Albanians, can command every inlet to
that brave little country. A "Schwab," as every German-speaking
foreigner is termed, is consequently viewed with no friendly eyes;
while the Russian is welcomed openly as a friend.

Russia, however, can never hope to buy the allegiance of the
Montenegrins; for while appreciating friendly assistance, the faintest
attempt to obtain undue influence of power would be sharply resented.

Montenegro will yield her absolute independence to none.




CHAPTER II

History from first conquest by the Romans, 300 B.C., down to
the present Prince--Fruits of the last campaign--Education--The
military system--Legal administration--Crime--Government--The educated
classes.


The district which corresponds most nearly to Montenegro of the
present day comes first into notice when the Romans attacked Queen
Teuta and drove her back beyond the modern Podgorica in the third
century B.C. From this time onwards Roman influence made
itself felt strongly in the Praevalitana, an outlying province of
Illyria, and the city of Dioclea--whose ruins still exist in the
neighbourhood of Podgorica, and which was to play such an important
part in the germ state of Crnagora, or the "Land of the Black
Mountain"--rose into being. Diocletian, the famous divider of the
Roman Empire, was born there, and the city became the capital of the
district to which it gave the name. The triumvirs placed the
border-line of the Eastern and Western divisions at Skodra, or
Scutari, as the Europeans call it. Under the early empire, the land
was perpetually changing from East to West, but when the Western
division fell under the weight of barbarian invasions Uin 476 A.D.,
it was finally incorporated in the East. This was a momentous
decision, for the manners and habits of the people still remain tinged
with Eastern life, and in the ninth century it secured their adhesion
to the Eastern Church, which influences their policy to the present
time. The principality of Dioclea, or Zeta, as it soon became called,
was one of the confederate Serb states formed by Heraclius in 622
A.D., to act as a buffer state against the inroads of the Avars. Each
state was ruled by a Zupan or Prince who owed allegiance to the Grand
Zupan, the head of the heptarchy. But the confederation was very
loose, the rival chieftains fighting amongst one another for the
supremacy, for the Serb race has ever been noted for its lack of unity
and corresponding love of freedom. The famous Bulgarian Czar Samuel,
_circa_ 980, who had overrun the rest of the Serb states, and made for
himself a great empire, found that he was powerless to conquer the
warlike John Vladimir of the Zeta; and again, nearly a century later,
in 1050, we find the Zeta Zupa so powerful that their Prince assumes
the title of King of Servia, and is confirmed in his right by Gregory
VII., the famous Pope Hildebrand. Dissensions then broke out again,
and for the next hundred years the land owned the sway of the Greek
Empire. The two most celebrated Serb kings--Stefan Nemanja (1143) and
Stefan Dusan (1336-1356)--both ascended to the head of the
confederation from the principality of the Zeta. The latter raised the
Serb kingdom to its zenith, and formed an ephemeral empire which bears
many a resemblance to that of Napoleon. Montenegro had all this time
been steadily growing, and on the accession of Dusan to Servia, the
district of the Zeta fell to the Balsic, who proved themselves to be a
strong and competent race of rulers. They increased their territories
to such an extent that, at the time of the battle of Kossovo, they
could boast to ruling over all the land from Ragusa to the mouth of
the Drin, including the present West Montenegro and Southern
Hercegovina, with Skodra as the capital. After the overthrow of the
great Servian Empire on the field of Kossovo, Montenegro became
entirely independent of outside suzerainty, and from the year 1389 to
the present day, is the only Balkan state which has successfully
defied the invasions of the Turk. The Balsic engaged themselves in
several fruitless wars with Venice, by which they lost Skodra, so
that, when their line died out and the succession fell to Stefan
Crnoievic (the name Crnoievic, Black Prince, is supposed by some to be
the origin of the name Crnagora or Black Mountain), a new capital must
perforce be built, at the northern end of the lake, called Zabljak.
Stefan Crnoievic allied himself with Skenderbeg, the King of Albania,
and within twelve years is said to have fought over fifty battles
with the Turks who, in their impotent rage, poured army after army
into the land, but entirely failed to break the courage of this brave
little people. His people gave him the title of Voivoda of the Zeta,
but the limits of his principality seem to have been very undefined.
The position of his son Ivan was, however, of greater danger, for in
1444 the kingdom of Hungary had fallen before the Turk, and they
captured Constantinople nine years later; after this Servia, Bosnia,
Albania (on the death of Skenderbeg), and Hercegovina were overrun in
quick succession. In 1484 Ivan found himself obliged to burn his
capital of Zabljak, and retire into the more inaccessible mountain
fastnesses of the Katunska, the district round Cetinje. Cetinje itself
was chosen by Ivan as his new centre, and though hardly pressed, he
inflicted many severe defeats upon the Turks. Arrived in his new
capital, he called his braves together, and told them that if they
would surrender to the foe, they must find a new Prince, for, as for
himself, he preferred death. So this little band of warriors, and they
could not have numbered more than eight thousand fighting men, swore
to resist this almighty foe to death--not to attack, but to resist. It
must have been an impressive scene, this compact between Prince and
people, and later history bears out fully how nobly the descendants of
these mountain warriors have kept to their oath. For they, alone, of
all the Balkan states, have successfully repulsed the Turk, who,
though often seemingly victorious, has returned home with shattered
armies and full of impotent rage.

[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF MONTENEGRO.]

In their need they applied to Venice for help, quoting the great
assistance that they were rendering her in occupying the Turks; but
the Queen of Cities, who was at that moment occupied in patching up a
treaty with the Sultan, turned a deaf ear to their entreaties.
Montenegro found then, for the first time--and all through her history
she was destined to find the same--that she must fight her battles
alone. Allies have used her always for their own ends and then
shamefully deserted her. Yet all through the spirit of indomitable
courage has never deserted the children of Crnagora, for they could
never forget the oath which their forefathers had sworn for them.

Ivan, after several great victories, was left to end his days in
peace. He spent his years well in strengthening the land, both in the
arts of war and peace. In Obod, which is close to Rijeka, he erected a
printing press, some twenty years after Caxton had set up his in
Westminster, and though it was afterwards burnt by the Turks, still
the remembrance of it remains right glorious in Montenegrin memory.

The last Crnoievic relinquished his home for Venice. He had married a
Venetian wife, who, among the bleak mountains of the Katunska, was
pining for the sun and warmth of her native city. But before leaving
he laid down the lines for a powerful regime. A Prince-Bishop, or
Vladika, was placed at the head of affairs, but, to help him in his
difficult task, there was created a second office, that of Civil
Governor, who was to hold a subordinate position. This office was
abolished in 1832 by Peter II., on the treachery of the Civil Governor
Radonic, who was found to have intrigued with the Austrians.

From 1616 to 1696 the Vladikas were elective, and under their
quarrelsome rule Cetinje was twice burnt and phoenix-like rose again
from its ashes. The Turkish armies, though partially victorious,
usually met with disaster and ruin before reaching their own territory
again; and we read of one notable occasion when Soliman Pasha, with an
army of 80,000 men, had sacked Cetinje. On his way home he was
surprised by the two tribes of Kuc and Klementi, and annihilated. But
as time went on it became necessary from political reasons to change
the system of government from election to heredity, and the choice
fell on the Lord of Njegusi Danilo Petrovic, whose reign (1696-1735)
is chiefly memorable for the Montenegrin vespers of the Turks and
Turkish renegades, who had rendered so much assistance to Kiuprili
Pasha in one of his terrible invasions. But a crushing defeat of the
Turks in 1706 gave the land peace for thirty years.

In 1767 an adventurer named Stefan Mali sprang himself upon the land.
He claimed to be the murdered Peter III. of Russia, and easily imposed
himself upon the gullible Montenegrin. But he had the interests of
Montenegro sincerely at heart, and proved an excellent ruler. His
imposture was exposed by Catherine II., but owing to the weakness of
the Petrovic heir, the people determined to keep him as their ruler.
He fell a victim to the assassin's knife at the instigation of the
Pasha of Scutari. His successor, Peter Petrovic, the famous St. Peter
of Montenegrin history, was a firm and courageous ruler, who made his
influence felt throughout the courts of Europe. Austria, Russia, and
England did not scruple to avail themselves of his help and then, as
seems to be the Montenegrin fate, left him in the lurch. He defied the
armies of the great Napoleon, who came to fear him and his warlike
clan insomuch that he was even offered terms of friendship. But the
proud mountaineer would have none of it. He now turned his hand, under
the influence of Russia, which was then very real, to the
consolidation of the land, and slept in peace with his fathers.

His successor, Peter II., carried on the struggle with the Turks, who
proposed an increase of territory and a Turkish title in return for
the acknowledgment of suzerainty. "As long as my people defend me,"
was the proud answer, "I need no Turkish title to my throne; if they
desert me, such a title would avail me little." War was the effect of
this retort, but the Turks gained nothing by it, and peace was soon
made.

The danger of the power of Austria came now to be fully recognised.
After the Napoleonic wars, Austria had retained Cattaro and Spizza,
and trouble now broke out over some land near Budua. The Montenegrins
fell upon the Austrians, and fierce conflicts ensued, but Peter, who
had gained an extraordinary hold over his subjects, forbade them to
continue. Hostilities, however, continued in a desultory fashion for
some time.

Peter was followed by Danilo II., a weak ruler, but his reign is
famous for two events--the cession of the spiritual authority of the
Prince-Bishop to an Archbishop and the "Great Charter" of Montenegro.
Danilo's reforms, however, led the Turk again to attack his invincible
foe, only again to end in great disaster. But in the Crimean War
Montenegro, greatly to the disgust of the people, did not participate,
and in the Congress which followed Danilo was offered a Turkish title
and the hated Turkish protectorate. His willingness to accept this led
to the formation of a strong opposition party who demanded war.
Fortune was on their side, and the Turks invaded Montenegro. The
command fell to Mirko, who from his former exploits had gained the
name of the "Sword of Montenegro." A battle was fought at Grahovo,
which will ever live in memory as the Montenegrin Marathon. The Turks
were completely crushed by a small force of Montenegrins, and peace
followed. His brief reign was brought to a close at Cattaro, in 1861,
by an assassin's bullet, and Nicolas, his nephew, reigned in his
stead.

War broke out again on the Hercegovinian insurrection of the following
year, the results of which were disastrous in a high degree to
Montenegro. Even the famous Mirko, the father of Prince Nicolas, after
sixty battles, could do no more, and the Convention of Scutari (1862)
brought the war to a close. It was settled that Mirko, as the
firebrand, must leave the country, and various other clauses appear in
the Convention, few of which seem to have been strictly adhered to. It
needed another war to settle the Turco-Montenegrin border.

The land now enjoyed the blessings of peace for fourteen years, which
included a severe famine and an outbreak of cholera. Help was now,
however, forthcoming from all sides in the shape of corn and money. In
1869 it was with great difficulty that the Prince could restrain his
warlike subjects from aiding the revolted Krivosejans. The Emperor of
Austria fully recognised the harm which Montenegro could have done
him, and signalised his thanks by the gift of an Austrian Order. But
the Montenegrins could not be restrained at the outbreak of the
Hercegovinian revolt, and flocked to the standards of their brothers.
The Porte's remonstrances were met with a curt demand for the cession
of Hercegovina, and Prince Nicolas published at the same time an
offensive and defensive alliance with Servia.

Immediately after this (1876) he declared war. Success followed his
arms everywhere. A short armistice was concluded, but nothing further
came of it, and the war proceeded. The Prince in person stormed the
town of Niksic. Podgorica and its fertile plain fell into the hands of
the conquerors, and then in quick succession Antivari and Dulcigno
were forced to yield. He was about to commence the siege of Scutari
when news came of the armistice between Russia and Turkey. The war had
shown that no deteriorating element had sprung up among the people;
they had fought as their ancestors had fought before them, and covered
their name with glory and renown. Montenegro had gained a European
reputation from this war, and the Porte, bowing to force of
circumstances, finally recognised her independence. For five weary
centuries had this struggle continued, and it is owing to the talent
of their present ruler that the consummation of their hopes has been
brought about. Free they always have been, but an acknowledgment of
their freedom has ever been set aside. At last they have attained
their object. The Turk no longer regards them as an insubordinate
province, and it is more than likely that their former hatred of the
Turk will pass away, for they have another enemy, who is pressing at
their doors on three sides. The terms of the Berlin Congress granted
to Montenegro Zabljak, Spuz, Podgorica, and Antivari. Dulcigno was to
be restored to the Turks, and in exchange Gusinje and Plava were to be
added to Montenegro. But the Albanian communities refused the lordship
of Montenegro, and Dulcigno was granted to the Prince after a great
naval demonstration of the Powers in 1880.

The result of this campaign was that Prince Nicolas found his little
kingdom increased from an area of 2,580 square kilometres, containing
a population of 178,000 inhabitants, to over 9,000 square kilometres
and a population of at least 240,000. In the last twenty-five years it
has increased to quite another 100,000 inhabitants.

War has never again seriously threatened Montenegro, and Prince
Nicolas has been enabled to devote all his energies to the improvement
of the land.

There is now no district, however wild and cut off it may be, without
its school, attendance at which is purely voluntary. Right well have
the people availed themselves of this chance of education, and a
sliding scale of school fees permits even the poorest peasant to send
his son as well as his more wealthy brother.

The teachers have a seminary at Cetinje, which they must first attend,
and a gymnasium on the German and Austrian system can be visited, for
those boys who wish to extend their education to an European standard.
The same boys usually visit some Russian University, occasionally
Vienna or Belgrade, and return to their native land as doctors,
engineers, or lawyers, and supply the learned professions.

At Cetinje there is a further High School for Girls, founded by the
Empress Marie of Russia in 1869.

As the older men have not enjoyed in their youth the advantages of an
education which is now placed within the reach of all, lecturers are
sent round the country, and on Sundays, in wild and cut-off districts,
a man can be seen lecturing to a group of rough mountaineers who are
listening intently. These Government lecturers teach the shepherds how
to safeguard their sheep and cattle from disease; the lowland peasants
are initiated into the mysteries of vine-growing (every Montenegrin
family must plant a vine and attend to it) and tobacco-planting, and
general information is given to all.

The Army has been thoroughly reorganised, and is now, thanks to the
gift of the Czar, armed with the most modern magazine rifle and
officered by men who undergo a training in the armies of Russia,
Italy, or France.

The army system is of the simplest. The actual standing army consists
of one battalion and a force of artillery, but during the year 4,000
men pass through its ranks and receive a most efficient training. The
men return to their homes at the end of four months' training, but
drill weekly continues, on Sundays, till the age limit of sixty is
reached, when their arms have to be returned to the Government, who
again serve them out to the next recruit. Thus the recruit comes
equipped for his four months' training, and takes his arms home with
him at the conclusion, and is responsible for their good condition.
Each man receives a certain number of cartridges, for which he must
always be able to account, so that every able-bodied man is an
efficient and well-armed soldier capable of taking the field at any
moment.

The smartest men become non-commissioned officers, and carry the
insignia of their rank on their caps back to private life, where they
become again the instructors of the local militia companies. There are
two classes of commissioned officers--the officer of the standing
army, trained in a Continental army, and who wears a distinctive
uniform, and at least one of these is detailed for service in all the
militia centres; and the militia officer, who receives his training
with the standing battalion or batteries.

Thus at a preconcerted signal, by trumpet and bonfires at night, and
in some districts by a salvo of rifles, the whole Montenegrin Army can
be mobilised at any given spot within the time that the furthest
detachment can travel to the place of rendezvous. An example of the
rapidity and ease of this mobilisation was once given to the late
Crown Prince Rudolf of Austria, at Cetinje, when an army, drawn from
every part of the country, equipped and ready for the field, was
assembled within thirty-six hours of the first alarm. There is no
commissariat, for each soldier supplies his own food, or rather his
wife will keep him supplied in a lengthy campaign; no cavalry, for
they are useless; and no heavy artillery.

Law is administered by district courts for the more serious cases,
with a Supreme Court of Appeal at Cetinje. There are no lawyers or
costs; each man brings his own case and witnesses in civil matters,
and criminals are dealt with summarily--that is to say, his district
captain sends him in chains to Podgorica, where he receives his final
sentence. The smaller district captains and "kmets," or mayors, have a
limited amount of jurisdiction, and can inflict punishments, either in
fines or short terms of imprisonment. They also settle all minor cases
of dispute.

The central, and soon to be the only, prison is at Podgorica. The
majority of prisoners are undergoing different sentences, with and
without chains, for murders in connection with the vendetta, according
to the circumstances. A man who defends his honour, who kills his
slanderer, is very lightly punished.

Against only one class of offender does Prince Nicolas exercise his
autocratic powers, _i.e._ the political offender, with whom he is
relentless. Such men are thrown into prison, interred in dark cells
without trial, and can languish till death sets them free. In this
respect the Prince is harsh, and according to Western ideas barbaric,
though local circumstances fully excuse his seeming cruelty. The
smallness of the prison at Podgorica shows more forcibly than anything
else the remarkable lack of crime in the land. At present (1902)
dangerous lunatics are confined in the common prison, but an asylum is
rapidly nearing completion.

The government is autocratic. A senate, composed of the different
ministers, exists in Cetinje, but all powers are jealously held by the
Prince. He appoints the ministers and all the higher officials of the
land, and only recently have the people been granted the right to
elect the kmets.

Montenegrin engineers now build the roads in place of Austrians and
Russians, and the difficulties that they meet with and surpass at
every turn are sufficient evidence of their capabilities. Foreign
doctors and professors are yearly becoming more rare. In fact,
Montenegro is rapidly becoming self-supporting and self-educating.

Literature, always in olden times in advance of the surrounding lands,
is fostered by the Prince, himself a scholar and a poet of no mean
order. Two weekly papers in Cetinje and Niksic have a large
circulation.

Under Prince Nicolas' fatherly care the country improves in a
wonderful manner from year to year. Roads are planned to connect the
whole land, which only lack of funds are hindering from completion,
and a railway is projected to connect the towns of Niksic, Podgorica,
and Rijeka with Antivari and the sea.

When Prince Nicolas shall be called to his fathers his son, Prince
Danilo, will worthily carry on the work so nobly begun by his father,
for he is a man imbued with the ideas of Western improvements and
civilisation.




CHAPTER III

The journey to Montenegro--Arrival in Cattaro--Beauty of the Bocche,
and the drive to the frontier--First impressions of
Montenegro--Njegusi--The national troubadours--Arrival in Cetinje.


The simplest way of entering the Land of the Black Mountain is _via_
Cattaro in Dalmatia. The sea-trip from Trieste, which takes a little
over twenty-four hours, is a revelation of beauty, for the Dalmatian
coast is sadly unknown to the traveller. The journey can also be made
from Fiume, whence the "Ungaro-Croata" send a good and very frequent
service of steamers. But the idler should take a slow boat and coast
lazily down the Dalmatian archipelago, visiting all the smaller towns
and islands, which the fast line is bound to avoid. It is one of the
most beautiful sea-trips in Europe, each little port possessing gems
of old Roman and Venetian architecture, unrivalled, perhaps, in the
world and set in a perfect framework of lovely country and dancing
seascape.

It was a glorious morning in May when the _Graf Wurmbrand_, the
Austrian-Lloyd's fast steamer, left Trieste, bearing us to Cattaro.
The Gulf of Trieste is very beautiful, for the green hills, all
dotted with villas, the busy harbour life, the Julian Alps rising up
majestically far away on the starboard, and directly behind the town,
gaunt and grey, the naked Karst, of which we were to see so much in
Montenegro; all made a picture that it would be difficult to forget.

At midday we arrived at Pola. The entrance to the harbour is well
covered by islands, and on each of these frowns a great fort, some of
which, however, are so carefully hidden that their locality is only
betrayed by a flagstaff. A narrow channel leads to the inner harbour,
Austria's naval dockyard and arsenal. Here are the warships and
building yards, and away to the left, as a strange and unfitting
contrast, the Arena, one of the best-preserved specimens of Roman
work, rises seemingly from amongst the houses. Pola is full of Roman
remains. All is so green and peaceful, in spite of the countless
fortifications which render the harbour well-nigh, if not quite,
impregnable, that Nature and War seem for once to go hand-in-hand.

[Illustration: THE GRAF WURMBRAND IN THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO]

At twilight Zara looms up into view, and another short stay is made.
The town turns out _en masse_ for the coming of the _Wurmbrand_ or the
_Pannonia_--the fast boats from Trieste or Fiume are the events of the
week. There is no railway here. Unluckily Dalmatia's finest scenery is
passed in the night. Trau, with its splendid loggias and churches;
Spalato, with the grandeur of Diocletian's palace, are denied to
the traveller; Lesina, proudly calling itself the Nice of Austria;
Curzola, whose mighty Venetian bastions stand out into the sea, and
many another delightful little town and island, only show a twinkling
light or two in the darkness as the steamer ploughs by. At daybreak we
are nearing Gravosa, Ragusa's modern port. As we leave again, and
round the peninsula of Lapad, glorious in a mass of semi-tropical
vegetation, Ragusa bursts upon our view. Seen on a sunny morning it is
a sight for the gods. Built well into the sea on inaccessible cliffs,
surrounded by lofty walls, with a great hill as a background, it has
well been called the prettiest bit of Dalmatia. It possesses a
magnificent winter climate and a good hotel, so that people are
forsaking the Riviera for this comparatively unknown paradise.

Far too soon Ragusa fades away, and now the approaching mountains grow
higher and wilder. Those lofty peaks, towering above the others, black
and forbidding, are Nature's bulwarks of the land which we are
visiting. It is from a distance that the name "Black Mountain" seems
so aptly given to this fierce little state, though some historians
wish to explain the derivation otherwise.

The Bocche (or mouths) di Cattaro, three in number, are a consummate
blending of the Norwegian fjords and the Swiss lakes, and so lofty and
steep are the surrounding mountains that the sun can only reach the
bottom for a few hours at midday.

Away at the end of one fjord lies the village of Risano, an idyllic
spot, whence a road is in the course of construction to Niksic. All
the worthy Bocchese are absolutely Montenegrin in sympathy, and
Austria has had much trouble with these equally warlike Serbs.

A curious conical hill rises out of the town, a high wall zigzags up
to the fort above, showing Cattaro's strength of former days. Now, a
few insignificant mounds of earth far away on the mountain-tops are
all that is to be seen of the military might of modern Cattaro. Yet
how powerful are those forts only the Austrian authorities know.
Cattaro and the Bocche are impregnable from sea or land, though this
array of strength against land attack seems almost unnecessary, as
Montenegro possesses no heavy cannon at all. However, Austria is not
reckoning in this case with Montenegro alone. But these are political
questions.

We were fortunate in securing a carriage of the Montenegrin post,
which has good drivers, and what is still better, a fixed tariff, over
which there can be no dispute. The drivers of Cattaro ask, and often
get, twice the legal fare from ignorant strangers.

Cattaro affords no comforts to the traveller; more is the pity, as it
is one of the most magnificent spots in the world. The town itself is
tiny and a perfect maze of little Venetian streets, in which it is
easy to lose oneself if it were only larger. To walk upon the Riva and
gaze upon those precipitous mountains which tower above the town and
its militarily guarded walls is a sight which at first is hardly to be
comprehended. It is too stupendous. Such a masterpiece of Nature can
never tire.

Montenegrins crowd the streets, and the little market is full of
peasants who have wearily staggered down those steep paths in the
early dawn with their enormous loads of field produce. Stately men
wearing the insignia of their rank on their little caps pace up and
down majestically and contrast strangely with the dapper Austrian
officers. Their belts yawn suggestively, something is missing to
complete the attire. It is the revolver, which Austrian law compels
them to leave behind on entering her land. They are obviously ill at
ease without that familiar weapon, for ever and anon a hand strays
unconsciously to the empty belt seeking its wonted resting-place on
the butt.

Strolling one night on the Riva, we involuntarily held our breath as
we came in sight of the huge lake, for it is easy to forget that this
is the Adria. The waters lay unruffled before us, not a ripple
disturbed those glassy depths which reflected every tree and cottage
on the opposite bank. Each star found its double twinkling in that
placid mirror, and mountain frowned back on mountain. It was almost
unreal, so marvellous was the reflection. Behind us, at the top of the
great ridge, a silvery effulgence proclaimed the coming of the moon.
Her brilliant light silhouetted the grim and rocky ridge in startling
clearness, though it was four thousand feet above us. Through a gap
rises a peak, round which a filmy cloud had lovingly wrapped itself
like a lace shawl upon the snowy shoulders of a beautiful woman. We
took a turn down the quay, and at the end we turned our back on this
witching view. Hardly had we retraced our steps a few yards when we
and all our surroundings were bathed in a glorious white light. We
turned again, and were almost forced to shield our eyes as we gazed on
the gentle orb which had now surmounted the intervening ridge. The
whole fjord was now transformed into a sea of silver almost as bright
as midday. Each nestling village was distinct, even to the tiniest
window; each tree and shrub on the wall-like mountain, and even the
grim forts, were softened in that sweet radiance. The little paths
which zigzag up the hills to the forts above look like great white
snakes turning and twisting up those rugged cliffs.

At four o'clock on the following morning we made a start, and were
well up the mountain by the time that the sun began to make his
presence felt.

[Illustration: THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO]

The high road to Cetinje was built by the Austrians, and it is a
marvel of engineering skill, particularly the ascent of the almost
perpendicular wall of mountain rising abruptly from Cattaro. In series
of serpentines and gradients, which often permit the horses to trot,
the road winds up and up, every turn giving a still finer view of the
lake below. Cattaro remains in view practically the whole ascent. The
view from the top is magnificent and unsurpassed in Europe. The grand
bays look like miniature glass ponds, fringed with white toy villages,
and far away in the distance the deep blue Adria sparkles and glitters
in the sunshine.

Montenegro is entered some little distance from the top, but, as only
a row of paving stones indicates the spot, it is not till the carriage
dashes through a rocky gorge and out into the open Karst beyond that
the traveller realises that he has crossed the border. The sudden
change is startling, from the blue sea and green valleys to grey
masses of limestone rock and barren mountains. It is the Katunska, the
original stronghold of the Montenegrins, within which they defied all
comers.

At the first house, solidly built of stone, our carriage halted, and
the driver entered it, emerging with the revolver which he had to
relinquish on entering Austria. It is a formidable weapon specially
manufactured in Vienna for Montenegro, a foot and a half long, firing
an enormous cartridge. The revolver is always worn, by all classes
alike, and carried loaded by order. The upper classes carry a much
smaller and handier weapon, but a revolver must be carried by prince
and peasant alike.

Njegusi is the first town or village reached, and here an hour's rest
is always made. It is interesting, since it was once the temporary
capital, and as the home of the Petrovic family, the reigning dynasty.
It lies in a great hollow of fertile ground, and on the southern side
the historical Lovcen ascends. On the top the great prince and hero,
Peter II., is buried, and his mausoleum brings large numbers of
pilgrims yearly.

As our carriage drew up before the little hostelry, a crowd of boys
were standing in front of a house opposite, which is half telegraph
office and half school, for economy in buildings is practised in
Montenegro. They saluted us smartly in military fashion. The born
soldier is noticed at once, even in the small children; many
generations of fighting ancestors have bequeathed a smartness and
accuracy of movement which can be envied by many a Continental trained
conscript.

The traveller meets with little attention either here or in Cetinje.
It is not till he gets well off the beaten track that he sees the
hospitable and courteous Montenegrin as he really is.

[Illustration: NJEGUSI]

[Illustration: THE GUSLAR]

During our frugal breakfast of raw ham and goat's cheese, our
ears were assailed by the singing of the guslar, or Montenegrin
troubadour. The guslars, we noticed, are invariably blind, and as no
previous musical education seems necessary, it would appear to be a
monopoly of those so afflicted. Their singing is execrable according
to Western notions, a range of four or five notes in a wailing minor
key making up their register, and they accompany themselves on an
instrument (the gusla) from which they derive their name. It is
hand-made, resembling a cross between a violin and a mandolin. It
possesses one string, and is played with a short curved bow. With
careful handling, a series of discordant notes of wearying monotony
can be produced. The performance is altogether most doleful.

Yet they are the history books, the legend tellers of the country.
They fan the fire of patriotism and loyalty by songs of the deeds and
accomplishments of their Prince, of dead heroes and past glorious
battles, and form another link with the mediaeval world of which the
traveller is so strongly reminded at every step in Montenegro.

As we left the village we passed the birthplace of Prince Nicolas I.,
though the palace appears to have been entirely rebuilt. In nearly
every town or village of importance the Prince has a house, varying
considerably in size, but of equally unpretentious exterior.

The road still climbs and reaches the maximum height of three thousand
five hundred feet. From this altitude it steadily drops into Cetinje,
which lies about two thousand feet above the sea-level. The scenery is
unvarying, but not without beauty. It is essentially wild, but the
light colour of the rocks and the numerous shrubs which find a footing
in the crevices minimise the forbidding character of the country. The
land is magnificently adapted for guerilla warfare, where every foot
can be contested. Little patches of earth, washed down the hillsides,
lie in every hollow, and have been utilised by the careful peasant to
grow his tiny crops.

After about seven hours' driving, Cetinje appears in sight, at the end
of a long valley, and completely surrounded by the characteristic
naked and rugged rocks. The road descends by another series of
serpentines, and a long straight drive brings us into the town. The
valley is about four miles long and three-quarters of a mile broad and
absolutely flat.

The effect is most odd at first sight, a long main street, an open
market-place, and a few side streets constituting the capital of an
important European principality. The town, on entering it, bears a
strong resemblance to a South African township, where, as is the case
here, space is no object, and the houses are rarely more than one
story high.

We stayed at the Grand Hotel during our first visit. It is the only
really good hotel in Montenegro, and in consequence expensive. Here
all the tourists stay for a night or so during a hasty visit to the
Crnagora, and it is to be avoided by those who wish to see the
country.




CHAPTER IV

Cetinje and its sights--Prince Nicolas--The Archbishop--The
barracks--The princes--A visit to the prison and its system--Our
departure for Podgorica.


There is not much for the tourist to see in Cetinje; a day is quite
sufficient to do the sights, such as they are.

Unfortunately for the country, the tourist usually contents himself
with a look round the little capital and returns the way he came to
Cattaro, only a few prolonging the tour _via_ Rijeka to Scutari. Thus
a very erroneous impression is gained of Montenegro and its people.
Firstly only a small part of the Katunska is seen, which is the most
uninteresting district of the whole country; and, secondly, no idea of
the sturdy inhabitants can be formed from the handful of more or less
well-to-do officials and merchants, all intimately connected with the
outside world, round the proximity of Cattaro.

[Illustration: MONTENEGRIN INFANTRY]

[Illustration: THE VLADIKA AT THE MONASTERY OF IVAN BEG]

Cetinje, with its four thousand inhabitants, is simply the residence
of the Montenegrin Court, it is not even a trading centre, which the
absence of the Turkish element sufficiently proclaims. It is only the
question of expense which has hitherto prevented the transference
of the capital to another site, viz. Nikzic. Cetinje was chosen as the
capital some hundreds of years ago--1484, to be pedantically
correct--when a defensible position was the most important factor,
which even to-day is a point to be reckoned with.

We will first go round "the sights."

It possesses two historical buildings in the monastery and the
Billard, the rest being all of quite modern origin. The monastery is a
picturesque pile of grey stone, nestling under a lofty rock, on which
is perched the identical round tower, or "kula," to give it its local
name, on which the heads of Turks slain in battle were exhibited on
spikes. It was not so very long ago that the last grim trophies of war
graced its battlements. The monastery contains the burying vault of
the reigning house, and is the residence of the Vladika or Archbishop
of Montenegro. Prince Nicolas can be found any morning worshipping at
the tombs of his ancestors by the visitor who is willing to rise at
daybreak. Very often he is the only "faithful" present with the
officiating priest at an hour when the sun has hardly peeped over the
rocky ramparts of the town.

Prince Nicolas, the lord of this warrior nation, is a man of imposing
stature, so broad-shouldered that his height seems far less than it
really is, walking with head erect and firm tread and clad in the rich
national costume. The stranger involuntarily doffs his cap and
receives in return a short military salute, but accompanied by such a
piercing glance from a pair of cold grey eyes that he wonders if he is
not an intruder in the land. This is, however, far from the case.
Under that austere exterior beats a warm heart and an affability of
manner to which the lowliest of his peasants will gladly testify.
Prince Nicolas likes to see visitors to his land, and many are the
little acts of kindness and courtesy that the traveller receives, all
unknown, from his hand, for he knows the coming and going of everyone
who makes a longer stay than usual.

Sixty years ago Prince and Bishop were united in one person, and
though the Bishop or Vladika has to-day no temporal power, yet in
spiritual matters he is absolute. A very kindly man is the present
Vladika, Mitrofanban. By an odd coincidence his was practically the
first house we visited in Montenegro, and with him we drank our last
cup of coffee when we left many months later.

The other building is the old palace of the Princes of Montenegro,
which won its odd name of Billard or Biljar from the fact that a
former Prince was so addicted to the game of billiards that the
principal room of the palace was devoted to the game. It is now used
for State purposes. The upper floors are occupied by the Government
offices, and at one corner is the Supreme Court of Justice and
Appeal, whose judgments are only reversible by the Prince himself.
Further, the school and printing works are to be found within its
quaint old red-brick walls and bastions.

[Illustration: THE PRINCE'S PALACE]

Opposite to this picturesque old building stands the modern and
uninteresting one-storied palace of Prince Nicolas. It shows the
simplicity of his nature in perhaps a more marked degree than anything
else, for little or no privacy from his people is possible. He walks
from his house down a short flight of steps into the street. The small
courtyard at the back is surrounded by a low wall, the entrances
having no gates.

The recently erected palace of the Crown Prince Danilo, which stands
on the outskirts of the town, is a somewhat more pretentious building.
It has a large garden completely walled in, which is at any rate an
apology for privacy and seclusion.

To obtain a comprehensive view of the town, we climbed a small hill
immediately above the monastery, on whose summit stands the gilded
cupola erected to the memory of Danilo Petrovic, the Lord of Njegusi,
founder of the present dynasty. Very pretty the simple little town
looks from here, its red roofs giving a pleasing touch of colour to
the otherwise severe landscape of grey rock, dazzling white streets,
and sparsely vegetated valley.

One afternoon we visited the barracks, which are quite new, and the
quarters of the battalion of the standing army. The barrack rooms are
spotlessly clean, and the order and neatness unsurpassed, which,
together with the smart drilling and superb physique of the soldiers,
would delight the heart of the severest martinet. Everything connected
with the military training of the Montenegrins is up to the standard
of Continental excellence. All the officers undergo a long course of
training, either in Russia, France, or Italy, and right well have they
utilised this privilege. No wonder that the warlike Montenegrin drills
as well as his Continental brother. The standing army wear uniforms,
and at a distance remind one of our own troops, with their
tight-fitting, short red jackets and tiny caps.

[Illustration: _Monastery Billard Prince's Palace_ GENERAL VIEW OF THE
CETINJE]

Other conspicuous buildings are the theatre, where performances are
given in the winter in the Serb language and where Prince Nicolas'
famous drama, _The Empress of the Balkans_, was first performed; the
house of the Austro-Hungarian Minister, which is the best in
Cetinje,[1] and the hospital. It is the only hospital in Montenegro,
and is used almost solely for serious surgical operations. Here Prince
Mirko, the second son of Prince Nicolas, spends much of his time, for
his tastes run to bacteriology, and his skill with the microscope is
acknowledged. He is also a musician of no mean order, and the march
which he composed in honour of the city of Rome, and which was
performed there under the leadership of Mascagni, will be in the
memory of all. He has none of the tastes of his elder brother, who,
true to the traditions of his country, is a mighty hunter, and whose
prowess with rifle, gun, and revolver is acclaimed by the people who
understand these gifts better.

[Footnote 1: The Russian Minister has now an equally imposing
edifice.]

By far the most interesting episode of our sojourn in Cetinje was a
visit to the prison, which we were enabled to do with our camera, by
the kindness of the Minister of Justice. It was the first time in the
annals of Montenegro that strangers had been allowed to take
photographs in a prison.

At the appointed hour we approached the plain building, surrounded by
no wall of any kind, which does duty as the prison. It is soon to be
done away with, and all the prisoners will be transferred to the
central prison at Podgorica. Smiling warders welcomed us and conducted
us to their living-room, barely furnished and with an array of
revolvers--the property of the prisoners--hanging on the walls. A
female prisoner prepared us coffee, and while we were sipping the
inevitable beverage a glance through the window showed us men busily
sweeping the courtyard of the prison.

First of all a warder showed us the fetters--heavy, cumbersome irons,
which are riveted to one or both ankles, according to the sentence.
But it is only in exceptional cases of aggravated crime that this
severer sentence is meted out to the offender. Then we were conducted
by the main and only entrance into the courtyard, two sides of which
contain the cells of the prisoners. These gentlemen rose with alacrity
to their feet as we entered, evidently much pleased at the honour of
our visit. Only three men were chained, and of these one remained
moodily seated, staring indifferently on the ground before him. He
formed such a contrast to his fellow-prisoners' smiling faces that we
observed him closer, noticing that his clothes were such as the
officials and better class wear.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"A Government clerk convicted of embezzlement," was the answer. "Six
weeks in chains is his sentence."

"And what have the other criminals done?" was our next query.

"Oh, they have mostly quarrelled amongst themselves. They are not
criminals. We have very few thieves and robbers in Montenegro. This
youth," went on our informant, pointing to a young man with a pleasant
face, and who grinned with joy as he noticed the attention with which
we favoured him, "has a ten years' sentence for quarrelling."

"But quarrelling," we repeated. "Is it punishable to _quarrel_?"

"Yes, too many lives are lost," was the laconic reply.

"Oh," we exclaimed, a light breaking in upon us, "you mean murder!
They are all murderers?"

"We have no murderers," came the indignant response. "Our land is as
safe from murder as any other in the world. No one kills to rob or
steal in Montenegro. But we just quarrel amongst ourselves. We are
hot-blooded and shoot quickly, that is all."

P. and I looked at each other, but neither of us felt inclined to
venture any further remarks; so we examined a dark cell with interest,
without furniture or light, and one of six used for the worst kind of
offender, viz. the political. They were all untenanted. We had all
crowded inside, our warders as well, and as we emerged again into the
strong light, I noticed the gate wide open and no visible guard.

"You have left the gate open!" exclaimed P., as he saw it.

Our warders laughed. Afterwards we understood.

Then we inspected a common cell, where about a dozen men sleep. Each
man brings his own bedding and nicknacks, with which he decorates the
wall above his bed and makes the place as much like home as possible.
Loss of liberty is the only real punishment, and even that is not
carried to an excess. The Prince has said that the restraint that they
suffer is enough, and thus the prisoners have comparatively free
intercourse with the outside world, plenty to eat, and on festivals
wine and even spirits and a dance with their friends outside. This
latter scene we witnessed some time afterwards on another visit to
Cetinje. The only real severity is the chains, but these sturdy
mountaineers soon accustom themselves to these thirty-pound trinkets,
and when photographed take good care to arrange them tastefully and
prominently. When we lined them up for a picture, we demanded a front
place for the chained men, to their intense delight and the chagrin of
the others who cast envious glances at their more favoured brethren.
No doubt in that moment the unchained men wished they had gone just a
little further in their "quarrel."

After a pleasant half-hour with these quarrelsome gentlemen, we went
round to the ladies who occupy a wing of the prison, with all windows
and doors facing outwards on to the open ground. Again no fence or
wall marked a limit to their prison, and they walk in and out of their
cells at leisure. However, there is a boundary marked out by posts and
trees, beyond which they may not go. As we appeared they were sitting
about, singly and in groups, knitting peacefully in the warm sunshine.
We again inspected their quarters, and learnt that the odd score of
women represented the total crime of the land.

[Illustration: THE FEMALE PRISONERS]

A blushing and gratified array of staid matrons and coquettish girls
faced the camera, again only one young maiden of fifteen or sixteen
showing any sense of shame, and she fled into her cell, only to be
ruthlessly ordered out by a warder.

Soon afterwards we took our leave, and as we crossed the small
unenclosed square before the men's prison we found it crowded by the
late inmates of the courtyard, walking merrily up and down or chatting
with friends on the outskirts, over which neither party may step. Only
the dismal clanking of a chain here and there proclaimed to the casual
observer the fact that they were prisoners. Lithe, active, and
athletic men, none of whom fear death, and guarded by four warders in
the loosest possible fashion, yet they never attempt a dash for
freedom up the rocky slope which reaches down to their very promenade
ground. Flight would entail their escaping from their country
altogether, never to return, and that no Montenegrin has ever been
known to do. Even though they work for years in strange lands, they
invariably return to their rugged native mountains and end their days
in peace. And so they serve their time in patience, and go home at the
expiry of the sentence "without a stain on their character."

Many months afterwards we chanced to arrive in Cetinje on the occasion
of a great feast. A stranger happened to be with us, a German, and we
were showing him the sights. Naturally we also wended our way to the
prison, hoping to be able to give him the unique spectacle of the
prisoners strolling freely up and down their garden. As we neared the
square sounds of singing and music assailed our ears, and in front of
the women's quarters a large ring was swaying to and fro in the
national dance termed "kolo." Men and women were performing together,
otherwise the sexes are kept severely apart, while others sat around
in groups partaking of wine and food which their friends or relations
had brought them, and they all sat chatting and laughing together as
though this were their natural state of existence.

"The prisoners," I said, pointing to the dancers.

"Nonsense," said the German.

"Come nearer and listen," I answered, for even I had my doubts for the
moment; but my ear had caught the clanking of chains above the wild
music.

They were the prisoners right enough, and many of the men moved
heavily and awkwardly to the slow rhythm of the motion. It is not easy
to dance with such ornaments as are provided free and gratis by the
paternal Prince to curb an exuberance of spirits.

[Illustration: THE PRISONERS DANCING]

A great trial that the photographer has to undergo, be he professional
or a strolling amateur, is the immediate demand for the picture. The
mysteries of dark rooms and developing are not to be lightly
explained, and the refusal to show the picture, for which the vain
Montenegrins have so willingly stood, is accounted churlish. They are
only appeased with a promise of a picture a few weeks later. Their
names and addresses are hurriedly scribbled and handed with many
peremptory requests for the picture to be sent as soon as possible.

Just before we left Cetinje, on our way to Podgorica, during our first
visit, a bowing and deeply humble individual accosted us in the hotel.
When he had straightened himself up a bit, and we could see his face,
we recognised one of the prison warders. After many expressions of
sorrow for disturbing us, we gathered that on the occasion of our
visit to the prison only three of the four warders had been present.
The fourth--and it would appear the head warder--had arrived after our
departure, and learning of the photographs and his omission, had made
things a bit hot for his three favoured confreres. Therefore would we
of our goodness come and photograph him, and thus make life worth
living again? Would we restore the peace and harmony of that little
community?

With sorrow we declined, our carriage awaited us, and the day was hot.
Some other time, we said. And with that uncertain comfort he was
forced to be content.

"But," he said, "the money which you have so generously given us and
the prisoners has been expended on 'raki' (local spirits). We and the
prisoners will pray for your souls for many nights ere we sleep."

As we drove up the ascent from the town towards our new destination,
we glanced back at the red-roofed little capital and noticed the low,
grey stone building of the prison.

"We ought to sleep well to-night," remarked P., nodding towards it.

It is something to be prayed for, even if only by criminals of the
quarrelsome type.




CHAPTER V

The view from Bella Vista--New scenery--Promiscuous shooting--The
market in Rijeka--The shepherds--Their flocks--Wayside
hospitality--The plain of the Zeta--The Moraca--The Vizier bridge--Old
war-marks--First and last impressions of Podgorica.


The drive from Cetinje to Rijeka, and from thence till the final
descent to Podgorica, is quite as fine as any other part of
Montenegro. For about twenty minutes after leaving Cetinje the road
climbs and attains its greatest altitude on this tour, and at its
highest point--only half an hour's walk from the town--possesses one
of the most striking and beautiful views. It is rightly called "Bella
Vista," and a shelter hut and chairs are thoughtfully provided for the
visitor.

A wonderful panorama meets his eye as he suddenly reaches the top. A
fantastic sea, as it were, of hills, like the waves of a storm-tossed
ocean, encircles him, and at his feet, green and wooded, lies a long
fertile valley. Stretching far away into the gates of distance in its
vast expanse, glitters the Lake of Scutari. Round a small dim spur of
land running into the lake, lies Scutari itself, which is, however,
not visible. To the left a forbidding chain of magnificent mountains,
dwarfing the intervening hills into insignificance, fascinate him by
their repellent grandeur. Snow-clad, except in the height of summer,
these mountains seem symbolical of the land they border, that savage
and unknown Albania. A glimpse of a green valley below can just be
caught, there lies Podgorica, our destination. At our feet a long,
low-lying plateau ends abruptly in a wall of rock, through which the
road vanishes, and which can be traced white and threadlike on the
overhanging hillside. Beyond is the valley and town of Rijeka. The
mountains to the right are the Rumija, behind whose naked comb is the
deep blue Adria, and which we must climb to reach the port of
Antivari. The lake is dotted at the near end with islands,
distinguishable amongst which is a conical-shaped hill crowned by a
fortress. That is Zabljak, the whilom capital of Crnagora, and home of
its ancient rulers, the Black Prince dynasty. The whole view is like a
map in bas-relief.

Gone now are the barren rocks and sparsely vegetated hills of the
Katunska, and we are now in the fertile middle zone of Mediterranean
vegetation, which includes the valley of the Zeta right up to Niksic.

As we careered along, we were closely followed by another carriage,
in which were crowded five Montenegrins and Albanians, who were
evidently bent on making the pace. The Montenegrins are ever reckless
drivers; they dash round sharp corners at full gallop, with a
precipice of several hundred feet below--and there is never sufficient
parapet to prevent a carriage dashing over--so that one involuntarily
leans to the inner side of the carriage with that uncomfortable
sinking feeling which can be experienced at sea. With a shout to warn
anybody coming up the hill, the driver cracks his whip and dashes
round each corner with a sublime indifference to danger.

Whenever we slackened, our pursuing carriage came up at a rush, and
its occupants emitted wild yells and vociferated polite requests to
pass. Off we tore again, and at last reached that point where the
descent begins in serpentines to Rijeka. When we were tearing along a
lower level of the road, but a few yards below our rivals, we noticed
with momentary misgivings that they had drawn their long revolvers and
were holding them in their hands.

Suddenly they began to fire, for no apparent reason, which habit is
apt to be startling to a nervous traveller on his first journey. But
our youthful driver let fly an answering shot; on inquiring he told us
that it was to encourage the horses. Afterwards we never rode or drove
any distance in the country without our revolvers, so that we too
might help in the encouragement.

That afternoon Rijeka presented a brilliant picture. On entering the
town hundreds of peasants were congregated round the cattle-market on
the outskirts, but it was on the broad street by the river bank that
the most animated scene was to be witnessed. Every Montenegrin town
should be seen on a market day, for then the peasants from far and
near, in their best clothes and rifles over their shoulders, flock to
the town with cattle and sheep and field produce. Rifles are usually
carried when going on a long journey, particularly in the vicinity of
Albania. This is partly as a sign of allegiance to their Prince, but
chiefly because Montenegro stands ever before a sudden mobilisation.
Should the soldier peasant hear the alarm, he must make his way at
once for the rendezvous as speedily as possible, without detour.
Further, hundreds of armed Albanians from the borders are always in
their midst, as was the case to-day.

Rijeka is a very busy little place, being the half-way village between
the capital and Podgorica, and is still more important as the
starting-point of the little steamer which plies twice weekly down the
lake to Scutari. The river runs between lovely green hills rising
straight from its banks, wooded and luxuriant, reminding one not a
little of the Thames at Cookham.

The Prince has a small palace just beyond the town, and spends the
coldest winter months here, where he escapes the rigours of the
climate in Cetinje. About half-an-hour's walk is the ancient fortress
of Obod, famed in history as the site of the first printing-press
(destroyed very soon by the Turks) in the Balkans, and indeed one of
the first in the world, for Caxton was only a few years ahead. The
fact speaks for the ever forward striving spirit which has animated
Montenegro's rulers since its very foundation, and which only the
rigours of pitiless warfare have hindered.

On leaving the pretty little township, we had considerable difficulty
in forcing our way through the flocks which continually blocked the
road. All the way we ploughed through herds of cattle and stampeding
sheep and goats, much to the disgust of their shepherds. These men,
chiefly vicious-looking Albanians, with loosely-slung rifle, and round
their waist a bandolier of cartridges, lend a wildness to the lonely
road which is likely to mislead the new-comer; and should one of them
empty his revolver light-heartedly in the air, to be answered by
another some distance away, the impression is considerably heightened.

The road climbs to a good height immediately and commands a fine view
of the valley with the little river winding in and out. In winter the
effect is that of a great flood, for everywhere partially submerged
trees and bushes show above the water. But in reality it was only a
natural course of events, for in summer the water recedes and leaves
great fields on which crops of maize are grown, while during the
winter or rainy months the whole district of fertile land becomes
again submerged. This view of the Rijeka was decidedly one of the
prettiest in the country, combining, as it does every now and then,
glimpses of the lake and the majestic Albanian Alps.

Always followed by our rival party, we halted at a wayside inn to
refresh both man and beast. These inns are quaint little places. There
is seldom any other floor than that already provided by Nature, which
has been beaten flat.

We called for coffee, and partook of the country's wine, to whose
acidity we never accustomed ourselves, and entered into conversation
with our convivial companions. One, a horse dealer, spoke excellent
Italian, and we met him often afterwards in the course of our travels.

When we had finished our libations, we naturally wished to have the
bill or rather to know how much there was to pay.

"Nothing," was the answer.

"But we have had ----" It is not well to particularise--it was a
thirsty day.

"There is nothing to pay," the woman reiterated.

The other party had guiltily slipped out of the room and climbed into
their carriage, and our driver became impatient to maintain the lead.
With mixed feelings we followed him out, and in another second were
off again at a gallop.

It was always like that in Montenegro. We have gone into an inn or
cafe and drunk a liqueur (a polite name for the fiery but wholesome
local spirit), when a fresh glass will be silently placed before us.
We have waved it away.

"Not ordered it," we would say.

"That man has," answers the boy, and points at a smiling Montenegrin
on the other side of the room. Sometimes, and very often too, other
guests follow suit, and the result is trying. We gave up visits to
cafes afterwards, except when we were on pleasure bent and had an hour
to spare. Hospitable, reckless, poverty-stricken Montenegrins--one can
travel far before another such a race can be found.

The last two hours of the drive are uninteresting, chiefly because
eight hours in a carriage is trying. Podgorica comes in sight long
before it is reached, in the form of a cluster of trees on a grassy
but dead-level plain, out of which two minarets show their graceful
spires. The background is imposing, lowering Albanian mountains rise
abruptly to their lofty heights from the level of the plain.

For an hour we drove along the plain, and passed a solitary building
situated on a slight eminence. It was Krusevac, one of the Prince's
country palaces, or, to be more correct, Prince Mirko's palace, as
"Voivoda" or Duke of the Zeta, which ancient and historical title is
his. Then for some distance we skirted the Moraca, driving in an
opposite direction to Podgorica till we came to the "Vizier" bridge,
over which we crossed and retraced our way to the town.

The River Moraca is a large mountain torrent, into which the Zeta
flows only a short distance away from the town. It rushes over great
boulders, forming here and there formidable rapids, between two deep
banks, which, without any warning, break off suddenly from the flat
and form precipitous sides fully two hundred feet deep. Two or three
hundred yards away, no gap or break in the plain is observable.
Sometimes the river swells almost to the top of its banks, and then
the effect must be terrible. There is a ford near Podgorica, which the
peasants use to avoid the long detour by the bridge, but woe to the
man who makes a false step. Three women, carrying loads of wood, lost
their footing during our stay, and were drowned. In its waters we swam
every evening, and even in midsummer, when the river is low, the
strength of the current required an expert and powerful swimmer to
breast it, and it was invariably very cold.

[Illustration: THE VIZIER BRIDGE]

The bridge, built by an old Turkish Vizier many, many years ago, is
most picturesque, and completely in keeping with the rocky banks and
the foam-flecked, emerald-green waters rushing beneath. From this
bridge a man once sprang into the depths below, to show that he was
not intoxicated. As a matter of fact he was, but he emerged dripping a
hundred yards lower down, unhurt and at least in his right mind.

There used to be a deep indentation in a stone of the bridge
parapet--during our stay in the country it has been plastered
up--which credulous Montenegrins relate to be the cut of a Turkish
horseman pursuing a fleeing Montenegrin. The story goes that the Turk
severed the Montenegrin's head from his body, and so violent was the
stroke that he cut into the stone wall as well.

Again, just before the town, two slabs, standing exactly thirty paces
apart, mark a similar episode, and the headless man is said to have
run that distance before falling. This legend--which, furthermore, has
many eye-witnesses still living in the town who swear to the truth--is
more capable of belief if one takes into consideration the flight of a
decapitated fowl in any of our poultry yards.

The road entering Podgorica is very similar in appearance to that
which leads into Cetinje, only the first impressions are considerably
wilder and more uncivilised than that of the capital. Hundreds of
Turks and Albanians are smoking their evening "tchibouque" in the
streets, and scowl in no friendly manner at the stranger. Some of
them, namely, the merchant class, are, however, excellent people,
travelled and educated, as we found out afterwards. The Albanian and
Turk are the enterprising merchants of Montenegro, and improve on
acquaintance, which is sometimes necessary.

We had a lonely, solitary feeling as we drove through the crowd of
loiterers, and were glad to descend at a presentable-looking hostelry.
How often first impressions are wrong we proved to the full in this
instance.

Podgorica saw more of us than any other town during our stay, for we
made it afterwards our headquarters. It would be difficult to forget
that mountain-bounded valley and the town with its bustling streets of
picturesque humanity. And then those sunsets! The peaks towering
behind bathed in crimson, and the intervening hills rising one above
the other to the furthermost summits like a giant staircase, rich in a
mysterious purple. As we walked back from our evening swim, over the
short, springing grass, that scene at sunset never abated its charms
one whit. And we were always glad on entering the town that no one
wore plain, ugly European clothes but ourselves. The national
costumes, so full of colour, blended harmoniously with our feelings,
and have left behind them an indelible picture.




CHAPTER VI

Podgorica--Its central position--Our headquarters--Easter in
Montenegro--Our experience of it--We view the town--The prison and its
inmates--Christian and Mahometan friction--The modern town--The market
and the armed buyers--The Black Earth--Easter customs--Montenegrin
methods of doing business.

[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF PODGORICA]


If it were not for the dangerous proximity of the Albanian border,
Podgorica would have been made the capital of Montenegro. It is
favourably situated for a trade centre, and, owing to this fact, has
naturally gathered a large population (the largest in Montenegro),
approaching ten thousand. Lying on a rich and fertile plain, within
easy reach of the Lake of Scutari, and connected by good roads with
Cetinje and Niksic, it is within market distance, so to speak, of
Kolasin and Andrijevica. From these districts, and from the Albanian
borders, the people flock in crowds, and the Podgorican market is by
far the most important in the country. But--and it is a big "but"--in
this case the Albanian frontier is only an hour's walk away, and it
would never do to risk the persons of the Royal Family and the
Ministers in a sudden Albanian raid, and troubles and disturbances are
of everyday occurrence.

We made Podgorica our headquarters during our sojourn in the land of
the Black Mountain mainly for its central position, but also for the
opportunity afforded us there for studying Montenegrin life.

It would be difficult to forget our first visit to the town. It was
Easter Sunday evening when we arrived at the Hotel Europa, and after
seeing our luggage carried in, started out on a tour of inspection,
and also to present our letter of introduction to Dr. S., the
veterinary surgeon of Montenegro. We had not got more than fifty yards
from the hotel when we were forced to beat a hasty and ignominious
retreat. At Eastertide, which is one of the biggest feasts in the
Greek Church, beggars, halt and maim, blind and tattered, pour into
all the larger towns of the country. They come from Turkey, Albania,
Bosnia, and Dalmatia--in fact, from everywhere within reach--and make
a rich harvest, for the Montenegrin opens his heart, his hand, and his
house at Easter. In our innocence we imagined this to be the normal
state of affairs in Montenegro, and were greatly cast down.

But our worthy host armed himself with a big stick, and we sallied
forth again under his guidance. Even then it was no joke, and the
house of Dr. S. came as a haven of refuge. Anyone who has been in the
East knows what an amount of persistency and endurance the Oriental
beggar possesses.

[Illustration: THE RIBNICA]

We were received as old friends and welcomed to the Easter table,
which was set, as in any other Montenegrin house at this season, for
anyone and everyone who has the remotest claims of acquaintanceship.

Several men were present, to whom we were at once introduced; amongst
others a canny Scotchman, the only Britisher living permanently in the
country. We were a cosmopolitan gathering. There was Dr. S., a
Roumanian, an Austrian ornithologist, a Scotchman, our innkeeper was a
Macedonian, and two or three Montenegrins. From that evening date many
of the pleasant friendships which we made in Montenegro.

The next day our newly-made friends showed us Podgorica. It is divided
into two distinct parts--the old, or Turkish town, and the new
Montenegrin town, which dates from the conquest of 1877. The two
halves are separated by the River Ribnica, which flows in a deep bed
before the crumbling walls of the Turkish quarter. At one angle of the
town the Ribnica enters the Moraca, Montenegro's biggest and most
important river.

Most picturesque is the old Turkish quarter, still surrounded by the
same bastions and walls which not so long ago defied the Montenegrin
army. But the houses, as well as the walls, are fast falling to ruin;
for at the order of the Prince the market has been removed to the
other side, and, in comparison with the new town, there are few
inhabitants left. The fortifications still bear witness to the fierce
struggle which took place before them, and one bastion was breached
more successfully than ever Montenegrin cannon had done, by lightning,
during the bombardment. Many of the older inhabitants, as well as the
walls, show traces of the former conflict, a noseless man being no
great curiosity.

Not for nothing has the Montenegrin won his fame as one of the
fiercest fighters in the world. He was never outdone in atrocities by
his enemies. It was the rule of war (and is now, to a great extent) to
either behead one's prisoner on the spot, or, if the day had been
exceptionally heavy, and more heads could not be carried conveniently,
noses were taken instead. Perhaps the phrase "to count noses"
originated in these lands. However, it usually ended the same, for the
noseless man would, as a rule, bleed to death; but some have lived
through it, and can be met with anywhere in Montenegro or Albania.

Many fierce fights took place in and about Podgorica, and the ghastly
picture of victorious Montenegrins at the conclusion of an affray,
sitting in groups, each with a small or large heap of heads and noses
before him, "counting the bag," has many eye-witnesses still living.

In the Turkish town lies the prison, soon to be the only one in
Montenegro. A new wing is rapidly nearing completion to accommodate
the female prisoners, who are at present incarcerated in Cetinje. We
visited the director that Easter Monday morning, and were received
unofficially in his quarters. We always had great fun with that man--a
pompous individual filled to overflowing with the importance of his
position, and, not unlike men similarly afflicted, most aggressively
stupid.

As a great favour, and after our united persuasion, he allowed us at
last to look from a window overlooking the courtyard of the prison. As
in Cetinje, the prisoners walk without let or hindrance in the
spacious walled-in courts before their cell doors. Being Easter no man
was chained, a privilege they owe to the Prince, who always releases
the prisoners from their fetters during the great festivals; one
wretched individual, however, we noticed more heavily manacled than
even a murderer of the worst kind. He was, we were informed, a
dangerous madman, though, poor devil, he looked harmless enough,
slouching round and round the yard. The primitive custom of confining
dangerous lunatics (for the harmless are allowed their full liberty
outside) in the common prison is soon to be done away with. A large
lunatic asylum is rapidly nearing completion near Danilovgrad--another
memorial of Prince Nicolas' improvements.

The prisoners were sleek and fat--those imprisoned for long terms or
for life bearing witness of the good treatment which they receive at
the hands of the authorities. One youngish man in particular
attracted our attention, a merry laughing fellow whose girth had
reached alarming proportions. He was imprisoned for life, and his
crime, which sat so lightly upon him, had been a particularly
atrocious and dastardly murder for plunder--a crime practically
unknown in Montenegro.

Imprisonment is more real here than in Cetinje. There is none of that
delightful promenading up and down before the prison walls, hours
pleasantly whiled away with a friendly visitor from afar over a pint
of wine. The only glimpse of the outside world that these prisoners
obtain is when a few of them fetch water daily from a well outside the
walls.

As we gazed upon the strange scene from the window above, of prisoners
and warders amicably chatting together, others squatting in groups
over a harmless game, a horrible voice disturbed the serenity of the
picture. Then at a closely barred window a face appeared, with matted
hair and long unkempt beard. It was the face of a madman; with
terrible curses he filled the air, and we looked inquiringly at our
cicerone.

"That man is a political offender," came the answer. "For fifteen
years he has waited his trial, and now he has become hopelessly
insane. Many years ago he endeavoured to stir up a revolution against
the Prince, and fled to Vienna, where he carried on his treasonable
propaganda. But he was enticed back, and thrown into solitary
confinement such as those who are traitors to their Prince receive.
For an hour every day these prisoners are allowed to walk in the yard,
but this man from the first refused to avail himself of the privilege,
and now he has become what you see."

"Will he never regain his freedom?" we asked.

A shrug of the shoulders was all that our guide vouchsafed, and with
that awful voice ringing in our ears we were glad to turn away.

Two mosques still exist, and are in use, for the Turkish population is
fairly large, though owing to recent events rapidly diminishing, but
the Prince does everything in his power to cultivate a friendly
feeling with the Mahometans. His country is the asylum for the
persecuted Turk as well as the fugitive from justice, and, if his
crime is political, he will be warmly welcomed.

But, Woman again has upset the best of intentions, and within a year
four elopements of Turkish girls from their homes with Montenegrins
have taken place in Podgorica. These girls have been baptised and
married to their Christian lovers. A worse insult to the Mahometan
faith does not exist. But of this more anon.

The modern town is painfully plain and uninteresting. Montenegrins
have no knowledge or love of architecture. Each house is built
solidly of stone, square and undecorated. Even the palaces of the
Royal Family are of puritanical simplicity externally.

There are the law courts, post and telegraph offices, and
police-station all in one, a school, and a market-place, with a very
ugly memorial to the fallen Montenegrins in the last war. Otherwise,
the town is laid out with broad streets, all planted with trees,
exactly like a South African township.

Building plots are free, the only obligation to the owner being that
he must run up the outside walls of the house at once. The roof and
internal work can be completed at leisure. A large part of the town
consists of mere shells of houses, the owners waiting for the means of
completion.

Some little distance from the town, across the Moraca, is the Prince's
palace of Krusevac, which he occasionally visits. It stands quite
alone on a slight eminence.

The view round Podgorica is one of the most fascinating features of
the place. It is one of those perfect views which never tire, and
always present some new beauty, and the armed rough men in their
brightly coloured and novel costumes are in complete unison with the
picture. These national costumes seem so absolutely fitting to
Montenegro that the otherwise plain and uninteresting buildings of
the town are turned merely into a background for the ever-moving
stream of colour. The Turkish bazaars with their gaudy wares hung out
into the street, the red-jacketed Montenegrin, the Turk in pure white,
the Scutarines in their distinct and original costume, and the
Albanians who flock in hundreds to the market in coarse white serge,
heavily bordered with black braiding, rifles over their shoulders and
a bandolier round their waists, make a never-ending picture. We never
wearied of wandering about the streets on market days. Then the town
is filled to overflowing with a multi-coloured crowd, and every man
from a distance brings his rifle.

How odd it looked at first to see an Albanian with perhaps a
shilling's-worth of field produce spread out before him, and at his
side a rifle loaded and cocked; or, again, a Montenegrin boy of
perhaps fourteen, with his rifle across his knee! To keep order in
this formidably armed crowd of men, many animated with the fiercest
racial and religious hatred of each other, are some dozen Montenegrin
gendarmes, armed, as is every Montenegrin, with but a heavy revolver.

Deadly enemies meet on the market-place, men standing in blood feud
with one another, and speak, often expressing a fervent prayer soon to
be able to put a bullet into the other at the first opportunity,
but--outside the town. Podgorica is mutually held as neutral
territory, and is very rarely violated. This is strange where men fear
not death.

But, outside, perhaps but half an hour from the outskirts of the town,
these men will meet and shoot and kill; for murder, or sudden death,
to use their euphemistic way of looking at matters, is by no means
uncommon.

There is a great tract of land about an hour's ride from Podgorica
characteristically called the "Crna Zemlja" or Black Earth. It is
neutral, lying between Montenegro and Albania, and the man who sets
his foot on it carries his life in his hands. Men who know, say that
every inch is soaked in blood. It is overlooked by some small hills
from Albania, and is covered with long pampas grass, affording good
cover for a man, and they shoot there for love of killing.

But to return to Eastertide.

It is a good time to visit Montenegro for first impressions. The
Montenegrin outdoes himself in open-handed hospitality; every house is
open, and everyone visits his neighbour. The best chamber in the
house, as often as not the only living-room among the poorer classes,
is set out with all the good things the owner possesses. On the table
stand meat, eggs, bread, wine, and spirits; and it is a grievous
insult to leave that room without tasting, and tasting liberally, of
all. This lasts three days, and it is more than enough.

And we were particularly honoured, being Englishmen and strangers: one
might say we were painfully honoured. What quantities we were forced
to eat and drink! At one house, that of a poor man, who lived with his
wife in a tiny room, we were presented with a bottle of Munich beer,
his greatest treasure, given him once by a friend who had travelled.
He doubtless considered it a luxury of a priceless kind, and it cut us
to the heart to drink that man's beer. But we had to; he took no
denial, barely tasting it himself.

We might have stood it fairly well were it not for those eggs,
hard-boiled Easter eggs, the shells coloured red or blue. This
institution is a positive torture to the unfortunate digestion, which
suffers untold torments at Eastertide.

There is a game played with these hard-boiled eggs which reminds one
forcibly of schooldays. Two men each select an egg, and one, holding
his egg firmly, allows the other to endeavour to crack it, only the
pointed ends being used.

But this harmless if childish custom once led to a vendetta. A man
once cracked such an enormous quantity of eggs, that in the evening he
was challenged to show his marvellous egg, which he persistently
refused to do. This led to words and words to revolvers, and the man
was shot. Then the egg was found to be a clever imitation in stone.

Though Podgorica is the trading centre of Montenegro, business is not
carried on in the same brisk way as in other lands.

We once wished to send a parcel of feathers home, and went accordingly
to the post office. It was towards evening then, and we were informed
that the postmaster was "not at home," and were asked to come next
day. The following morning we again visited the post office, when the
contents were carefully noted, and long lists filled out which took
roughly about half an hour; at the end of which time a head was thrust
out of the window, asking us to call in about an hour and pay. This
was because no post-office clerk is allowed to receive money; he is
strangely enough not always honest, and the postmaster was again out.
At the end of the hour we returned and paid.

Another time I tendered a gulden in payment of a telegram, and had to
wait a quarter of an hour while a boy was sent into the town to obtain
change.

In matters of business it is well to possess one's soul in patience. A
more unbusinesslike set of people is hard to be found, yet in driving
a bargain they are remarkably shrewd, to put it kindly.

Even in such trivial matters as purchasing a hen no indecent hurry is
shown. Such a transaction may take days. For instance, you wish to buy
a hen, and signify the same to a man, and he will say--

"I have a hen which I can sell thee, but it will break my heart. Such
a hen, and such eggs! I feel I cannot part with her."

"Very well," you say; "don't make yourself miserable; I'll buy one
somewhere else."

"But give me till to-morrow. It is too sudden."

And he goes away. If you are not in a hurry, it does not matter and
you wait. It is amusing.

Next day he will come again and say that he has another hen nearly as
good as the first, but, as he loves you and respects you, he will part
with his beloved hen at a consideration, and names a price far beyond
its worth. You refuse, and state your price for the _good_ hen, the
ordinary market price, which he indignantly refuses and departs. In a
few hours he will come again, bringing a hen which, almost with tears,
he tells you is _the_ hen--his beloved hen.

"Take her," he says, "as a present."

Whereupon you press upon him the market price, which of course he
takes, and the matter is finished.

Such little episodes are trying at first. The Montenegrin loves
money--it is his curse, or rather the curse of every country on the
brink of civilisation--but he also loves to play the gentleman, who
hates sordid money transactions. He will often make you a present and
afterwards send in an extortionate bill.

But, usually, you make him a monetary present _at once_, which he
takes with thanks, at your own price.

If it were not for money, what an ideal race the Montenegrins would
be! But then that is the same with a good many people.




CHAPTER VII

Medun--Voivoda Marko--His life and heroism--His part in Montenegrin
history--Our ride to Medun--His widow--We visit his grave--The death
dirge--Montenegrin customs at death--Target practice--Our critics--The
hermit of Daibabe--We visit Spuz--A typical country inn and a
meal--The Turkish renegade gives his views on warfare--Dioclea.


During our repeated sojourns in Podgorica we made several excursions
to places of interest in the neighbourhood, chief amongst which was a
visit to Medun, Voivoda Marko Drekalovic's grave.

Medun lies in the heart of the mountains, about four hours' ride from
Podgorica, and is the capital (if one can apply such a high-sounding
name to a ruined fortress and two or three houses) of the Kuc. The Kuc
is a large province inhabited by one of the most warlike tribes of
Montenegro, and only recently came under its rule, though their
sympathies were never with their Turkish rulers. The fact that it
borders on Albania is significant, and accounts for its fighting
qualities.

Voivoda Marko was largely instrumental in bringing about the last war
with Turkey, which was so successful to Montenegro, when the Kuc,
Podgorica, Niksic, the entire provinces of East Montenegro, the Brda,
and the sea-coast from Antivari to Dulcigno were won and confirmed to
Montenegro.

The famous battle of Fundina was won by Marko and his tribe alone
against an overwhelming Turkish army before war had been officially
declared with Montenegro.

Beginning life as a shepherd boy, Marko ended his days as Voivoda (or
Duke), and his name is famed in many a song and beloved by the
Montenegrins as one of their greatest heroes. Many were the stories of
his reckless bravery, which one of his relations told us. Before he
had reached the age of twenty he had killed many Turks in single
encounter, and was in consequence outlawed. He lived for some years in
the mountain fastnesses of his land, and together with a handful of
adventurers, who had cast in their lot with his, made descent after
descent on any bands of Turkish soldiers that happened to pass through
his domain. His fame soon reached the ears of Prince Nicolas, who sent
for him and placed him for some years in his bodyguard--that _corps
d'elite_ of the Montenegrins.

At the age of twenty-five he returned home and harassed the Turks to
such an extent that he could not show himself openly by daylight. Like
another and more famous outlaw in the days of the kings of Israel, all
those that were bitter of soul came down unto him, and he became
captain over them. By night he descended upon the Turks wherever he
could find them, and made great slaughter among them. The Governor of
Podgorica, then Turkish, Yussuf Mucic by name, offered a large sum of
money for his head, but no one could be found willing to meet that
terrible man whom legend and story had endowed with supernatural
powers. Finally, a criminal consented to attempt the deed on the
promise of his liberty, and this led to one of the most incredible
episodes in Marko's life. The criminal lay in wait for him on a lonely
part of the road near Rijeka, and as Marko was passing along he
stepped suddenly on to the road pistol in hand. Marko in no way
attempted defence, but simply transfixed the man with a glance. The
wretched man in an ecstasy of terror shot himself, so penetrating was
the glance which the Voivoda had given him. So runs the story. Suffice
it to remark that Marko arrived safe and sound the same evening in
Cetinje, and a dead criminal was found on the next day by the
roadside. Now Yussuf, the Governor, was himself a soldier of some
repute, and when he heard of the failure of his messenger he
boastfully expressed a desire to meet the celebrated Marko in single
combat. On this challenge being reported to him Marko rode off on a
half-tamed steed at midday into the heart of Podgorica, and reined up
before the Pasha's house. In fear and trembling the Turks hastily
closed their bazaars and houses as that fearful horseman galloped
through their streets. In a loud voice Marko cried--

"I am here, Yussuf, to answer thy challenge. Wilt thou now come out
and fight with me?"

But fear filled the heart of the craven Turk, and he sent a woman to
the window to say that he was away from home. Marko knew this to be a
lie, and cried so that all should hear him that henceforth the
challenge was annulled. "I do not fight with cowards," he said, and
again galloped away unmolested.

Such was the power that superstition had weaved around his person that
he was commonly believed to be invulnerable, which belief was
afterwards belied by the fact that he carried two bullets with him to
the grave.

After this public insult to Yussuf, it was known that he would spare
no pains to take Marko's life, and a touching episode is told of the
love which Marko's tribe bore to him. His people were ever ready to
sacrifice their lives for him, and in this instance it was deemed
necessary to remove the obnoxious Pasha. Accordingly a cousin of Marko
journeyed to the Podgorican market with a pistol concealed in a load
of wood. He lay in wait before Yussuf's house and shot him down as he
emerged. The Turkish populace literally cut him to pieces--a fate
which the devoted man well knew would befall him.

This and other events led up to the attack made by the Turkish troops
on the tribe of Kuc, when, at Fundina, Marko and his small tribe smote
the Moslems hip and thigh. The rest is a matter of history. He had
died but a few months before our visit, and by his last wish was
buried in the little fortress of Medun, which many years ago he had
stormed at the head of a handful of men under circumstances of great
bravery.

The ride thither gave us our first taste of the mountains. Rough,
stony paths through rocky ravines, sometimes skirting deep precipices,
and all round the intensely wild and magnificent mountains, led us to
the great gorge where Medun is situated. Perched on a seemingly
inaccessible crag, stands the famous ruined fortress, and at its foot
Marko's house.

We were made welcome by his widow, a regal woman of middle age, and
still strikingly handsome. Her dead husband was not only a great hero,
but a poet and historian, and one of the most remarkable features of
his life was that, at the age of forty, he taught himself to write,
and made his name famous as well in the Serb literary world. He had
always treated her as his companion, and not as the average
Montenegrin treats a woman--as a being of inferior quality and a
better class of servant. Marko had a wonderful character; a great
athlete, perfect rifle-shot, and a military warrior and leader of men,
he brought home during his campaigns over one hundred Turkish heads;
but he was also a refined gentleman, a true poet, and merciful to his
enemies. He was a notable exception in the matter of prisoners--he
always let them go unharmed, sometimes escorting them himself to a
place of safety.

Our visit gave much gratification to his widow, who was pleased that
strangers from such a distant land should wish to visit her husband's
grave, and she was hospitality itself.

After a rest and food in her house, she conducted us herself up the
steep winding path to the grave. We came abruptly upon a small plateau
in front of a tiny chapel. The scene was striking in the extreme.
There was the grave, with a rough pile of stones at the head, on which
were placed the dead man's "handjar," revolver and sword, and many
wreaths. Two lighted candles were flickering in the wind, and in a
semicircle stood a group of rough, fully-armed mountaineers, the
retainers of the Voivoda. It was stormy, and great gusts of wind and
rain dashed round the rocky fortress, and in the distance a rugged
pile of mountain peaks towered up into the descending mist.

The widow left us, and, kneeling at the grave, quietly kissed the cold
stones, praying for a few moments in deep silence. Not a man spoke or
moved as we stood with bared heads and waited. Slowly rising, she came
to us and led us into the chapel, a bare shell, not even furnished
with an altar, and with the original earthen floor.

"My beloved husband wished to be buried in here," said the widow, "but
it was not allowed. The Prince wished him to be buried in Podgorica,
as he was never courtier and was so beloved and honoured by his
people--more than the Prince himself. But my husband called me to his
side, and with his last breath made me swear to bury him in this
chapel, or at least in front of it. And when the order came that he
should be buried below, I swore to shoot myself on his grave, and the
men of Kuc swore to take his body up here, even if they had to fight
every inch of the way. So it was allowed that he should be buried
here, but we shall bury him in the chapel, for that I promised him as
he died."

And she took my hand solemnly in hers, illustrating her oath to the
dying man, and I shivered in that gloomy chamber as her impassioned
voice echoed in its arches.

Suddenly a wailing of women broke upon the utter silence which ensued,
and nearer and nearer came that weird singing as it approached the
summit. The women were chanting Marko's death dirge. At last, as they
passed the little window, we went outside and saw four women,
dishevelled and weeping, approach the grave, kneeling on one side. The
widow left us again and knelt alone opposite.

One woman only sang at a time, a series of extempore verses telling of
the life and deeds of the hero--his accomplishments and goodness--in
the poetical language of this wild people.

"Oh, thou grey falcon, who was so mighty a hunter as thou?"

"Who indeed shall now wield thy bloodstained sword?"

"Oh, thou wolf, who is worthy to take thy place as our ruler and
father?"

And the others beat their breasts and tore their hair, wailing in a
wild unison, until the singer was exhausted and then another began.

Here and there a deep sob broke from a man, but otherwise the ring of
men with bowed heads remained in dead silence and immovable as the
rocks around them.

It was one of the most impressive scenes it has been our fortune to
witness, but we were glad when the widow rose and conducted us back to
the house. Some letters and poems of the Voivoda were shown to us, and
one of the letters to a friend then present in the room was read
aloud. The great rough Montenegrin was so touched at hearing the words
of his master and lord, that he turned away his head and sobbed. All
this time the women ceased not with their wild lamentations, and even
after we took our leave and started on our rough ride home in
pouring rain, that death dirge followed us, echoing in the ravines
and mountains.

[Illustration: THE GRAVE SCENE AT MEDUN]

Since then we have often heard the death dirge sung in Montenegro.
Sometimes in a house in passing; again, an old woman trudging to
market will sing the death dirge of a relation, perhaps dead many
years. But we never heard those piercing, wailing notes without having
the picture of Medun recalled vividly to our memory.

When a man dies he is laid out in the sitting-room, and all the
friends and relations are summoned. Then the men enter the room singly
and approach the corpse. Tearing open their shirts they beat
themselves with their fists on their naked breasts, often tearing the
flesh with their nails, and give vent to ear-piercing wails. Each
new-comer strives to outdo his predecessor in excesses, and horrible
scenes ensue. But the Prince discountenances this custom, and it is
slowly dying out, but only in the upper classes.

We often took our rifles and went out into the country for a little
target practice, and always succeeded in attracting a group of
spectators from adjacent villages or huts. Towards Albania we were
requested not to go for shooting, as the noise of rifle-shots is apt
to mislead the surrounding villagers. Even when shooting in other
directions, we were carefully warned not to fire rapidly, but to shoot
slowly and deliberately, as at target practice.

Rapid firing is "the alarm," and would mobilise a brigade of infantry
within an hour or two.

On one occasion we were shooting at a somewhat difficult object about
one hundred and fifty yards away. We were trying to hit it, standing,
and had not succeeded. A group of some twenty men had collected, and
they soon began to make facetious remarks. One offered to bring the
target nearer. Another said he would stand target for a few shots--we
shouldn't hit him. So we gave one or two of them our rifles and told
them to hit it. Immediately they selected stones as rests, and lay
down for their shot.

"Ah," said we, "we can do that; shoot as we do, standing, and without
a rest."

"That," they said, "is not shooting--who shoots like that in war?"

But we were inexorable, and needless to say they failed to hit
anywhere near.

The Montenegrins are good shots enough, if they can take long and
deliberate aim, steadying their rifles on walls or rocks, but
otherwise they are miserable marksmen.

Quite close to Podgorica there lives a hermit, a wonderful man who has
hewn out of the living rock a tiny chapel, a store-room, and a passage
leading to the chapel. He has only just completed it, and we inscribed
our names in his new book as his first visitors.

[Illustration: VOIVODA MARKO]

[Illustration: SIMEON POPOVIC AND HIS CHAPEL]

The hermit, a priest of most refined manners and appearance, named
Simeon Popovic, was most delighted at our visit. He spoke Russian and
French fluently; his story is quite a little romance.

Before he took Orders he had been a soldier, and was a rich man. It
was while he was absent on a campaign that his wife eloped and his
relations robbed him of all his money. He returned home to find
himself wifeless, dishonoured, and a beggar. Then he became a priest,
and a vision appeared to him, showing him Daibabe, where he now lives,
commanding him to go and build a church. He refused the offer of a
rich priorship and came to this place, possessed of no means whatever
wherewith to commence his life's work. Unable to buy building
materials, he began to hollow out a church from the rock, without help
or money of any kind, beyond that given him by the pious but direly
poor peasants of the neighbourhood. The labour must have been immense,
but there it stands a monument to man's perseverance and faith.

Simeon is reckoned as a saint by the peasants; they come to him from
all parts of the country, bringing their sick, and many cures are said
to have been effected there. He is a vegetarian, and subsists solely
on the products of his little garden.

Spuz lies on the River Zeta, and must be reached by a bridge. It is
always safer to dismount when crossing a Montenegrin bridge, off the
main roads. This was no exception, but the scenery was delightful.
Rising immediately at the back of the village is a steep hill crowned
by a mighty fortress. It was held formerly by the Turks, and the
peasants say that it was built by them; but the architecture is
distinctly Venetian and an exact counterpart of many fortresses in
Dalmatia.

It is strange, however, for there are no records that the Venetians
ever came further inland than Scutari.

The inn at Spuz, where we dined, was as other country inns (or krcma,
or han, as they are locally termed from the Turkish): earthen floor, a
bench, a few primitive stools and beds in the only reception-room. The
table is invariably rickety, so are the stools; but a tablecloth,
knives and forks are always mysteriously produced for guests even in
the most out-of-the-way places.

While our repast was being prepared we had a revolver shooting
competition outside the door, to which the whole village flocked. One
of the men made a very fine shot from his saddle at a tree-stump in
the river, about two hundred and fifty yards away, and _hit_ within a
few feet. It proved the accuracy and carrying distance of the
Montenegrin revolver.

[Illustration: SPUZ]

After our meal, consisting of raw ham, eggs (oh, those everlasting
eggs!), and a peculiar and nondescript kind of meat, about which we
asked no questions, the village captain called on us and bore us off
to his house for coffee.

This man, a Turkish renegade, was one of the most interesting men whom
we met. He was a marvellous talker--in fact, he never stopped during
our visit. How the subject came up has passed my memory, but suddenly
he rushed out of the room and brought back a handful of little medals.

"Look," he said, "each medal represents a human life, a head. We have
these given us for every head we bring back in war. Do you think I am
proud of them, and there are more than fifty? No, I weep when I see
them. When I had seized my foe by his hair preparatory to cutting off
his head, a vision of his mother, his wife, and his sisters appeared
before me, and I could have wept as I struck off his head. Why should
I kill this man? I asked myself. I know him not, he has done me no
harm, yet because it is war, arranged by princes and kings, we must
become murderers. And why should I kill him? because others would
misconstrue my act of mercy if I did it not, and brand me a coward,
aye and worse, a traitor. Why should _I_ make that mother childless?
why must _I_ rob that loving wife of her husband? Why _I_ be the means
of making those little children fatherless and orphans?"

I confess the picture that he conjured up of solemnly and with
streaming eyes cutting off his enemies' heads--and he had owned to
over fifty--as he thought of destitute homes and weeping women and
children, seemed decidedly tragi-comic; but the old man was earnest
enough, and was quite unconscious of the grim humour of the situation.

"Why," he went on, excitedly pacing the room, "why do not the German
Emperor and the King of England fight out their quarrels _alone_? Why
drag thousands of men from their homes and farms to fight _their_
quarrels?"

Again the idea of our King fighting a solemn duel, with perhaps
Maxims, over a question of an island in the Pacific, with the German
Emperor, while admiring millions looked on and applauded, caused a
smile which we with difficulty repressed from diplomatic reasons.

He took his scimitar now in his hand.

"Look, too, at the generals," he said excitedly, "directing battles
from safe places, while hundreds of innocent lives are thrown away in
an assault which that general has ordered from his place of safety.
Once," he went on--"I was fighting for the Turks then, and commanded a
body of soldiers--a general came to me, saying, 'Storm that hill,' and
I answered, 'No; thou art our leader, lead us to the assault.' And he
refused, saying, 'How can I direct the battle if I lead this
attack--who shall take my place if I fall?' And I drew my sword"--and
here he suited his action to his words--"and said I would kill him if
he did not take his true position as leader of men and lead us to the
attack--then I and my men would follow wherever he went. And the
general, who was a brave man, led us to the assault and fell--but we
took the hill and the battle was won."

It was strange talk to hear from such a man, little better than a
savage, yet unlike any of his adopted countrymen. That man in a
civilised country would have made himself known and even celebrated.

Not far from Podgorica, at the junction of the rivers Moraca and Zeta,
lie the remains of the once famous Dioclea or Dukla, as it is locally
called. The town is of Roman origin, and was surrounded by a complete
moat, which the Romans formed by digging a channel between the rivers.
It must have been a place of immense strength in the olden days, but
successive generations of warfare, which raged so pitilessly in this
district, have levelled it to the ground, and to-day little or nothing
can be seen from the adjoining roadway. On approaching there is also
very little to be seen, here and there a wall, and small fragments of
mosaic floors. Coins and other relics are still found in large
quantities, and it seems a pity that excavation, which could do so
much, has been only carried on in a very halting and desultory manner.
Legend and history relate that the famous Roman Emperor Diocletian was
born here, and gave his name to the town. The district of Dioclea,
which was one of the seven confederate Serb states formed by Heraclius
to repel the attacks of the Avars, is in reality the germ of modern
Montenegro.




CHAPTER VIII

Achmet Uiko tells his story--Sokol Baco, ex-Albanian chief--Shooting
on the Lake of Scutari--Our journey thither--Our frustrated
nap--Arrival at the chapel--The island of Vranjina--The
priest--Fishing and fishermen--Our visitors--We return to Podgorica.


One market day, walking through the streets of Podgorica, we overheard
a strange conversation. A Montenegrin Turk was sitting on a stone,
when two Albanians approached him. Touching his revolver, one of the
Albanians said--

"Sooner than own the whole of Montenegro, would I empty _this_ into
thy body."

The Turk, a small man, with slightly grey hair, looked up, and said
indifferently--

"And thy desire is mine."

So they separated.

Almost immediately an acquaintance joined us, and we asked him the
meaning.

"That man," said he, "is the famous Achmet Uiko. A terrible man, who
has killed many men, and at the present moment there is an enormous
sum of money on his head in Albania."

We then went to him, and asked him to come to our hotel to-morrow, and
to tell us the story of his life. He consented readily, saying that
he would be with us at nine next morning, "if," he added
significantly, "nothing occurred to detain him."

It happened that evening that an Englishman arrived on a short tour
through the country, believing firmly that everything was as safe and
as orderly as the average stranger thinks. A Turkish girl had been
abducted from her home shortly before, and the town was in a state of
great excitement, as it was the second case within the last few weeks.
A rising of the Turkish inhabitants was feared nightly, and the house
where the girl was confined--previous to her marriage with her
Montenegrin lover--was carefully guarded by a score of armed
Montenegrins.

We took the Englishman to this house, and as we were showing him the
men with rifles around the doors and windows, we heard sounds of a
sharp rifle fire some distance away on the border. Not long afterwards
a Montenegrin doubled into the town with a report that heavy firing
had been taking place at the village of Dinos. Nothing further came of
it, but our countryman went to bed with other ideas of Montenegro.

We awaited Achmet next morning, but at nine he had not arrived, and we
began to wonder, as the hours went by, if his fate had at last
overtaken him. But at noon he turned up, as quiet and self-possessed
as yesterday, and excused himself in the following way. The Albanians
who had expressed such murderous desires upon him yesterday at the
market lived in Dinos, and he had spent the night in emptying his
magazine rifle repeatedly into their village.

"To show these dogs," he concluded, "that they cannot express such
wishes to me with impunity."

His story, which is given shortly here, was taken down from his lips,
but it is impossible to reproduce the man's quaint phraseology. He
spoke in an indifferent way, and detailed all the circumstances in a
most matter-of-fact manner and without the faintest trace of boasting.

He was born in Podgorica, then Turkish, and at fifteen fought in his
first battle, killing three men. At seventeen he had a fight in the
town, and was forced to flee to Scutari, where, shortly afterwards, he
entered the Turkish service as a gendarme. He took unto himself a
wife, but finding her faithless, he laid a trap to catch her and her
lover together, when he killed them both. After this Achmet returned
to Podgorica, where he was at once seized and imprisoned for his
original offence, but he soon broke out and fled to the Albanian
mountains. Here he lived as a robber until things began to get too hot
for him, and he fled to Bosnia. In Bosnia he was the guest of a Serb,
who befriended him, and when a Turk seduced his benefactor's wife, he
killed the Turk to show his gratitude, and again was forced to flee
the country. He next turned up in Antivari, where he was promptly
imprisoned, but he overpowered the warder, took his rifle, and again
escaped.

At this time the town captain of Dulcigno had been murdered, in
revenge for a deadly insult, by a young Kuc, named Jovan, and Achmet
was sent for, on the promise of pardon if he would follow Jovan into
Albania and kill him. This he did, bringing Jovan's head with him as
evidence. For this he received a large reward, and the Prince of
Montenegro, having heard of him and his deeds, sent for him, pardoning
all his previous offences, besides giving him one hundred napoleons.

Achmet now settled down at his present home near Podgorica, but was
caught by the Turks and imprisoned on a false charge for four months,
when he was able to prove an alibi.

Achmet fought in many border fights with the Montenegrins against the
Albanians and distinguished himself greatly. Two Albanians once
attacked the son of a famous standard-bearer, whose life he saved,
capturing the assailants alive and bringing them into Podgorica. For
this act the Prince gave him an old fortress for his home, and where
he still lives.

Later on Jovan's brother, whom he had killed near Dulcigno, came early
one morning to Achmet and fired at him; but Achmet caught him, and
again brought his prisoner alive into the town, where he received ten
years' imprisonment. These deeds are all the more remarkable as he
brought his captures alive and delivered them over to justice. It is,
firstly, not customary to take men alive; secondly, the feat is of
extreme difficulty, for men fight to a finish in these lands.

Achmet is known to disappear periodically for several weeks, but of
these affairs he would say nothing. But the most striking and romantic
episode of this marvellous man's life has yet to be told.

Recently he was caught by his now arch enemies, the Turks, and
imprisoned in the powerful fortress of Tusi, a few miles from
Podgorica. Not content with putting on the usual extremely heavy
chains, they added to their prisoner a second set of fetters. But
friends smuggled into his possession a file, concealed in a loaf of
bread. He filed through his chains, and the day previous to his escape
he noticed a lot of straw bedding lying at the foot of the fortress
walls. That night he completed the filing of the fetters, broke open
the cell-door, and rushing through the sleeping soldiers he jumped the
wall, landing without hurt on the pile of straw bedding below. Though
fired at and pursued, he escaped unhurt.

We heard many such stories, but the story of Achmet was certainly the
best, and these men do not lie. As the man took his leave, he gave us
a pressing invitation to visit his fortress home in the mountains.

"I will slaughter my best lamb," he added, as a special inducement.

There was another highly interesting personality living in Podgorica,
an ex-Albanian chief and refugee from his country, named Sokol Baco.
This fine old fellow, standing well over six feet, looked fifty
instead of his sixty-five years, and had an equally interesting past.
As a youth he had fought in many battles for the Turks, and was
eventually selected with five other young men of high standing for the
personal bodyguard of the Sultan. While on leave, which he was
spending in his Albanian home, the order came for the disarming of the
whole of Albania. Sokol's tribe refused, as did most of these warlike
clans, though Sokol advised obedience. But his clan remained obdurate,
and he was placed in the awkward predicament of being either
considered a traitor by his countrymen or by his Sovereign. Sokol
threw in his lot with his clan, and led them in battle against a
Turkish force; but though he fought like a lion, the clan were
defeated, and he was forced to fly. For many years Sokol lived in the
Albanian mountains, half robber and wholly patriot; but the pursuit
became too keen, and he came to Podgorica, where he entered the
service of Prince Nicolas. His new Prince he serves loyally, and is
highly esteemed in Montenegro, where he will doubtless end his
days.

[Illustration: ACHMET UIKO]

[Illustration: SOKOL BACO]

While still comparatively new to the country, we once went for a
week's shooting to the Lake of Scutari. Water-fowl abound there in
marvellous numbers, consisting chiefly of crane, heron, thousands of
duck, and a fair number of pelicans.

We had selected the island of Vranjina for our headquarters, known in
history as the site of a famous treaty signed there between the
Montenegrins and Venetians in the first half of the fifteenth century.
It lies at the north or Montenegrin end of the lake.

As we were given to understand that we could drive to the lake, or at
least to the River Moraca, and thence take boat to the island, we
loaded our carriage with ample luggage. With our guide's usual and
admirable mismanagement, we were landed after a two hours' drive on
the banks of the Moraca, unable to get further without the carriage
toppling down a steep bank into the rapid river. The driver
unceremoniously bundled our traps on to the ground and drove happily
off. The only person in sight was a diminutive girl, whom the guide
promptly impressed into our service, and an appalling load was heaped
upon her. Then a small boy appeared, and so we were able to make
another start. The day was exceedingly hot, but we got some shooting
to make up for it. We crossed the river in a crazy ferry, found some
men, and later on a boat, and reached the famous village of Zabljak
about one o'clock. The village is still overlooked by a formidable
fortress, but in the rude collection of huts it was hard to see the
ancient capital of Montenegro, the home of the famous Black Prince
dynasty.

One of the most wretched inns that it was our lot to find in
Montenegro received us and our baggage. The village of course turned
out to inspect us, and watched us eat our meal with interest. It was
of the usual kind, consisting of eggs, raw ham, eggs, and dessert of
_more_ hard-boiled eggs, washed down with a remarkably sour wine.

After this repast we retired for a short nap into the room beyond. P.
was tired and got on one bed, but I, displaying more caution, lifted
the pillow before I trusted myself to the arms of Morpheus. My
fore-sight was rewarded better than I deserved, and I had P. off his
bed in the twinkling of an eye. As an explanation which his
threatening attitude demanded at once, I silently lifted his pillow.
It likewise teemed with life, and we postponed our post-prandial
slumbers till a more fitting occasion.

At the foot of the village the Moraca flowed past, now a formidable
and swiftly running river. We were amused to see several oxen driven
into it, and swim serenely to the opposite bank.

Only one small canoe could be found for us, which would ordinarily
hold one man besides the two paddlers, with comfort. Into it were
crowded three men and a quantity of baggage. In addition, it leaked,
and periodically we were turned out on to a muddy and marshy bank
while the canoe was bailed out.

This end of the lake is very curious, a series of natural canals run
in all directions through vast swamps which only afford foothold in
the height of summer. The thrifty peasants utilise the dry season to
plant fields of maize, for the scorching sun dries these swamps in a
very short space of time. In the winter or early spring, they are
nearly or quite under water. As the lake is reached, small islands of
dense willow trees grow out of the water, and in these islands are
vast colonies of waterfowl. The effect is decidedly pretty, but very
irritating to the sportsman, as the birds hide in the centre, and it
is nearly impossible to force one's way in, even by wading.

We reached our destination, a little chapel with a house for the
priest adjoining it, locally termed a "manastir," built on a rather
high and conical hill on the south end of the island of Vranjina. The
view from the chapel, as we afterwards found, was superb. The whole
lake spreads out in its vast expanse. Scutari, or rather the hill
behind which it lies, can be seen dimly in the distance. To the right,
the Lovcen and the Rumija rear their lofty heads, and divide the lake
from the Adria beyond. Away to the left the rugged snow-clad Albanian
Alps stretch as far as the eye can see, piling themselves up in a wild
and grand confusion. Several green submerged willow islands lay at our
feet, round which crowds of snow-white cranes were circling. Such was
our view as we reached the plateau in front of the chapel that
evening, tired, hungry, and irritated, but still appreciative.

The priest, or "pop," clad in the national costume, as indeed are all
the country clergy, and only distinguishable from his wild-looking
parishioners by his uncut hair and beard (the Greek Church do not
allow their ministers to cut their hair or beards), met us in a
friendly manner, but absolutely refused to take us in at first. He
said he had absolutely nothing in the house but a little goat's
cheese, and no beds. However, we were desperate; to go to the village
meant another hour's cramp in the canoe, and perhaps no better
accommodation than here. Here we would stay, and starve.

By dint of much persuasion, the priest produced a mattress, and a man
was sent down to the village to procure anything that he could find,
and so we stayed in the monastery a week, and really enjoyed
ourselves. We used to go out shooting at daybreak in canoes with two
paddles apiece, and again in the evening, for the heat was
overpowering about midday.

[Illustration: THE POP OF VRANJINA]

[Illustration: AN ALBANIAN GIRL]

The method of fishing here is distinctly interesting. A large number
are required to work the net, but they make enormous hauls. The
procedure is as follows: One large boat is anchored near the shore and
made fast to trees, and a huge net is taken out and spread in a
circle, the ends being kept in the stationary boat. Two men, naked,
stand a few feet from the boat in the water, keeping the sides of the
net down and preventing the escape of fish as the circle is gradually
narrowed by the men in the boat slowly pulling it in. The last bit
requires their united efforts, for it is full of fish, some of
considerable size. At the conclusion of the "haul" one of the men
chose two of the largest fish and threw them into my canoe as a
present; as thanks I lent my tobacco-tin, which they gratefully
emptied.

Montenegrins carry tobacco in a tin and roll their own cigarettes; no
other form of smoking is known amongst them, except the tchibouque by
some of the older men, a relic of Turkish times. The tobacco is
excellent, being often equal to the best Turkish, and ridiculously
cheap.

We owe these worthy fisherfolk thanks for having given us one of the
finest moonlight effects that it has ever been our lot to witness. We
were returning home late one evening in our canoes, and as we rounded
a corner of the island we came suddenly on their encampment. The men
in their ragged but artistic costumes were sitting round numerous
camp-fires cooking their evening meal on the bank, which sloped gently
upwards, an old ruined fortress or "kula" forming a background.

As we gazed the moon came slowly over the brow of the intervening
hill, illuminating the scene with its soft and silvery radiance,
blending fantastically with the ruddy flames of the fires.
Cooking-pots steamed and bubbled, and one group of men broke into an
old Montenegrin fighting song, the water of the vast lake sparkled and
danced in the distance, and we felt that only we and this rough group
of fishermen were alive in the world.

It was an idyllic life that we led during our stay at Vranjina, though
every comfort known to civilisation was lacking. We lived as did the
hardy fishermen of the island, and a hard life it proved to be. The
heat, however, was something tremendous, quite precluding any exertion
from ten in the morning till the late afternoon. We had even in the
early morning to use the greatest care to keep our necks and arms
covered from the scorching rays of the sun, for bad blisters and burns
were the sure reward of carelessness. The concussion of rapid shooting
combined with the heat often brought on headaches so violent that to
fire another cartridge was exquisite torture. One thing we did not
suffer from, and that was loneliness.

The news of our visit spread to all the neighbouring villages, and we
had a constant stream of visitors. Our swim, which we took after our
early morning shoot in a delightfully cool spot, where a spring
bubbled into the lake, was invariably witnessed by a group of
fishermen, and very much amused they were too over our hair-brushes,
soap, and other toilet articles.

They sometimes ascribed powers of healing to us, and were evidently
quite distressed when we endeavoured to impress upon them our entire
ignorance of medicine. Once a man insisted on baring his leg and
showing me a horrible wound which would not heal.

Another time the school was marched out from the village of Vranjina,
probably to have an object-lesson in geography. Doubtless the boys,
after having seen real live Englishmen, would henceforth display an
intelligent interest in the position of the British Isles. They came
and spent a morning with us, and the young teacher, who spoke good
Italian, asked us many questions, such as a young child asks his
father, and equally difficult at times to answer.

Our messing arrangements were of the simplest, raw ham and eggs
forming the staple food. We bought a lamb once, but it only lasted one
meal, as everyone developed an extraordinary appetite--the parson,
Lazo our servant, and all the men in the vicinity.

When we left we had the blessing of our worthy priest and fervent
invitations to return again soon from some of the fishermen. One of
the men took a great fancy to us, urging us to come to his house in
Vranjina then and there, and "we would," he said, "drink gallons of
wine," going on next day. "At any rate," he said, as we gently
refused, "let us have a big drink together when ye come again."

We arranged our return to Podgorica ourselves, and got back within
five hours, shooting a fine pelican on the way, which was the last
shot that we fired on the Lake of Scutari.




CHAPTER IX

Stephan our servant--Virpazar--The drive over the Sutormann
Pass--Antivari and Prstan--The beauty of the bay--We are delayed by
contrary winds--We are rowed to Dulcigno--We make the acquaintance of
Marko Ivankovic--A story concerning him--We shoot together--An episode
on a lake--Vaccination--The Turkish inhabitants.


For our journey to the sea-coast towns of Antivari (Bar) and Dulcigno
(Ulcinj) we deemed it advisable to take a servant with us, and our
choice fell on Stephan, a Hungarian by birth, but a ten years' sojourn
in the Land of the Black Mountain had completely Montenegrinised him,
if we may coin a word. As he was our constant companion for several
months, it would be well to describe him.

Every statement that Stephan made had to be liberally discounted--this
we found out afterwards--for he was a born liar, and not a skilful one
at that. He had one marvellous story about a large sum of money lying
in his name in a bank in Hungary, which he must fetch in person, but
he could never save enough money to make the journey. This was an
obvious falsehood. But the story of his coming to Montenegro seemed
true. He was a sergeant of an Austrian infantry regiment, and had
attempted to cut down his superior officer in a fit of rage, severing
his ear with a sabre. He fled to the Montenegrin border, which was
quite close to his garrison, and has been in Montenegro ever since,
wearing the national costume and married to a girl of the country.
Stephan was certainly a most violent-tempered man, but he was often
entertaining, full of fun, a decent cook, and could sing a host of odd
songs and snatches picked up in Austrian garrison towns. Otherwise he
was a thorough Montenegrin, though he considered himself vastly their
superior. His temper at other times would be vile, but the mastery
over himself was really great, and after a sharp remonstrance he could
change his mood completely.

Taking the omnibus of the Anglo-Montenegrin Trading Company, rudely
dubbed "the Hearse," to Plavnica, the station for Podgorica on the
Lake of Scutari, we transferred our luggage to a huge barge, or
"londra," and were slowly punted out on to the lake through one of
those extraordinary canals which intersect the marshy land at this end
of the lake. There the good ship _Danitza_, owned by the same company,
awaited us, and conveyed us to Virpazar, past our island of Vranjina
and its little chapel.

[Illustration: VIRPAZAR]

Virpazar is the scene of the Montenegrin Vespers in 1702, and one of
the richest villages in the district. Prettily situated up a long
estuary of the lake, it is nothing but a collection of about twenty
small houses, with arched ground floors, the people living on the
first floor. The village is frequently flooded in the winter.

The importance of this village lies in the fact that it is the
connecting link--and a very bad one at that--between the rest of
Montenegro and the sea. But no road connects it with the mainland, and
travellers from Cetinje or Podgorica must take the steamer from either
Rijeka or Plavnica to Virpazar, and from thence a good road leads over
the Sutormann Pass to Antivari. A road which is being built between
Virpazar and Rijeka will supply a long-felt want. At present, when the
Prince or Crown Prince wish to visit their favourite residence on the
sea at Topolica, near Antivari, the horses have to be sent by a
roundabout mountain path from Rijeka, taking many hours, while the
Princes take steamer and have a tedious wait in the inn at Virpazar.

To this inn we went--there was no choice about it; it is the only one,
and, moreover, there is but a single room for guests, serving as
dining and sleeping apartment. Though we arrived at midday, we had to
wait till the following day at noon for the postcart--twenty-four
hours in this very uninteresting hole.

But we hobnobbed with the local grandees, for there is the district
law court here (the captain and magistrate have their residences in
the village), and managed to pass the time fairly agreeably. In the
evening we sat under the trees in front of our humble yet princely
hostel, and talked of many things to our newly made friends. The frogs
in the marshes made a terrific noise, almost drowning our
conversation.

Next morning we entered the post-chaise, in which we had wisely booked
all the four seats, and made a start on our six hours' drive. What
would have happened had other travellers arrived is hard to imagine. A
wait of forty-eight hours till the next post went would have probably
caused annoyance, and this carriage was literally the only means of
conveyance on this side of Montenegro. It goes one day and returns the
next. Fortunately, passengers are extremely rare. The drive was of
great interest, winding up in a series of sweeping curves between
magnificent hills. The ridge on our left was the site of a great
battle in the last war, when a small Montenegrin force dislodged a
large Turkish army and captured Antivari and the long-coveted sea. The
danger and recklessness of the feat was apparent from the road, and it
was evidently not expected by the Turks, for a false step on those
rocky heights meant certain death.

[Illustration: ANTIVARI ON BAR]

The top of the Sutormann Pass (2,700 feet) was reached in about four
hours, and now the deep blue Adria was spread out before us, and our
tortuous descent commenced. Commanding the pass still stands a mighty
but much-battered fortress, taken by the gallant Montenegrins in
that memorable battle. But nowhere could the historical old town and
fortress of Bar, or Antivari, be seen. In fact, not till we were
within a few hundred yards of the town, was a single house in view. It
is hidden from sight in a hollow, surrounded by a forest of olive
trees.

All of a sudden the carriage drew up at a recently built stone house,
ornamented with the trophies of war. Piles of cannon-balls, old
cannon, splinters of shells are tastefully arranged on the walls.
Immediately in front of us stood the once famous fortress of Bar, now
a shot-riddled and ruined mass of stone, a mere shell of its former
strength.

Even then the town is hardly apparent, but in a few seconds one enters
it down a steep and slippery path of well-worn stones. On either side
are Turkish bazaars, out of which Turkish faces peer at the infidel
dogs. There is very little of the Montenegrin element apparent. We
only walked through the town once, as our destination was Prstan, the
actual seaport of Antivari.

We were somewhat rudely disillusioned. After an hour's drive along a
flat and ugly road, we espied a collection of some half a dozen
houses. Two or three of them are large and modern in appearance but
that was all. Was this, then, Antivari, Montenegro's important seaport
and the bone of contention with Austria?

Right well has Austria maintained its control of this little port. One
large house is that of the Austrian Vice-Consul, who lives in solitary
state, watching everyone who passes through the port. Opposite, on the
further horn of the bay, lies Spizza, an Austrian military station.
Antivari is, indeed, but Montenegrin in name.

Right on the shore and in the centre of the large bay stands a white
house, a short distance from the Austrian frontier, which is Topolica,
the favourite residence of the Crown Prince. Square, undecorated, and
uninteresting, it is almost an exact counterpart of the other
Montenegrin royal residences. Yet its position is superb. From either
corner of the bay, where the mountains meet the sea, stretches an
unbroken chain of mountain peaks, rugged and forbidding, but extremely
picturesque. Witnessed at sunset when the soft lights mellow the sharp
outlines, and the sombreness of the mountains is tinged with red, the
fascination which this place holds for this lover of nature, Prince
Danilo, can be well understood. We spent two days revelling in its
wild solitariness.

Our hotel was distinctly quaint, but we were very comfortable. Again
we had but one room for all, but it was clean, and the hostess, an
Austrian, an excellent cook.

We hoped to have started on our further journeys the following day,
and found a small sailing vessel anchored in the bay; the captain
consenting to take us on to Dulcigno. It was an Albanian boat, manned
by about half a dozen cut-throats, and in spite of warnings we
arranged to leave next day. Anything would be preferable to a ride of
eight hours over mountain tracks on mules to Dulcigno; and we were all
well armed.

But the next day brought contrary winds, and we were forced to spend
another day in Prstan. That day a large Italian steamer arrived and
anchored in the bay, to take Prince Nicolas to Italy for the
christening of his little granddaughter. Shortly before dark he
arrived, attended by two adjutants, and after speaking a few words to
the harbour captain, who respectfully kissed his hand, embarked in a
boat, and was pulled on board the steamer. We were again struck with
the immense breadth of his figure, clad in a long, grey military
overcoat, which makes him look much shorter than he really is. He is
really a typical-looking prince of a race of freeborn mountaineers. As
he receded from the shore, we drew our revolvers and joined in the
parting fusillade, shouting "Zivio" as lustily as any of the little
handful who had awaited him.

The agent of the Austrian Lloyd Steamship Company came to our rescue
on the following morning, as the Albanian boat made no preparations
for starting, and offered to take us in his own boat to Dulcigno.
This we gladly accepted, and about midday started in his large and
roomy boat, built for sailing or for rowing, and manned by four
Montenegrin sailors.

The wind failed us most of the way, and our four men propelled us with
long oars or sweeps which are worked standing up and facing them, a
method of rowing common in the Adriatic. It is a splendid exercise,
but like everything else it wants practice, as we speedily found out
when we took a turn.

Coffee, without which no true Montenegrin can exist, was made _en
route_, and proved highly acceptable.

Luckily we had taken a supply of food with us, though we had been told
that we should be in Dulcigno for supper, and this again we devoured
with ravenous appetites as the long hours wore on. The coast was
monotonous, a never-varying bank of hills descending to the water's
edge. Here and there a tiny village could be seen, but otherwise no
life, and little vegetation.

Not till nine o'clock in the evening did we reach Dulcigno, and the
impression that the lights in the houses on the hillsides made is not
easily to be forgotten. It seemed like a colony of spacious and
luxurious villas on well-wooded slopes. In pitch dark we arrived at a
quay, and groped our way out of the boat, and were led to the inn.
Great knockings and shoutings summoned the innkeeper from his early
slumbers. While waiting in the darkness below, the Turkish muezzins
ascended the many minarets, and began the evening call to prayer. The
weird chanting from so many voices (there are seven mosques in
Dulcigno) in the otherwise utter stillness had a most uncanny effect.

It was a strange arrival.

Our inn was slightly less primitive than the preceding ones. We had a
tiny bedroom apiece, and there was a room downstairs for eating
purposes, though we were always able to take our meals outside under
the trees.

Dulcigno, or Ulcinj, is certainly the prettiest town in Montenegro,
though it is to all intents and purposes Turkish in appearance. Built
partly on a hill overlooking the sea, it descends into a small bay
where the occasional passing steamers anchor. Well wooded and hilly,
it is really a delightful spot, though the Turkish element may or may
not detract from its beauty according to personal taste. The irregular
houses, the mosques with their slender towers, the bazaar, and the
gaily-dressed if dirty crowds that circulated between the rows of
shops--gave a distinctly pleasing effect. The heavily-veiled women,
wearing in addition to the veil a thick cloth cape with a capacious
hood, amused us greatly, for on meeting us, lest our bold eyes should
pierce their disguise, they would stop and turn their faces to the
wall. What these poor creatures suffer from the heat in these
ponderous cloaks can only be imagined, and Dulcigno is by no means
cold.

Though the fantastic picture conjured up the night of our arrival by
the twinkling lights, peeping out of the dark foliage, on the hillside
was not realised, still the entirely different picture of the reality
was equally pleasing.

We called the next morning on the harbour captain, an Austrian and
ex-sea-captain, who received us most kindly and courteously. Through
him we were at once able to make the acquaintance of one Marko
Ivankovic, a hunter of great prowess, whom we immediately engaged to
attend us for the shooting in the neighbourhood.

Now, though we will not go so far as to say that he was the sole
object of our visit to Dulcigno, still he did certainly influence our
plans. Once, during our very first stay at Podgorica, we met an
Austrian ornithologist and sportsman who told us a wonderful
experience of his at Dulcigno with this very man, Marko Ivankovic. He
had come to Dulcigno one night by steamer, to spend a few months in
this paradise for sportsmen, and as he entered a lowly inn, a man of
almost repellent aspect sat brooding gloomily, evidently lost in a fit
of abstraction. This man gave no greeting to the new-comer, who sat
down at the further end of the table and ordered food. Shortly
afterwards the man rose and silently left the room. An hour later this
same man reappeared in the doorway, cap in hand, and humbly asked
permission of the ornithologist to seat himself at the same table. The
permission was readily given, and the man (it was Marko) came near and
attempted to kiss L.'s coat. This action signifies the greatest
humility, and is only accorded to persons of the highest rank. L.
remonstrated strongly, saying--

"Why dost thou kiss my coat? I am a man like thyself, and no prince.
What wouldst thou from me?"

"Sir, I see that thou art a hunter (L. had his dogs with him), and I
would fain be thy servant."

L. wanted a man, and from his conversation he soon gathered that this
was no inexperienced huntsman, and so they spoke of terms. But Marko
at first would not hear of anything of the sort, saying he would serve
for nothing. Naturally L. refused to accept his services gratis, and
at last an arrangement was made that Marko should first prove his
capabilities and serve a term of probation. Even then Marko refused to
take money, but a present of a gun or some article to the value of his
services at so much a day.

With this plan L. was forced to be content, and two days afterwards
the expeditions into the neighbouring country were commenced. To tell
the story in L.'s own words:--[2]

"After we had been together some weeks Marko became gloomy and cast
down, unlike his usual merry self. It was no easy task to persuade him
to tell me what was the matter. It appeared that he was in debt, and
should not the money be paid very shortly, his house and all that was
his would be seized. Of course I gave him the money, which happened to
be more than his due up to that day, and he took it as a loan. This
condition he insisted on, and I laughingly assented."

It was then that we first heard of Achmed Uiko, who told us the story
of his life in Podgorica. Jovan, of the tribe Kuc, had been publicly
beaten in Dulcigno at this time, and in revenge had shot the Governor,
who had ordered this ignominious punishment. Jovan had fled to
Alessio, in Albania, with a price upon his head, and certain persons
came to Marko to beg him to follow the assassin and bring back his
head. Marko was then in L.'s service, and confided his dilemma to his
master, who told him that if he but harboured such thoughts he was not
fit to be his servant. Marko then refused, and Achmed Uiko accepted,
murdering Jovan in a boat while fishing, and the head was subsequently
displayed in Dulcigno. This is a noteworthy episode, for it led to the
abolition of corporal punishment and of the barbarous custom of
displaying heads on poles.

[Footnote 2: This story was published in the _Wide World Magazine_,
and is reproduced with the Editor's permission.]

To return, however, to the story:--

"After several weeks I made a day's tour with Marko to the Bojana. At
the mouth of the river, which you know is the outlet of the Lake of
Scutari, a large island has been formed by a stranded ship which sank
there, and all the debris, logs, and other rubbish have formed a delta
of some size upon the wreck. It abounds in game, and thither we
journeyed one morning early, reaching it some few hours later by a
small boat in which we ferried ourselves across. During the day a
great storm sprang up, precluding all chance of returning to the
mainland that evening. In a hut of boughs we spent a miserable night,
drenched to the skin by the incessant rain. Not till towards evening
of the following day could we recross, and it was bright moonlight
when we commenced our weary tramp, heavily laden and wet, to Dulcigno.
The neighbourhood is dangerous, both Albanians and Montenegrins shoot
at sight, and care must always be exercised.

"Perhaps we had covered half the distance, when Marko suddenly and
without a word of warning threw the bags and other things he was
carrying to the ground. 'It is a dog's life, nay worse, that I lead
with thee. My health is ruined, my clothes spoilt, and not a kreutzer
do I get.'

"I was furious at the man's infamous lie, for he was still several
guldens to the good, and even more so at the disadvantage he had taken
over me. Here we were alone in a wild and dangerous district, miles
from home, and not a human being near.

"'Thou liest, thou ungrateful dog. Thou art an ass without a face.'

"As I said this in my rage--it is a terrible insult to call a man a
faceless ass--Marko's face was transformed with speechless fury. His
high cheek-bones and black curly hair always made him unprepossessing,
for his was a distinctly negro type of face, and now with his lips
drawn back like a snarling wolf, disclosing his yellow teeth and
gleaming eyeballs, he looked like a fiend incarnate. I shudder now
when I recall that moonlit scene.

"His hand dropped like lightning on the butt of his revolver, but in
the moment I had sprung back a pace and covered him with my gun, which
I was luckily carrying cocked.

"'Thy hand from the revolver,' I cried, 'or thou art a dead man.'
Slowly his hand sank to his side. 'Pick up those things at once and
carry them before me, or as sure as there is a God in heaven I will
shoot thee like the dog thou art.'

"As if every movement was of the greatest exertion he picked up the
traps, saying as he did so, 'Thou shalt remember these insults.'

[Illustration: MARKO IVANKOVIC]

[Illustration: THE BRIDGE AT RIJEKA]

"'Be still!' I cried, covering him with my gun, 'and now precede me.'

"And in this fashion we returned to my house. He threw the load into a
corner of the room, and at the door he returned and repeated his
warning, vanishing in the darkness.

"From this time onwards I shot alone. Try as I would I could get no
one to come with me, and this I put down to the worthy Marko's
influence. Thrice I saw him while out shooting, but only once within
speaking distance. I then called to him 'Marko, I know thou wilt try
and kill me; but listen, I am married and have a wife and child at
home. For their sakes I ask thee to shoot at me from the front, and
thus give me a chance to defend myself.'

"He smiled strangely again, saying, 'Thou wilt remember thy insults,'
and disappeared.

"I always took cover when I saw him, but nothing happened, and the eve
of my departure arrived. The steamer left in the early morning, and
just as dawn was breaking and I was still in bed Marko entered the
room. He approached my bed, and laid upon the table by my head the sum
of money I had advanced him to repay his debt. Then he spoke:--

"'I saidst that thou wouldst remember the insults thou hast put upon
me. Here is thy money, and now listen to my story. Thou hadst scarce
set foot in Dulcigno when thy death was planned by an enemy, and I
was hired to do the deed. That was why I would take no wages, for I
was already well paid; besides, it was thought that thou wouldst then
certainly engage my services. I was to accidentally shoot thee while
hunting. What more easy than to stumble and for my gun to explode? But
when I knew thee, then I could not kill thee thus. I tried to provoke
thee that night, knowing thee to be a violent-tempered man; I provoked
thee into insulting me. I hoped thou wouldst have struck me, and then
it would have been easy. Thou wast very near death at that moment, for
in spite of thy gun I could have shot thee, but thou hadst grown too
much into my heart. Even in my rage I was powerless. And now here is
thy money. I have kept my word, and am an honourable man.'

"I sprang from my bed and stopped him. 'Who was my enemy?' I cried.

"'One who knew thee in Bosnia. This man had hoped that thou wouldst
visit him, and thy coffee was ready poisoned. When I left thy service
another man was hired to kill thee, but I followed thee wherever thou
went. Thus didst thou see me these three times.'

"I knew now who my enemy was. A man exiled by the Austrians for
treasonable practices whilst I was still an official in Bosnia. Marko
accompanied me to the ship, but not until I swore on my honour to
otherwise throw the money into the sea would he accept it, and then
only that which he had actually earned, not a kreutzer more, for I
would have willingly made him a present. Thus Marko Ivankovic went out
of my life, but I shall never forget him."

Such was the story we heard one evening in Podgorica, and which we
were here able to prove in part. When Marko heard that we were friends
of his former master, his face lighted up with joy, and he kissed our
hands. During our stay he was always with us, a devoted attendant and
servant. Another very interesting phase of his life had been spent in
the Hercegovina, where he fought as an outlaw for many years against
the Austrians. He still possesses two mementoes of his adventures in
that land, one in the form of an officer's undress jacket, technically
called a "blouse," and the other of a more permanent character,
namely, a maimed hand. He and his band were surprised one night by
gendarmes, and a fierce hand-to-hand fight ensued, during which an
Austrian aimed a cut at Marko with his sword. Marko caught the blow on
his hand and held the blade fast, but the gendarme drew back the
weapon sharply and severed all the tendons of his hand. Marko cannot
now open his hand, but his wounder was sped to the happy
hunting-grounds there and then, as he modestly relates.

Shooting of the same kind as on the Lake of Scutari is to be found in
abundance all round Dulcigno. Unfortunately the Bojana and the
afore-mentioned island at its mouth was closed to us. The evening of
our arrival two men had been shot there, and it is doubtful, even had
we insisted on going, whether the authorities would have permitted it.
It is not good to visit localities just after shooting affrays. In
this instance the peasants on both sides were excited, and we
reluctantly gave up the trip to which we had looked forward for some
time. However, there was plenty left to shoot over, and we had much
good sport with pelican, duck, and crane.

One rather unpleasant incident occurred during our stay, which very
nearly ended seriously.

The lakes and swamps over which we shot lay at about an hour and a
half's walk from the town, and it was necessary to be there by
daybreak. We had ordered our paddlers to await us one morning at dawn,
and on our arrival were considerably annoyed to find no one there but
a boy. After a short wait we started, taking the boy and the larger
londra, or canoe, Marko and Stephan paddling as well. A longer delay
would have spoilt our morning, as the fowl disappear long before the
sun is well up in the heavens. About an hour later we discerned a boat
paddling furiously towards us, and, coming alongside, the inmates
proved to be our missing crew. Seizing our canoe, the spokesman
addressed our boy, abusing him roundly, saying he had stolen his
canoe, and demanded the paddles peremptorily. The boy looked at us
helplessly, and naturally refused, for we were in the middle of a
lake. The man then became livid with rage, rocked our canoe violently,
threatening to overturn us into the water. Then his hand dropped on
his revolver, and in his face appeared unmistakably the lust to kill.
All this passed so quickly that we had listened to the altercation in
open-mouthed astonishment. The rage and violence took us utterly by
surprise, for nothing of the kind had ever happened to us before from
the naturally courteous Montenegrins. However, now the man's rage
communicated itself to us, and in the twinkling of an eye both Marko
and myself had covered him with our firearms--we both had guns at our
side--and Stephan began to talk. Stephan was a violent-tempered man,
and now he let himself go. He spoke for some minutes, and it was
lurid. The muzzle of my carbine began to wobble, for his fluency and
comprehensiveness were distinctly amusing, while our attacker, who
soon let go the butt of his revolver, listened with pained but
undisguised admiration. "And now, thou accursed one," wound up
Stephan, after he had paid attention, in his burst of eloquence, to
the man's family, antecedents, personal appearance, and probable
future, "go back to the hotel, and await my master's return! Thou
knowest the law. For even laying the hand on thy revolver in anger,
and against strangers in our land, thou wilt be thrown into prison,
and thou wilt receive ten months. I will come and see thee, and listen
to the music of thy clanking chains, and we will talk of to-day's
doings!" By the time Stephan had finished, abject fear was depicted on
the man's face, and his companions showed signs of having heard
enough. Murmuring apologies, they sheered off, and with a slow and
thoughtful rhythm paddled back the way they had come.

On our return to the inn several hours later the three men were
standing stiffly outside the door, cap in hand and thoroughly scared.
He who had attacked us spoke tremblingly, offering as an excuse that
they had fished all night and had but gone for some food before taking
us out again. They were direly poor, he said, and the fear of losing
their wages had upset them, the long night without sleep had destroyed
their powers of reasoning, and--would we forgive them for the
dastardly outrage? Needless to say we dismissed them, as do the
magistrates, with a caution.

We met amongst other Montenegrin officials the district doctor, an
interesting man of varied experience. At his invitation we witnessed
the annual vaccination, which is compulsory in Montenegro.

[Illustration: VACCINATION]

[Illustration: BAZAAR LIFE, DULCIGNO]

Outside the door of the principal mosque the doctor and his
assistants and some other officials took up their position one morning
and waited. Shortly afterwards crowds of children appeared on the
scene, mostly in charge of their Turkish fathers or elder brothers,
some of the latter scarcely able to carry their little burdens. Very
rarely a Turkish mother appeared, closely veiled, but the Christian
mothers invariably came; that is, the Albanian Christians from the
outlying villages. Very quaint are these women in a most picturesque
costume and carrying their infants in a cumbersome and unwieldy cradle
slung on their backs. It was a very varied assortment of babies which
was presented to the doctor, many of the Turkish children being so
emaciated and such a mass of repulsive sores, that many were sent away
as too weak. Most of them shrieked with fear, but a few came up
smiling, one and all comforted by their protector, either Turk, child,
or fond mother. The fathers invariably showed the most distressed
concern. It was a comical sight; outside the rails a motley crowd of
interested spectators and waiting children, and in the inclosure the
doctor pricking his patients one after the other in a most indifferent
manner. His clerk noted the names, and we, with some of the local
grandees, drank tiny cups of coffee and looked on.

The Albanian or Turkish element is very strong in Dulcigno, and they
are the only Montenegrin subjects exempt from compulsory military
service. The Montenegrin authorities told us that they were very
peaceable and industrious, giving no trouble whatever. It is, after
Podgorica, the largest town in Montenegro, and does a lot of trade in
small sailing-boats down the coast. As many as seventy-five per cent
of the men are usually away at sea, carrying the Montenegrin flag as
far as Constantinople. It is quite cut off from the rest of
Montenegro, except by a mule track connecting it over a difficult
mountain path with Antivari and the rest of the country. By sea it is
connected by the Austrian-Lloyd weekly Albanian Line, and by one or
two smaller steamers which occasionally call there, with Cattaro and
the Albanian coast towns.




CHAPTER X

We ride to Scutari--The Albanian Customs officials--We suffer much
from Turkish saddles--Arrival at Scutari, and again pass the
Customs--"Buon arrivato"--Scutari and its religious troubles--The town
and bazaar--A slight misunderstanding, Yes and No--We return to Rijeka
by steamer--The beauties of the trip--Wrong change--The prodigal son's
return, when the fatted calf is _not_ killed.


Before we left Dulcigno it was necessary to have our passports vised
by the Turkish Consul, as we intended returning to Podgorica _via_
Scutari. We had to go through a lot of tedious formality, though the
Consul was a most pleasant man, and laughed at the precautions which
his orders forced him to take. But as he supplied us with horses and
an escort--for the path is considered somewhat dangerous--we resigned
ourselves to the inevitable with a good grace. Our guns and carbines
we were forced to send back to Podgorica with Stephan, as the law is
very strict against the introduction of firearms into Albania, where,
however, even the poorest peasant goes fully armed. But as strangers
our weapons would have been confiscated on the border. Verily the ways
of the Turk are passing strange.

We made a start at four o'clock one morning just as the sun was
appearing above the hills, and the day promised to be extremely hot.
Our horses were fairly good, and the man who constituted our guard, an
Albanian, seemed a pleasant fellow, which much belied his appearance.
A more villainous-looking face, with half his teeth missing, could
hardly be imagined. However, the whole way he rolled us cigarettes
most industriously, rarely taking one from us. Our saddles were
Turkish, and were our first experience of them, and, it is to be
hoped, the last.

The high road, or rather path, to Scutari, is considered good for
Montenegro. In reality it is a mere track, in places paved with
cobblestones atrociously laid. It is odd that many important districts
in this country are entirely unconnected by roads with the
neighbouring towns, and consequently such things as carriages do not
exist. As an instance, the whole of the country lying beyond Rijeka
towards the sea, containing two important towns, and in size about an
eighth of Montenegro, possesses one short road--from Virpazar to
Antivari--and one carriage.

Our path lay for the first three hours through a richly vegetated
country, and the scenery at times was quite English, owing to the
amount of oak trees which overhang the path. But at nearly every open
space was a Turkish graveyard. The indiscriminate way in which the
Turks bury their dead is most extraordinary.

We reached the River Bojana, and rode along the bank some time before
we came to the ferry. It is a broad and swiftly flowing river of quite
imposing size. The heat was now getting tremendous, and a friendly
Albanian picking apricots on the roadside gave us many handfuls, which
proved very acceptable.

Two Albanians came across in a large barge in answer to our hail, and
we and our horses--the latter, by the way, stepping into the barge
most unconcernedly--were piloted across. Here we entered Albania, and
were examined by a fierce-looking Customs official. He turned our
baggage out on to a mat, and evidently meant to overhaul it
thoroughly, when a few _Daily Graphics_ caught his eye. After that he
dismissed the remainder of our things with a wave of the hand, which
our men promptly repacked, and retired into the papers. A lot of other
men came up, and we were pleased to afford so much delight with our
illustrated journals.

As we were drinking coffee in the very primitive inn, a heavy
thunderstorm came on, and deluges of rain, keeping us here for about
an hour, when it cleared up sufficiently to proceed. Our landlord at
Dulcigno had packed us up a meal with a bottle or two of wine at our
orders, and we, now being hungry, inspected the basket. It was, to put
it mildly, distinctly disappointing, and not fit to eat or drink.
Added to this, my hunting knife was stolen, and we were very glad to
get on again.

The rest of the ride was the reverse of monotonous. The path was now
as slippery as grease, and our horses floundered at every other step,
and at times we plashed through quagmires, and became bespattered from
head to foot. Several men passed us with rifles slung over their
shoulders, but interchanged salutations with our guard. With the
exception of one small revolver, we were unarmed and practically
helpless. A short time after our ride through this district, a
stranger was killed. It is very unfair to refuse foreigners the
permission to carry any arms through such dangerous parts, when it is
considered a disgrace to go unarmed by the inhabitants. Our saddles,
too, were beginning to cause us much discomfort. After the first few
hours on a Turkish saddle, every movement of the horse becomes agony.

We reached the outskirts of Scutari about seven hours after our start,
and the town is entered by a great bridge. But before coming to the
bridge we rode through a great assembly of Albanians, judging from
their different costumes, from every part of the country, with their
flocks and herds for the market. The men were lying about singly or in
groups, sometimes under a rough tent, while the women attended to
their wants and to the flocks. Each man was heavily armed with rifle
and revolver, and turned lazily as we passed, with no friendly looks,
plainly intimating that we were intruders. Still they were fine,
fierce-looking men, though their expression is not nearly so
prepossessing as that of the Montenegrin. It was a strange scene of
life, but only one of many that abound in and about the capital of
Albania.

At the bridge we had to dismount and cross on foot, and a very painful
operation it proved after so many hours in the saddle.

The custom-house was situated immediately at the other end of the
bridge, and here we entered. In the guard-house, full of
disreputable-looking Turkish soldiers, were hung rifles and revolvers
on nails in great number and variety, which the mountaineers have to
leave on entering the town precincts. The custom-house official was
peacefully sleeping when we came in, and had to be awakened. We were
led to a divan, and cigarettes and coffee promptly brought to us while
our passports were examined. In a quarter of an hour we were allowed
to proceed, but a man came running after us saying that our baggage
had not been examined. He gently hinted that he had no wish to examine
it all if ..., and we understood. We forced a handful of backsheesh in
his seemingly unwilling hand, and slowly, with many muttered
exclamations, climbed into the saddles. We even did not scorn the
friendly aid of a low wall, so painfully stiff were we.

A short ride round the once mighty and historical fortress of Scutari,
past a ruined building liberally painted with white crosses, said to
have been once the Cathedral, and where we had noticed that Christian
Albanians piously crossed themselves on passing, led us to the famous
bazaar.

It was not our first visit to Scutari (we had visited the town by
steamer from Montenegro on several previous occasions), but as we
clattered through the evil-smelling alleys filled with a surging mass
of more or less unclean humanity, we were struck more forcibly than
ever with the picture. At times our passage was blocked by the crowds,
and misshapen figures and hideous faces would peer out of doors and
shop windows at us, and swaggering Albanians would jostle each other,
their belts for the most part empty, though many were armed in spite
of the stringent rules to the contrary. Slowly we forged our way
through this seething crowd, and emerged on the open road beyond,
leading to the town proper, which lies about half-an-hour's distance
away.

At the hotel we dismissed the man (and the horses), who remarked with
a certain grimness, in Italian, "Buon arrivato," and we staggered into
a meal which our eight-hour fast and torture had rendered extremely
necessary.

[Illustration: THE CONSULAR QUARTERS, SCUTARI]

Though Scutari, strictly speaking, does not belong to this account of
Montenegro, it is still so interesting, being in former days part
of Montenegro, that it deserves some mention.

The actual town is Mahometan, three-quarters of the inhabitants
belonging to that faith; but as the surrounding mountains are all
Christian, and it is the seat of the Roman Catholic Bishopric of
Albania, religious feuds are common. The Christian Albanian belongs
literally to the "Church Militant," and emphasises his feelings
occasionally by throwing a dead pig into a mosque. On other occasions
playful Albanians have been known to tie white cloths round a fez,
thereby imitating the headgear of a Mahometan priest, and so parade
through the town. Very naturally the Mahometans object to it, and
trouble ensues. About a year ago Scutari was in a state of siege, and
closed to trade for a fortnight.[3]

The consular quarter of the town is really quite fine, and here all
the rich merchants, of whom there are very many, live in large houses
often beautifully fitted up and surrounded by a formidable wall. A
street where such houses are situated is externally very gloomy,
nothing to be seen but high walls pierced by massive gates. Behind
those walls, however, are lovely gardens and imposing houses.

[Footnote 3: This has again happened since writing the above.]

The consulates are very much in evidence, with guards of
splendid-looking Albanian kavasses. Politically only Austria and Italy
are vitally interested in Albania, and these countries have large
consular staffs and fine buildings and post offices.

Owing to the absence of the British Consul, we went to see the acting
Vice-Consul, who is a Scutarine, and a very courteous gentleman. Like
all the rich merchants of Scutari, he spoke Italian fluently, and
through him we got an insight into the merchant houses. An extremely
aged kavass, in the long white skirt or kirtle worn largely in
Scutari, and with the British Arms emblazoned on his fez, respectfully
kissed our hands, and we were told that he had been in English service
for over forty years. But he could not speak a word of any language
except Albanian.

The Vice-Consul placed another kavass at our disposal to accompany us
on our explorations of the town, and gave him further permission to
attend us on our proposed ride to Podgorica. This latter idea we were
forced to give up ultimately, as the roads were considered too
dangerous. As a matter of fact, a big shooting affray took place in
the district through which we should have traversed a few days
afterwards.

Quite one of the sights is Mr. Paget's house (of Paget's Horse fame),
situated in the heart of the town. The clock tower affords a fine
view, though the time that it keeps is startling to the new-comer. As
is known, the Turks have a time of their own, which has a difference
of four hours and a half to our time. It is misleading to get up at
an early hour, say six o'clock, and find that it is already half-past
ten. And again you feel you ought to be sleeping at one o'clock at
night, till you remember that it is really only about eight o'clock.

In the bazaar of Scutari representatives of every clan in Albania can
be seen, and each tribe has his distinctive dress, so that the variety
of national costumes to be seen there can be imagined. The Scutarines
are of course very much in evidence, clad in a jaunty sleeveless and
magnificently-embroidered jacket, silk shirt, and enormous baggy
breeches of black, and heavily pleated. How heavily pleated they are
can be gathered when twenty to twenty-five yards of a kind of black
alpaca are used for one pair of knee-breeches. White stockings and a
red skull-cap--not the high Turkish fez--with a huge blue silk tassel
reaching to the waist, complete the attire. Their women-folk look
picturesque in a large scarlet cloak, with a hood half covering the
face.

The student of Albanian costumes can make a complete study of the
subject in Scutari, rendering a journey into the vast country beyond
almost unnecessary.

We always took a camera with us, but with very poor results. It is
against the Mahometan religion to be photographed, neither are
photographers looked upon with pleasure. We did once plant our camera
in the main street of the bazaar, to the great anger of a policeman
who ordered us off, luckily after we had secured a picture.

When we were quite new to Scutari, it happened we were waiting for a
boat to take us off to the steamer, when we were struck with a
particularly fine old Scutariner in red fez and long flowing skirt.
Through the medium of an interpreter, I politely asked the permission
to take his picture. He solemnly nodded his head backwards, and I,
rejoiced at so good a subject, hurriedly erected the stand. When I
next glanced at him, his face was purple with rage, and he made a
threatening movement. For a moment I was quite at a loss to understand
the why and wherefore, until our interpreter hastily explained that it
was against the old man's religion.

"But he said 'yes,'" I expostulated. "At least he nodded."

"That means 'no,'" said the interpreter.

"What does?" I demanded. "Saying 'yes,' or nodding it."

Then the man explained to me at some length, as I repacked my camera,
that in the Orient to shake the head means "yes," and a nod--a quick
elevation of the chin accompanied by a click of the tongue--is
negative. This custom is largely adopted in Montenegro, particularly
amongst the peasants, but even then we never quite knew if a shake of
the head was meant in the Turkish or European sense. It is a
confusing and irritating habit, and takes months to get accustomed to.

Visitors to Montenegro usually spend a day in Scutari, for the route
by steamer is the only perfectly safe way of entering the town.
Passengers by the steamer are not required to have their passports
vised, if they state their intention to the official, who promptly
boards the steamer on its arrival, to return by it next day. But names
and particulars are carefully noted and laid before the Governor.
During this particular visit, we were already well known to the
Turkish officer in charge of this department, a pleasant little
fellow, inordinately proud of his French which he had just learnt; but
still he worried us greatly, calling daily and even sending obvious
spies to find out how long we really meant to stay and our object. We
tried to impress upon him that we had no base intentions on the town,
and were really quite harmless individuals, but he remained friendlily
suspicious till he bade farewell to us on board the little steamer
_Danitza_.

It is about four hours to Plavnica, and the trip across the lake is
very fine, surrounded as it is by magnificent mountains and dotted
with tiny wooded islands along its northern bank. We did not disembark
at Plavnica, the nearest point for Podgorica, but proceeded _via_
Virpazar up the river to Rijeka, the final station of the steamer and
connecting link with Cetinje. The voyage up to Rijeka is delightful,
as the boat threads her way through a narrow channel between lofty
green hills. It is a picture of as true sylvan beauty, peace and
quiet, as can be found on many of the upper reaches of the Thames.

At Rijeka we waited in an inn for the carriage, which we had ordered
by telegraph from Cetinje to take us back to Podgorica, and were
startled to hear a revolver-shot fired in the village. Everyone was
running excitedly to a certain small "dugan," or shop, and thither we
also directed our steps and found a bleeding Montenegrin standing over
a prostrate and insensible Turk.

What had happened was as follows. The Montenegrin had bought some
tobacco from the Turk, and claimed to have been given two kreutzers
(under a halfpenny) short in change, whereupon the Turk accused the
other of having hidden it.

"Thou art a liar!" promptly cried the Montenegrin, and received a
bullet in the thigh as an answer from the enraged Turk. Not seriously
hurt, the Montenegrin, equally quickly, drew his revolver and, using
it as a club, knocked the Turk insensible; in fact, he was thought to
be dead. However, we afterwards heard that he had recovered.

Shortly afterwards we were spending a few days in Cetinje, and were
again witnesses of the final act of another small drama which was
enacted about this time.

One morning we saw about twenty Montenegrins brought into the town
heavily chained, and on inquiry we were told the following story.

A young man, whom we will call Andreas to prevent confusion, had been
for some time in Austria, and not finding work he returned to his
village, named Ljubotin, half-way between Rijeka and Cetinje, or, to
be more correct, just below the Bella Vista in the hollow. He arrived
in the night, penniless and in a desperate condition, and waited
outside his widowed mother's house till he saw that all the men, his
relations, had left and gone to work in the fields. Entering the house
he demanded money of his aged mother, who indignantly refused him--he
seems to have been a bad lot altogether--and as he threatened to take
it by force, she hurriedly called in the village kmet, or mayor, to
protect her. But the kmet was also aged and infirm, and brought a
young man with him. This young man remonstrated with Andreas, who was
breaking open the chest, and said--

"Give me thy revolver."

"Thus I give it thee," answered Andreas, and drawing his revolver he
shot the man dead.

Andreas then fled out of the house into the fields, and the murdered
man's relations speedily gathered together and pursued him. They
espied the fugitive running and fired at him, whereupon Andreas threw
up his arms and fell to the ground. His pursuers thinking him dead,
left him. Andreas was in reality shamming, and crawling through the
bushes saw his uncle at work and promptly fired at _him_.

This time he met his deserts, for his uncle, unhurt, returned the
compliment and shot him through the head.

These shots brought the original pursuers to the spot, and seeing
Andreas dead, and shot by his uncle and not by them, they began
abusing the old man for taking their lawful prey from them.

He bared his chest dramatically, saying that as he knew that the
vendetta must continue, they should shoot him then and there and end
the matter. But they would not, and going further found another
relation of Andreas; this time a young man, and the pride of the
family. They shot and wounded him slightly. He fired and mortally
wounded one of his attackers, which was as far as they got.

The gendarmes had come and arrested them all, and these were the men
of both sides, which we had seen that morning.

As we knew several of them personally, we were doubly interested.




CHAPTER XI

Preparations for our tour in the Brda--We start--Where it is not good
to be giddy--A trying ride--Our inn--Nocturnal episodes--The journey
continued--Pleasant surroundings--The Montenegrin _quart
d'heure_--Arrival in Kolasin--We meet the Governor--Visiting--The Band
of Good Hope--The Crown Prince's birthday--We are ashamed.


The preparations for our tour through the mountainous districts of
North-East Montenegro, known as the Brda, took a few days.

We had some difficulty about horses, though ultimately P. and I
secured two good animals for ourselves, but the third, destined for
the bulk of our baggage and Stephan, was a dilapidated apology for the
equine race. As a matter of fact, it stood the trying journey in a
remarkable manner.

Then there were a few pots and pans for cooking purposes to purchase,
some necessary additions with which to supplement our humble fare, and
two days' rations of meat and bread.

It made a formidable pile when we reviewed it one morning at daybreak,
though we had cut down our baggage as close as possible. It took
Stephan about an hour to load up, and when he had finished, he had
left no room on top for himself.

We carried ourselves each a carbine, revolver, and bandolier of
cartridges, and a pair of saddlebags; but what with a camera, camping
utensils, guns and cartridges, sleeping-coats, etc., the pack-horse
was full up. However, there was no help for it, and Stephan had to
walk the first day.

We left Podgorica about 6.30, accompanied by Dr. S., who came with us
partly on business and partly out of friendship. As he knew the
country perfectly, he did much to render our tour more interesting.

The mountains ascend abruptly, and our path was for some hours along
the turbulent Moraca, which we met at the end of the plain. In five
minutes we were surrounded by mountain scenery. Some little way up the
valley a bridge is in the course of construction across the stream,
and will form part of the projected road from Podgorica to Kolasin. On
its completion, we were told, it would be the highest bridge in the
Balkans. Men were working on a loose and steeply sloping bank of
crumbling earth a few feet above a precipitous rock, which overhangs
the Moraca, at a height of two hundred and fifty feet.

"They very rarely fall," said Dr. S. in answer to our unspoken
question.

It made us giddy and sick to watch them. But our own position was
often not much safer. The path see-sawed up and down; one moment we
were splashed by the spray of a waterfall as it dashed into a creamy
pool, and the next we were up on a dizzy height, with one foot hanging
over a precipice, gazing on the foam-flecked mill-race below. Verily,
it is no journey for a giddy man to take. A single false step on the
part of the horse would send both it and its rider to a sudden death.
With the ordinary mountain pony, for the horses are practically only
that, it is not necessary to guide it--in fact it might be dangerous.
The Montenegrin rides with a loose rein over the most ticklish ground,
only tightening his grip on descending a very steep hill to help his
horse when it occasionally stumbles.

Despite a slight nervousness, we were still able to appreciate to the
full the grand scenery of the valley of the Moraca. It turned out to
be quite as fine as anything we saw in the mountains.

About four hours after our start we crossed the stream by a wooden
bridge and dismounted at an inn. Stabling our horses in the ground
floor, we ascended to the upper regions where the human beings live,
and clamoured for food.

Raw ham and, of course, eggs were all that was to be had, and, as it
turned out, it was our only meal that day. The flies were terrible,
but Dr. S. comforted us, saying that every hour would bring us to
higher regions and consequently fewer flies. A prophecy which was only
partially fulfilled.

We made the best of our repast, and after an hour's rest we made
another start. We left the river now, and seemed to climb a breakneck
hill for interminable hours. The region was barren and absolutely
waterless, while the heat was tremendous. I only remember one view
during that broiling ride. We had reached a great altitude, and were
crossing a narrow ridge. On one side was the Moraca, and on the other
the Mala, both streams mere threads in the hazy distance.

It was the want of water that tried us more than anything. About
midday we halted for a while at a small village, and under the
refreshing shade of a large tree. Some young men kindly fetched us a
little water in a dirty vessel, which tasted abominably.

Another long climb and we at last found shade, and rode for the rest
of the afternoon through beech forests. If the path had been bad
before, it was worse now, and it was a perfect marvel how the horses
kept their feet. I was somewhat unfortunate in my horse Alat, who was
blind in one eye, so that I always had to guide him over difficult
places. This kept me for ever on the alert, and became trying. At
every hut we pulled up and asked for milk, but invariably got "Nema"
(I have none) for an answer. The Montenegrins are singularly laconic
at times.

Now began a long descent, so atrocious that we had to dismount and
climb down on foot, leaving the horses to pick their way as best they
could, and about seven p.m. we reached the house where we were to
spend the night. It consisted of two rooms, a kitchen and a bedroom,
the sole furniture of the latter consisting of two wooden bedsteads.

There was no food, except a half lamb, which Stephan had brought on
the pack-horse, and its condition was unpleasant from its many hours'
exposure to the sun and attendant flies. It took over an hour to cook,
and by that time our ravenous hunger had passed, stilled by a few
quarts of delicious milk. The inn--for such was the character of the
house--unlike similar institutions of more civilised lands, had
neither accommodation for man nor beast. There was no hay for our
hungry horses, who had to wait for two hours while a man took an
hour's climb up a mountain to the next village and brought back a load
of 45 kilos (100 lbs.) on his back. A little thought can be given to
this fact. Suffice it to say that this lean and athletic man took off
his shirt and literally wrung the sweat from it. This, too, at the end
of a long day's work. Part of the hay served for our beds, and little
enough it seemed too.

P. and I were given the two beds, or rather we were forced to take
them, and I turned in at once, after looking at the mutton broth, and
fell asleep immediately. In the night I was awakened by a child crying
in the room, and in the dim light I was startled to see the
floor--empty when I went to bed--strewn with sleeping figures.

A heap that I rightly guessed was the doctor, moved uneasily.

"Doctor," I said softly, "are you awake?"

"Yes," came the answer. "A small child has evidently mistaken me for
its father or mother. Will you have it?"

I feigned sleep.

Other figures were snoring peacefully and emphatically, but the tiny
inmates of my hay bed were painfully awake and sleep seemed banished.
However, I must have slept again, for when I awoke the room was empty,
except for Stephan, who was packing up. We had a wash in the stream
and made a hurried breakfast, and were off by a fairly early hour.
Stephan had found a horse, which must have come as a blessing to him.
He had walked yesterday about thirty miles. The path was much better
to-day, and we were enabled to make better pace. At a small village
named Lijeva Rijeka we made a long halt to allow the doctor to
transact some official business. We ate up what meat we had left, and
had great fun with the village big-wigs.

Strangers are beings of rare occurrence in the mountains, and we
always came in for much "courteous curiosity." Dr. S. and Stephan
enjoyed answering inquiries as to who we were immensely. One time we
were engineers making plans for the new road; another time we were
enterprising merchants about to open up the country; and once a man
remarked, when he was told that I was the British Minister, "And wears
patched trousers?" He referred to the knee pads of my riding-breeches.

Our arms, as was only natural to this fighting race, attracted great
interest. The carbines, of the Austrian Mannlicher system, invariably
went the round to a chorus of delighted appreciation. Likewise our
field-glasses, through which they would look for hours.

Shortly after leaving this village we had a fortunately short but
exceedingly steep hill to climb, which brought us on to a magnificent
plateau of rich green grass, carpeted with wild flowers. From this
point onwards the scenery changed completely. We were in the Alpine
regions. It was very beautiful, the trees covered every hill with a
mass of green foliage, and every here and there a snow-capped mountain
peak would appear. Not only was the scenery different, but the
dwellings of the peasants took quite another style of architecture;
conical thatched roofs of a height out of all proportion to the size
of the house, and a massive verandah or loggia built into the house,
The inhabitants are snowed up for many months every year, and have to
lay in great stores of food. But how delightful it must be here in
winter! What an opportunity for snow-shoeing! The peasants can do the
journey to Podgorica in about half the time on their primitive
snow-shoes.

The ride from here to Kolasin was nearly perfection. We skirted
rushing mountain torrents, through woodland glades and soft green
swards; the air was glorious and cool, for though the sun was powerful
there was an abundance of shade. One drawback, however, a drawback
sufficient to mar our happiness, was not denied us. Every mile or so
we had to plunge through a quagmire, equal to the worst South African
mudhole, which is saying a great deal. Much care had to be exercised
to prevent the horses getting fairly bogged or breaking their legs,
but all passed without an accident, though our condition at the end of
the day was awful. We were bespattered from head to foot.

Several halts at hans were made during the day for rest, food, and
milk, and about three p.m. we struck the River Tara, and had crossed
the water-shed of the Adria and the Black Sea. We followed the Tara
till Kolasin, where we arrived about seven o'clock.

Montenegrins have no idea of judging time and distance, which is
curious. There is another favourite way of describing a distance: by
cigar (cigarette) smoking. You will be informed that the distance is
one cigarette, which means that the traveller has time to smoke one
cigarette on the way. As an ordinary smoker consumes a cigarette in
about ten minutes, the distance would seem small, but it is not so. It
is better to reckon two hours. Quarters of hours and cigarette-smoking
measurements take a lot of learning, and cause much vexation to the
spirit before they are mastered. When the stranger has mastered them,
he ceases to ask, and patiently waits. One word of warning to
intending travellers. If you are told that the next village is _two_
hours away, then rest awhile and eat and drink, for two hours means
"X."

About seven p.m. we clattered up the little street of Kolasin, which
is the capital of the same-named district.

It is a beautiful mountainous tract of country, as unlike to
Montenegro proper as is the sun to the moon, richly wooded with dense
primeval beech forests, full of rushing streams and rich pasturages.
The little town itself is rather uninteresting; it has about 1,500
inhabitants, all Montenegrin, for the Turk has almost entirely
disappeared. Only in a ruined mosque and one or two dilapidated
Turkish houses is the traveller reminded that once the Unspeakable was
master here. The houses are all built with the afore-mentioned high
conical roof and of substantial aspect.

Our inn was a curiosity, and as we drew rein before it we noticed a
crowd of men in the balcony of the first or top floor, for here the
ground floor was devoted to stabling. Doctor S. hastily whispered that
the Governor and General of Kolasin was one of the men upstairs. On
going up the rickety stairs, we were at once introduced to him, and
received most friendlily. He was a small wiry man, and reminded one
strongly in appearance of Lord Roberts. Also, he spoke excellent
German, having studied years ago in the Viennese Military Academy.
Very kindly he promised to assist us during our stay in every way, and
invited us to his house next morning.

We overlooked the Market Square and had real beds, though the only
available room was tiny. Dr. S. and Stephan slept somewhere else.
After the heat of the valley, we found the air very keen up here;
Kolasin lies over 3,000 feet, and is the highest town of any size in
Montenegro.

On the following morning we visited the Governor Martinovic formally
in his house. It is only recently that he has ceased to be the
Artillery General of Montenegro, a post which he held all through the
Turkish war, taking part in all the important engagements.

His ambition is to see the road connecting his district with Podgorica
finished, which would bring the two towns within a six hours' drive
of each other, instead of the present two days' very hard riding. The
benefit to Kolasin is obvious. At present the vast beech forests,
literally rotting, could be utilised, for wood is dear in the barren
districts of Montenegro. Pyrite, too, is found in great quantities. In
fact, Kolasin is cut off from the rest of the country. Everything must
be painfully carried on horses or mules, and for a woman, other than a
peasant, it is a journey of great difficulty. Side saddles are things
unknown, and we heard of one lady, the wife of a foreign minister, who
bravely undertook the journey, spending six days on the way from
Podgorica. The Governor gave us a graphic description of the
difficulties that he had experienced when he brought his family up
here.

We also visited the local doctor, a most extraordinary individual with
a crank. He had started a Montenegrin temperance society, called the
"Band of Good Hope." At present, I believe, the three hundred odd
members were all from Kolasin, and it was meeting with very little
encouragement. The cultivation of plums for the manufacture of spirits
is a staple industry, and these peasants wish to know what they shall
do with their fruit. Besides, as the Montenegrins very rarely get
drunk, it seems rather an unnecessary movement, and the Prince himself
does not favour it.

Bismarck once said that England's greatness began to diminish when the
"three-bottle man" died out; perhaps Prince Nicolas has like thoughts
of his hardy subjects, who certainly can consume enormous quantities
of alcohol with impunity. Besides, it would destroy a large source of
the revenue, which Montenegro cannot afford to do. In the meantime the
gallant three hundred feel very unhappy.

The few days that we spent in Kolasin were passed pleasantly in daily
excursions into the surrounding country shooting, though with
indifferent results. The Crown Prince Danilo's birthday came one day
during our stay, and Governor, staff, and officials went to church
attired in glorious raiment. They literally sparkle in gold lace
embroidery, orders, and decorations, and for a gorgeous but absolutely
tasteful effect commend me to the gala dress of the Montenegrin high
official. It is the most artistic blending of gold, crimson, blue, and
white.

After the service spirits were served out free on the market-place
(what agonies must the three hundred have suffered!), and a dance was
formed. The national dance--in this instance the "kolo"--is usually
performed by men, though the women do sometimes join in, and it is a
slow and stately measure.

[Illustration: THE KOLASIN MARKET PLACE]

[Illustration: THE KOLO]

The men place their hands on each other's shoulders and form a
ring, which, however, is never completed. New men can join in, but a
space is always left open. One step is taken sideways to the left, and
then three to the right, and the movement is accompanied by singing.
The singers are three or four men on the opposite horns of the circle,
who alternately chant verses in honour of the Prince.

The ring of men slowly danced their way from the Market Square to the
Governor's house, where more spirits were given, and an accordion
player joined the ring.

Loud cries of "Zivio!" followed the cessation of every movement. We
followed and went in to the Governor, to offer our congratulations and
drink His Royal Highness's health. The room was quite full, two or
three men being rough peasants, relations of the Governor. There is
very little class distinction in Montenegro. Often the humblest
peasant can claim relationship with the Voivoda, or Duke, of the
province, and will always be cordially received.

We felt quite ashamed of our appearance--leather coats, collarless
shirts, and so forth--amongst such rich costumes. The complete outfit
of a Montenegrin dandy costs over forty pounds, and takes a bit of
beating.

Carefully tucking our rough riding-boots under our chairs, to avoid
marking the contrast with our host's resplendent jack-boots of
patent-leather, and buttoning up our coat collars, we endeavoured to
make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible in this brilliant
assembly. But in spite of our tramp-like garb, we were always highly
honoured guests.




CHAPTER XII

Montenegro's oldest building--The ride to the Moraca Monastery--A
perilous bridge and ascent--The Abbot's tale--We inspect the
monastery--The health of the King is drunk--The relative merits of
Boers and Montenegrins--The Abbot makes us presents--We visit a
peasant's house and a Homeric feast--A feu-de-joie--Departure from
Kolasin--We are mistaken for doctors again--Raskrsnica.


In Montenegro there are, strangely enough, with one famous exception,
no buildings of any great antiquity. This, however, can be easily
accounted for by the repeated invasions of the Turks, who ravaged the
land with a merciless fury. Montenegro was the only Balkan state which
they were unable to bring to obedience, and the struggle, which began
after the battle of Kossovo, has, perhaps, not reached its final stage
yet, though other enemies have supplanted the Turk.

Far away in the heart of the mountains, and perched on the top of a
high cliff, at whose feet the turbulent mountain torrent Moraca races
past, there is situated a monastery, which takes its name from the
river below.

This monastery is the only building that has escaped the scourge of
the Turk, and, though often attacked, only once has it been partially
burnt. Like its famous sister at Ostrog, it is constructed in a
position where Nature has provided the best means of defence, and
this the hand of man has skilfully utilised and improved. It was
founded in the year 1252 by one of the sons of the famous Servian
king, Stephan Nemanja, and dedicated to S. Nicholas. Right well has
the saint watched over and protected his feof.

During our stay at Ostrog the Archbishop of Montenegro impressed upon
us most strongly the necessity of visiting Moraca before leaving the
country. He himself had lived there many years as the Archimandrite,
and was besieged by the Turks during his sojourn within its walls.

So, accompanied by a guide, with whom the Governor of Kolasin had
provided us, we made an early start one morning for the monastery. We
had a perfect ride through dense beech forests, skirting a noisy
little stream, of which we were able to obtain a glimpse every now and
then through a break in the trees. On either side of the ravine the
hills rose steeply to some height. We soon passed a lonely cross in a
small clearing, erected to the memory of five Montenegrins who had
been surprised and murdered there by the Turks.

It is always so in Montenegro, when the traveller is filled with a
sense of peace at the grandeur of the wild mountainous scenery, or the
beauty of a sylvan forest glade, a rough cross, or cairn of stones,
will be pointed out where men have met a sudden and violent death.

[Illustration: A TYPICAL ROAD]

Once, as our path led up a steep incline, our guide told us
graphically how that, a few weeks ago, both a horse and its rider had
fallen down the one hundred feet into the river below. The path was
very narrow, and he strongly advised us in passing to take care, which
remark seemed slightly superfluous after the vivid description with
which he had just favoured us.

Crossing the stream we dismounted, and climbed to a small grassy
plateau on which a church is being built for the shepherds of the
district. It commanded a beautiful view. The path now ascended to a
great height, and much walking had to be done, for a ridge of hills
lay between us and our destination. At the top the valley of the
Moraca could be seen with a magnificent background of rugged
mountains. A breakneck descent of two and a half hours, most of it on
foot, brought us to the river, which was crossed by a picturesque and
broken-down bridge. On a cliff opposite stood the monastery.

While leading my horse over the bridge I chanced to rest for a moment
on the central arch to enjoy the view. The guide, who was behind me,
thrust me unceremoniously forward. It is not always safe to admire
scenery from Montenegrin bridges. Certainly, on inspecting the bridge
from below, he seemed to have shown no unnecessary caution. Two of
the arches had completely given, and may collapse at any moment.

A very steep and dangerous path leads up to the plateau on which the
monastery is situated. It was nearly the cause of a serious accident
to me, for my saddle gave, and began to slip backwards. Had the horse
made one false step at this critical moment I should have been dashed
over a precipice of eighty feet. Just before the gates stands a small
inn, where we left our horses and proceeded on foot.

The monastery strongly resembles a fortress, for the massive walls
surrounding it are liberally loop-holed, and it can be entered from
one side only. We entered a large courtyard with buildings on all
sides. At the back a great mountain ascends obliquely, and in front an
inaccessible precipice descends to the river. It was doubtless a tough
morsel for the Turks in the olden days, though modern artillery would
make very short work of it.

The Archimandrite, or Abbot, soon came down and welcomed us most
cordially, conducting us to his room, where we were regaled with the
inevitable strong black coffee. He was a big, handsome man, with the
long beard and hair which all the priests of the Greek Church wear.
Quiet and benevolent as he looked, he is famed throughout the whole
country as a mighty warrior; for in times of war the priests fight
with the soldiers for their beloved freedom. Strangely enough, in
the last war with Turkey he played an important role in saving the
very monastery of which he is now the spiritual head. He was then a
colonel, and commanded a battalion. The following story of the rout of
the Turks is taken down from his own lips.

[Illustration: THE MORACA MONASTERY]

In those years (1876-7) all this district was in the hands of the
Sultan, and the Turks had just made an unsuccessful attack upon the
Monastery of Ostrog. Their army, under the command of the famous
Mehmet Ali Pasha, was retreating on Kolasin, pursued by the
Montenegrins. On reaching the Monastery of Moraca they halted with the
intention of first destroying it, and Mehmet Ali placed a battery in a
commanding position on the opposite heights for the bombardment.

Unknown to the Turks, half a battalion of Montenegrins were stationed
there as garrison, and the Pasha, thinking that he had but a handful
of priests to deal with, sent down a small detachment to effect an
entrance. The gate was opened, and they were enticed inside. Hardly
had the last man set his foot within the courtyard when the
Montenegrins fell upon them and beheaded them every one.

The Turks, deeming all safe, sent a second detachment to assist in
bringing out the booty, and they met with a similar fate. Then Mehmet
began to suspect that something was wrong, and made preparations for
a bombardment; but it was too late. A brigade of pursuing Montenegrins
had come up. They fell upon him from flank and rear, and a horrid
slaughter ensued.

It must be confessed that the account seems incredible, and is,
doubtless innocently enough, greatly exaggerated. But the worthy Abbot
distinctly stated that out of 25,000 Turks only 2,000 or 3,000
escaped. It was indeed "a terrible tale of a Turk that is ghastly and
grim and gory." The Montenegrins were but men 1,800 strong, just three
battalions, one of which was commanded by Michael Dozic, the Abbot,
and his battalion it was that took the Turks in the rear, throwing
them into utter confusion.

To-day the peasants still find heaps of bones in the crevices and
hollows of the rocks.

After this very pleasant story, we descended into the courtyard, which
is formed in a semicircle. In the centre stands the church. It is
built in the shape of a cross, and its porch and interior are
gorgeously adorned with the most quaint frescoes; indeed, every
particle of the walls and ceiling is covered with frescoes of the most
crude design and vivid colouring, and the altar-screen is
magnificently gilded. The colours are well preserved, and seem as
fresh as when the monks first laid them on, for the painting all dates
back to the time of the foundation.

It was somewhat horrifying to find that the frescoes behind the
altar-screen were completely scribbled over. At first we put this down
to impious tourists who delight in leaving their miserable names on
the most historical buildings; but, on closer inspection, we found
that they were copious notes in the form of a diary. The Abbot told us
that Mitrofan Ban, the Archbishop, had written them during his lengthy
abbacy many years ago.

There is another church, or rather tiny chapel, within the monastery
which is about a century older than the rest of the buildings, and the
interior is likewise covered with frescoes of the same crude and vivid
painting. They represent scenes from the life of S. Nicholas, and the
chapel is only used once a year during the pilgrimage which takes
place on the feast of their patron saint.

Every year large numbers of Montenegrins flock to the monastery to
offer prayers and offerings. Just outside the walls stands a small
cannon, with a Turkish inscription, which four Montenegrins carried
away one night from Kolasin when that town was in Turkish hands. Not
only the bravado of such a deed, but the athletic feat of carrying
such a weighty object over that difficult country, are very
characteristic of this people. It is fired annually during the feast
of S. Nicholas.

The worthy Abbot was greatly annoyed to find that we had ordered food
below, and still more when he heard that we were returning to Kolasin
the same afternoon. He repeatedly urged us to spend a few days with
him, but, enjoyable as the visit would have been, previous engagements
forbade our acceptance.

A second priest waylaid us as we were leaving for our meal, and
carried us off to his room, where more coffee was served. He had
travelled much in Turkey and the Black Sea, and we had a very pleasant
conversation, but, after a short time, the pangs of hunger forced us
to excuse ourselves. Our humble meal, which we partook of in the best
chamber (and only bedroom), was hardly over when the young priest
again rejoined us, bringing with him an enormous bottle of wine. Very
solemnly he filled our glasses, and proposed the health of His Majesty
King Edward VII. Our surprise was so great that we almost forgot to
drink. And then came many questions as to the progress of the Boer
war, questions with which, by the way, we were often assailed by the
more intelligent classes during our travels.

To quote an instance which happened to myself once in Cetinje. While
waiting outside the monastery for the appearance of the Prince, who
was attending divine service within, I entered into conversation with
a gendarme. We spoke of many things, and to my surprise, for he was
but an ignorant peasant, he inquired as to the progress of the war.
He asked the nature of the country, on which subject I was luckily
able to enlighten him. Parts of it are not at all unlike Montenegro.
At this he pricked up his ears.

"Thou hast been to the Transvaal?" he asked with increased interest.
"Are the people brave like we are?"

"They are brave," I said, "but not as ye are. They only shoot at long
distances, and object very strongly to hand-to-hand fighting."

The stalwart Montenegrin looked puzzled.

"Shooting is good," he answered; and after a pause he added, "at
_first_, but that is not fighting. It is an empty glory to shoot one's
enemy, if one cannot prove it afterwards." I knew he was alluding to
the decapitating process. "And then the wild charge, the cutting with
the handjar when rifles are thrown away--_that_ is fighting."

I explained that our soldiers loved the bayonet as much as the
Montenegrin loved the handjar.

"But what can you do when the other side won't wait for it?" I asked.

"Then they are cowards," he answered judicially. "Are thy countrymen
all as big as thou art?" he continued thoughtfully, feeling my biceps
and scrutinising me closely.

"Some of them are bigger," I said.

"Then the Boers will have no chance," he said emphatically, and at
this moment the Prince emerged from the church. This personal allusion
to my size I took as a great compliment, for in a land where physical
strength is an all-important factor candid appreciation of this kind
is not meted out to one and all alike.

Extremely fatigued after our early start and long ride, it was an
effort to keep from falling asleep, and noticing this the priest left.
We were both comfortably asleep in corners when the wretched landlord
appeared with armfuls of sheets and pillows at the order of the
priest. He cruelly woke us up and proceeded to make beds. After that
all thought of sleep was gone. Furthermore, in dirty and dusty
riding-clothes one has not the heart to lie down on spotlessly clean
sheets.

Soon afterwards the horses were ready, and we cantered up to the
monastery to take our leave. But leave-taking was no such easy matter.
Our pockets were filled with dried fruits, and after we were already
in the saddle the Abbot presented us with packets of incense which he
hurriedly fetched from the church. Waving him and the other fathers a
last farewell, we started on our long ride back to Kolasin.

During our rambles in Kolasin the doctor took us to a peasant's house
whom he knew very well. This acquaintance proved one of our most
pleasant recollections of the country. The head of the house was a
fine-looking man, lean and active, and possessed many decorations for
past acts of bravery in the field. His son was in prison at the time
for some political offence, but his daughter-in-law and two little
babies, besides two or three unmarried daughters and sons, were living
with him. The whole family outdid themselves in courtesy to us, and we
were, as usual, considerably embarrassed by the behaviour of the
women-folk. Though we went several times to the house, they would
rarely seat themselves while we were present, and invariably kissed
our hands in coming and going.

The doctor played games of cards with our host, but the united efforts
of P. and myself failed to discover any method or system in the game.
The doctor tried to explain at first, but after five minutes we begged
him to desist. So we sat and looked on, drinking cups of black coffee
and endeavouring to make friendly overtures to the babies, who openly
showed that they considered us distinctly dangerous.

The house itself was curious. The ceiling was low and the walls were
of great thickness. The windows were so small that it was barely
possible to squeeze one's head through the opening. The idea of the
house is to obtain the maximum amount of warmth, for the cold of these
mountainous regions is intense in winter. In summer, however, these
houses are delightfully cool.

The evening before our departure from Kolasin we were invited to an
open-air feast at the peasant's country house.

The "country house" was, it is true, only a rough wooden shanty, but,
as our meal was outside, it didn't matter.

When we arrived, after an hour's walk, we found a table set out with a
white cloth and three wooden chairs on a green slope overlooking the
valley of Kolasin. It was a delightful spot. Some little distance away
the last few turns were being given to a lamb roasted whole on a spit
over an open fire.

The feast was soon served up. The entire lamb, on a great wooden
platter, an enormous bowl of milk, eggs, sheeps' cheese, and unlimited
spirits. The women-folk waited on us and kept our platters full. Other
men with their wives joined us, not to partake of this Homeric feast,
but to see us gorge ourselves. It may not be a nice expression, but we
were literally forced to eat to an uncomfortable state of repletion.
They took no denial, and even then the lamb was not nearly finished.
These mountaineers eat meat only on great festivals, and consume
enough to last them for the next few months. They did not realise that
we were content with sufficient to last us for the next few hours.

Our glasses, too, were kept replenished with the potent spirit of the
land, and our respective healths were drunk, on the average, once
every three minutes. When this began to pall they toasted each other,
in which we had naturally to join, and these were followed by
patriotic toasts. It was rather an uproarious evening.

About ten we took our leave, and our hosts drew their pocket cannons
and started firing; we naturally replied, and a deafening fusillade
went on till every man had emptied his revolver. With singing ears we
returned to our hotel to find the town alarmed, excited groups were
congregated in the Market Square. Our _feu-de-joie_ was speedily
explained, and the men flocked into the inn. As a slight return for
the fright we had given them, we paid for a few quarts of spirits. The
Governor overlooked our law-breaking, for after dark firing is not
allowed, and no doubt he envied us in his heart, for, poor man, he is
in the clutches of the Band of Good Hope, much, we heard, to his
disgust.

We left next day, and had a hearty send-off from the town, who turned
out _en masse_ to witness our departure. The local doctor was not
present. We had found no favour in his eyes.

Shortly after leaving the town we passed the Montenegrin Militia, hard
at their weekly drill. No uniform is worn, every man coming in his
everyday clothes, bringing only his rifle. But they drill very well
and the discipline is excellent. A company was being dismissed as we
came up, and a large number accompanied us for a long way.

The ride was magnificent that afternoon. The way wound up and up, and
our last glimpse of Kolasin showed us the little town far away below
us.

The usual Montenegrin trick was again played successfully on us, the
"only two hours' ride" developing into a journey of six hours. But
to-day we did not murmur; it is only at the end of a long and trying
day that this style of humour is out of place.

For two hours our path threaded its way through dense beech forests.
At one spot P. and I had ridden on so far in advance of the others
that we dismounted and waited for them to come up. In the interval I
was assailed by a man with a bandaged head. Doctors always wear
European clothes in Montenegro, and without further inquiry, this man
proceeded to sit down before me and remove his bandages, disclosing
ultimately a ghastly eye.

"What must I do for it, Gospodin Doctor?" he asked at length, for
beyond the usual greeting he had not spoken. One glance was
sufficient, and P. got up and left us.

"Take it away!" I said, with averted face. "I am not a doctor, and
never shall be."

I felt him looking at me with his uninjured eye. These simple
peasants are always under the impression that our modern education
comprises that of medicine.

"But, Gospodin, it has been like this for weeks," he went on, "and is
very painful."

"There is a doctor at Kolasin. Go to him. _He_ will be pleased."

Evidently much hurt at my indifference, he slowly replaced his
bandages and departed. Then our party caught us up, and we continued
our way.

Later on we emerged from the woods, and, still climbing, we rode for
the remaining distance on magnificent grassy slopes far above the
forest belt. Several snow-patches still lay unmelted in the shady
hollows, and often far below us. From this ridge we obtained our first
good view of the lofty Kom, the second highest mountain in Montenegro,
and our ultimate destination.

These great downs, across which we rode, had been only thrown open to
the public, so to say, a few days ago, and were full of flocks of
sheep and goats and large herds of cattle, grazing to their hearts'
content after their long winter's imprisonment in the villages below.
The Government fix the date when the shepherds may migrate into the
mountain pasturages and when they must leave again for the lowlands.

We overtook or met several parties of Montenegrins, and even Turks,
for the border is not far distant, travelling from place to place. We
were viewed with obvious interest, and invariably greeted with
respect, though there is nothing of subservience in a Montenegrin's
salute. He feels himself in no way your inferior as a man until you
have proved your superiority in shooting or physical strength.

In this part of the country Dr. S. always told the peasants that we
were engineers, as a road is being contemplated.

About seven p.m. we branched off from the main path, and descended on
foot a steep path into a thickly wooded valley. In a clearing of the
trees stood a collection of wooden huts, a summer village of
shepherds, called Raskrsnica.

It was our halting-place, and as our visit had been notified, we were
received by a schoolmaster and taken to his hut, which was placed at
our disposal.

No schools are held during the summer months, and the teachers often
turn shepherds, as in this case, and migrate with their flocks to the
mountains.




CHAPTER XIII

A typical mountain hut--Costume of the north-eastern borderers--Supper
and a song--We go out hunting, and cause excitement--The Feast of
Honour--We ride to Andrijevica--Andrijevica and our inn--The
Voivoda--We go to church--Turkish visitors--Alarums.

[Illustration: OUR HUT AT RASKRSNICA]


It was nearly dark by the time that we were unloaded and had got our
traps into our hut. As half our time was spent in similar
constructions during our mountain tour, it may be as well to describe
them now.

They are usually built entirely of wood, rough, irregularly hewn
planks, and no attempt is made to make them air-tight; often great
crevices gape, through which a hand can be put. The roof is generally
fairly water-tight. A man _can_ stand up-right in the middle, but the
roof slopes steeply down to the sides. The word "can" is used
advisedly, _i.e._ if one is able to breathe the densely smoky
atmosphere at the top. Chimneys or outlets in the roof to permit the
smoke to escape are unknown, and when cooking is going on, or at night
when a roaring fire is kept burning, the appearance of the hut from
outside gives a stranger the impression that it is on fire, and that
the flames must burst out at any moment. It leaks smoke at every
crevice.

Inside is an open space reserved for the wood fire, and a primitive
arrangement, often a chain suspended from the roof, for hanging the
cooking pot. A few blocks of wood serve as easy-chairs, beds there are
none, an armful of rushes or grass, which is usually damp, serving
their purpose. On entering, the new-comer will first cough violently,
then choke, and finally make a hurried exit to the fresh air.
Summoning courage and with a fresh supply of oxygen, he dashes into
the hut again, and throws himself on his heap of rushes. As the smoke
rises, the atmosphere on the ground is less dense, but the penetrating
smell of the burning wood is sufficiently strong to make his eyes pour
with water. These are first impressions; later on, he can even sit up,
and after a few days will be able to walk comparatively slowly in and
out of the hut.

Usually at the back is a small partition, behind which a rough shelf
can be found, laden with the day's milking and cheese. The whole
family sleep in the hut, no division separating the men from the
women. But the Montenegrin peasant sleeps in his clothes, so privacy
is considered unnecessary.

Dr. S. was here officially to inspect the flocks, and had an
appointment with the district captain. He was not there, and shortly
after our arrival a man turned up, delivering a message from the
captain, somewhat in the following fashion.

"Sir, it is my privilege to be the bearer of the captain's message.
The captain would have you know that he will do himself the honour to
meet you here to-morrow in the early morning."

The man stood smartly at the attention and saluted at the conclusion.

It is extraordinary the grandiloquent language which even the most
humble peasant will use, and he speaks with the polished ease of a
gentleman.

The baggy blue breeches and red jackets are not worn in these regions,
and are replaced by white woollen tight-fitting trousers and jackets,
bordered with black braid. In fact, the dress strongly resembles that
worn by the Albanians, except that the black braid is narrower and
less elaborate, and the national cap of Montenegro is carried instead
of the white head-cloth or fez. The costume is national, and has not
been altered to that of the Montenegrin proper, because it is
considered warmer. The first time that Prince Nicolas visited his new
subjects a man said to him in that characteristically familiar way in
which the Prince's subjects are wont to address him:--

"Gospodar" ("Lord," and the universal form of address for the reigning
Prince), "wilt thou not exchange thy blue breeches for our white
trousers. They would suit thee better."

The answer of the Prince is not recorded.

Stephan called us into our shanty when the evening meal was ready. Our
host wished to slaughter a lamb, but we deferred that till the morrow,
and we ate what we had brought with us. It was, barring the smoke, a
delightful experience, and its charm never diminished. That hour spent
before turning in, after supper, when the tobacco tins circulate, and
the shepherds crowd in from the neighbouring huts, made an impression
which it will not be easy to forget.

The fire, with its dancing flames and uneven light, shows up the ring
of men squatting round it. Everything beyond is shrouded in
impenetrable gloom, throwing out the wild picturesque figures, with
their bronzed and honest faces, in bold relief. The ruddy glare rounds
off all hard corners and softens every inharmonious line, flashing
fitfully here and there on a steel revolver barrel. The musical voices
rise and fall, and outside the stars are shining. All is peace and
calm.

That first evening a young shepherd, strikingly handsome, with
clean-cut features, went outside and sang a wild Albanian song in our
honour, his weird chanting echoing in the mountains. Then came a
crackling of pistol-shots from the near distance, a novel way of
applause. With very happy feelings we rolled ourselves in our great
coats and went to sleep.

Next morning we rose at five, and had a delightful wash in a stream of
icy-cold water. As usual, our ablutions caused much amusement. The
mountaineer contents himself with a ladle of water poured into his
hands. Very shortly afterwards the captain arrived. He insisted on
going out shooting with us, as well as the schoolmaster. We plunged
into the forest and were soon deep in the excitement of stalking.

P. was with the captain, and the schoolmaster and myself soon lost
them. Later on, I too lost my companion, and it being near our
advertised time for dining, I made my way back, which presented very
little difficulty. On coming in view of the clearing I was received
with shouts. Not being gifted with the Montenegrin skill at hearing
and talking at great distances I walked on, and was ultimately able to
distinguish the question as to where I had left P. I answered that I
had not seen him for hours, and passed on to our hut.

The excitement seemed to wax, and Dr. S. speedily enlightened me as to
the cause. Both the captain and the schoolmaster had returned, _i.e._
they had stood and talked from a hill about a mile away, saying that
P. was lost.

"Well," I said, "P. knows at what time we eat, and I have never known
him to be late for a meal yet. And it is in an hour's time."

"But the woods are dangerous. There are bears. The Albanian frontier
is not far away. He can lose himself for hours," were among the
remarks that I could hear.

"Considering that he has a magazine carbine and a revolver, I don't
think that we need be afraid. It is easy enough to find one's way
back, and P. will have the sense to watch the sun. He has been out
alone before in his life," I remarked, feeling rather irritated.

Then an old lady began abusing me for having deserted him, "and he so
young, a mere child," etc., until I fairly lost my temper.

"You must not take it amiss," explained the doctor, who knew me. "It
is only their love for you."

"Thanks," said I. "But that is enough. If that old lady doesn't stop
expressing her love for me shortly ----. Look here, doctor," I
continued, waxing wrath, "you stop her. You understand the more
talkative sex better than I do. I'll stop the men."

About ten minutes before dinner P. turned up, serenely unconscious of
the trouble, telling us how he had found a delightful shepherd, who
had carried him off to his shanty and feasted him on bread and milk,
but that he was still ravenously hungry. The incident did not close
here either. When P. heard of the anxiety caused by his absence he
took it as a personal insult to himself, and began abusing everyone
in his turn. But all the same, the people remained obdurate, and we
were never left alone, though they let us ramble whither we wished.

Our dinner that day was a kind of feast of honour to the captain. The
lamb was served, as usual, whole. Half a dozen men joined us besides
our party. The doctor, P., and I had knives and forks and a plate
apiece.

"Help yourself to all you want at the beginning," said the doctor
kindly. "Take as much as you think you can possibly stow away."

We were glad afterwards that we had followed the doctor's advice, for
when we had finished helping ourselves the men fell upon that lamb and
rent it limb from limb with their horny hands. Montenegrins have not
pretty table manners. Forks are superfluous, a hunting-knife will do
for the bread, and spoons are only used for fluids, when they dip in
the common bowl.

That evening we went out shooting in another direction, and were amply
rewarded for an exceeding tiring climb, although deer were not
abundant. In fact, the moment that the shepherds take possession of
the mountains, game nearly always disappears, returning with the peace
and solitariness of the autumn.

On the following day we left Raskrsnica at an early hour _en route_
for Andrijevica, which lies at a considerably lower altitude than
Kolasin. Consequently we had a lot of downhill work. We had another
magnificent view of the Kom on our way, but otherwise our ride of
about six hours was uneventful. Andrijevica is first seen from a great
height, and really looks quite close.

"Half an hour," said our guides, "will see us in the town."

The descent was of a breakneck description, and had to be done on
foot. The heat was tremendous, and, the way proving to be an hour and
a half, our tempers suffered. It was about noon when we rode into the
little town or village, for it is nothing more, though the capital of
the Vasovic district, Montenegro's most eastern and consequently most
dangerous possession. It borders on Gusinje, the wildest and fiercest
of Albania's clans.

The office of the Governor, or Voivoda, to give him his proper
Montenegrin title, corresponding to our word Duke, is therefore no
sinecure. His position calls for more diplomacy and acumen than any
other in the country. A false move, a thoughtless action or word could
plunge the tribes of Northern Albania and Montenegro in a fierce
warfare. But a few weeks after our departure, war very nearly did
break out at Mokra, over a dispute as to the rights of a small
grazing-ground, and was only averted at the last moment. Then
Andrijevica was full of troops, for 25,000 Albanians stood fully armed
on the border, and a pistol-shot would have started an invasion of
Montenegro.

[Illustration: ANDRIJEVICA]

The little township is prettily situated on a slight eminence at the
junction of the Lim and the Perusica, the former a tributary of the
Danube. It has a population of five hundred clad in the white Albanian
dress, and is celebrated, rightly or wrongly, for the beauty of its
women. Certainly our landlady was a pretty enough looking woman of
most refined manners. The men are very fine-looking fellows. The
country all round is magnificent.

Our inn was also the town bakery, and we had a nice large bedroom well
stocked with flies, and real beds, though in daytime it was the dining
and drawing-room combined.

Really many of the inns we visited in Montenegro could be aptly
described by the song sung in London a few years ago of a coster
describing his home. He informed the audience that if they wanted to
see his library, his kitchen, or his best spare bedroom, "You just
stops where you is." In slightly more grammatical language, it could
be well applied to these hostels.

Towards evening we were taken and presented to Voivoda Lakic Voivodic,
who was sitting in semi-state before the house of a rival
drinking-place.

He had a remarkably strong face, and was of powerful build. Speedily
we were introduced to his adjutant, the town captain, and other
officials, and a great circle was formed of which we were the centre
of attraction. Our arms were brought out and examined with great glee
and appreciation; also our field-glasses came in for their usual share
of admiration, and our clothes were likewise carefully overhauled.

When we laughingly said that we hoped for some sport with the
Albanians and perhaps to shoot a few, our popularity was complete; our
backs were clapped, and a great scene of joy and enthusiasm took
place. Such remarks are liable to be taken rather literally in this
region.

We gave the Voivoda and his adjutant a dinner one evening, the best
that we could manage, though it certainly was not the kind of feast to
which one would ordinarily invite a Duke.

Being five of us, our table was not big enough, so we joined on a
second smaller and lower table at which the doctor and P. sat. P. put
a salt-cellar between the upper table and the lower, saying that as
they now sat "below the salt," they could behave as they liked. It was
a most uproarious meal, and later on the Voivoda retired to a bed
which was just behind him to laugh himself out.

[Illustration: CHURCH PARADE]

On Sunday we went to church--at least we went _to_ the church and
met the Voivoda outside. It was a very hot day and the little edifice
was crowded. We had a suspicion that the worthy Voivoda came late on
purpose. He just glanced at the crowd which had overflowed into the
open space before the door, and to the relief of his staff proposed a
quiet cup of coffee instead. Under the shade of the trees, discreetly
apart from the merrymakers who were celebrating the Mass of a departed
comrade, we sat in the customary ring and were served with coffee. It
was a pleasant hour, and as the Voivoda, who was a bit of a wit, if
somewhat irreverent, said, "This is better than inside."

The church was about a quarter of a mile from the town and lay almost
hid in a beautiful wood. The bells, as is often the case, were hung
about a hundred yards away from the church on a wood scaffolding, and
on the green grass sat many groups of Montenegrins.

The occasion was a feast. Mass was being said for the soul of a man
who had recently died, and it is the custom for the dead man's
relations to give a feast to all comers. Large dishes of roast lamb
were being handed round to the men who sat in circles, the women
eating apart, and much spirit was drunk. About six priests were also
present, feasting.

We had altogether a very merry stay in Andrijevica, and the men of
Vasovic are sturdy, honest, fearless, and excellent companions.

Once, as I was admiring an old pistol worn by a man who was visiting
us--for men were continually dropping in on us at any hour, in a most
unceremonious fashion--he promptly took it off and gave it to me. It
had been carried thirty years by a priest, he told me, before it came
into his possession, and had killed at least twenty men. Afterwards I
gave him a present of six florins.

There are no police in Andrijevica, but the population take their turn
to patrol the town at night with rifles. This is not to keep order
amongst themselves, but as a guard against an eventual raid of
Albanians. Crime is unknown in this mountain town.

One afternoon we were startled to see half a dozen Turkish officers
ride into the town, accompanied by an escort of Turkish soldiers, all
fully armed. They were proceeding to Gusinje, where fighting had been
taking place and many men had been killed. It is very curious to
observe the way that the Turkish and Montenegrin authorities visit
each other, for the intricate formation of the border often
necessitates the traversing of a small portion of the other's country.
Owing to the danger, everyone goes fully armed. The greatest possible
harmony reigns between the Turks and Montenegrins, as the formidable
array of Turkish decorations which adorn the breasts of all
Montenegrin border officials will testify. The Albanian is the only
cause of trouble, and it is chiefly against him that the Albanian
borders are garrisoned by Turkish troops.

In the above-mentioned border dispute, the Turks sent down a
formidable army to assist the Montenegrins and prevent an incursion
into a friendly state. Truly things have changed very much, for it was
not so very many years ago that Albania held aloof when Turk and
Montenegrin were fighting. Their sympathies, if for either side, were
with the Montenegrins, and now the hated Turk throws himself into the
balance for Montenegro.

No man goes any distance unarmed. A rifle is part and parcel of his
being. So it is that visiting Albanians carry theirs too, and it is no
uncommon sight to see eight or ten Gusinje men, conspicuous by their
white head-cloths, rifles slung over their shoulders, and a girdle of
cartridges, come into Andrijevica to market, or perhaps even to
consult the Voivoda on a question of blood-guilt.

No one knows in these parts when an alarm will be given, either by
trumpet-call or rapid magazine firing, and each man must be ever
prepared to hurry to the appointed rendezvous at a moment's notice. If
he be guarding his flock, eating at home, or carrying produce to the
market, it is the same; his rifle must be ready to his hand and
everything left standing to answer the call to arms. Life is very
real on these turbulent borders, and a chance dispute may assemble a
brigade of Montenegrins and a horde of Albanians, each ready to attack
the other on the spot. The shepherd private knows where to find his
section commander, the latter, on completion of his section, meets his
company officer, companies assemble, battalions form, and the brigade
is ready within an hour or two.

Such is the state of affairs to-day along the whole Albanian frontier,
but nowhere to such a degree as in the provinces bordering on Gusinje.




CHAPTER XIV

The Voivoda's invitation--Concerning an episode on our ride to
Velika--The fugitive from a blood-feud and his story--We arrive at
Velika--The men of Velika--The menu--Border jurisdiction--A
shooting-match--The Kom--Pleasant evenings--A young
philosopher--Sunset.


One evening the Voivoda invited us to ride with him on an official
visit to Velika, an offer which we eagerly accepted.

Velika is a narrow strip of Montenegrin territory lying practically in
Albania, or rather Gusinje, for the men of Gusinje owe and give no
allegiance. Velika is not cut off from Montenegro, but the mountain
connecting it with, so to speak, the mainland is steep and almost
inaccessible, besides entailing a long and weary detour of many hours.
Therefore our path to-day would lead us across an intervening strip of
Gusinje territory.

Next morning at an early hour saw us in our saddles, the Voivoda
having first ascertained that our arms were in good order. "Not that
there is any danger," he said. "But we never know if anything may
happen, and it is well just to be prepared."

Besides the Voivoda, we were accompanied by his adjutant, a
lieutenant in the standing army, who had studied in Italy, and an
escort of about six men, armed with modern magazine rifles. Later on,
this escort was materially increased.

About three hours' ride up the magnificent valley of the Lim brought
us to a khan, and here we found another half-dozen men awaiting us,
and another officer. These preparations seemed rather formidable for a
journey of about an hour through a friendly country, but we knew
already the uncertainty of the Albanian temper, and did not wonder.

As we led our horses across a rickety wooden bridge, the Voivoda
called to us and said we were now about to enter Albania, and spoke of
the temporary armed alliance between England and Montenegro, which
remark seemed to please him greatly. A great cairn of stones marked
the border, and the adjutant reined in his horse, for we were going to
ride in single file, to tell us that it would be better to unsling our
carbines. "It looked better," he said. Many Albanians could be seen
working peacefully in their fields, and huts dotted the
mountain-sides. It was a scene of agricultural peace, enhanced by
magnificent scenery.

Suddenly, at some distance, two rifle-shots were distinctly heard, and
the calm of the picture was as rudely and suddenly disturbed as if an
earthquake had happened. The peaceful peasants stooped, throwing away
the spade, and in exchange each had a Martini rifle in his hand, which
he rapidly loaded from the bandolier of cartridges round his waist.
Men rushed out of the slumbering cottages, and a great shouting
commenced.

"It is nothing," said the adjutant. "They become excited like this
very often."

But I noticed our escort closing in, and every man's face wore a look
of great interest. Still we rode on, just as if nothing unusual were
happening.

To our left the hill ascended to a great height, and about one-third
of the way up a belt of trees commenced, stretching to the top.
Towards this wood ran hundreds of Albanians, and disappeared from
view. I confess that I had a most uncomfortable feeling that I was
being covered by many unseen rifles. We should have stood a poor
chance had they begun firing at us, for there was practically no cover
near.

But our pace, that of a smart walk, neither increased nor decreased,
and it ill became me to show my innermost feelings to these fearless
mountaineers who so evidently considered this sudden excitement a most
everyday occurrence.

The noise of the shouting, however, continued, and was answered by men
in all directions. It was a regular pandemonium of yelling fiends, for
the Albanians are not beautiful to look upon.

Suddenly a man appeared from some bushes close to our little party and
headed straight for us, running like a deer.

He had barely reached us and seized my stirrup leather, on which he
hung, panting heavily, when from the woods emerged a pursuing crowd,
brandishing their rifles as they ran. Within a few minutes we were
surrounded by about a hundred and fifty Albanians, whose gestures were
not to be misunderstood.

They wanted to kill the man at my stirrup, who looked beseechingly up
to me for protection. Why he selected me I have no idea, and I did not
relish the compliment at all. Our escort formed a meagre ring around
us, and we were forced to halt.

"Are they going to shoot?" I asked the adjutant, who was next to me,
in excusable excitement, "because if so, I would like to dismount."

It was not a pleasant feeling, perched up on a horse within fifty
yards of reputed good marksmen.

"Oh no," answered the officer, "they only want the man, not you."

"Still, you are not going to hand back the man, are you?" I asked in
Italian.

"We must hear what the Voivoda says," said the adjutant, shrugging his
shoulders.

I looked at the man, while an excited conversation was carried on by
our party and the Albanians, and found him a pleasant-looking young
man; his breath was coming in great gasps from his heaving breast, but
otherwise he showed no traces of excitement.

"Save me," he said in broken Serb. "They fired at me as I was working
in my field. I am blood-guilty."

All this time his pursuers were evidently debating if our lives must
be sacrificed as well, for to shoot the man meant killing some of us
at any rate.

At this juncture several Albanians came to us and ranged themselves on
our side, and amidst still greater excitement we began again moving
forward.

"It is all right," laughed the adjutant, who throughout preserved the
same air of utter indifference. "They daren't shoot, the cowards, and
we shall take him to Velika with us, and then decide what to do with
him."

"You don't seem to mind this sort of thing much," I said, "but for a
beginner like myself it appears rather nervous work."

"Oh no," he answered. "I live here, and have been in many border
fights. They always make a noise like that, and they very seldom shoot
at big people."

"But if they do?" I queried.

"Oh, well, we must all die once," he laughed.

In another half-hour we passed the second landmark, and were informed
we were again in Montenegrin territory. Our friendly Albanians left
us, and rifles were more carelessly carried.

"What hast thou done?" I asked the fugitive at my stirrup. "Tell me
thy story."

"I am a doomed man; my days are numbered," he said, smiling, and
rolling a cigarette. "But life is sweet, and I wish to live a little
longer."

Strange, this man who was at death's door barely an hour ago, was
smiling and smoking happily as he walked by my side. He had a most
fascinating smile and laughing eyes, and now that the immediate danger
was over he had forgotten it.

"Some months ago in my village, many hours from here, a woman fell in
love with me," he said. "She was beautiful and I loved her too, but
not so much as she loved me, for I feared her. She hated her husband,
who beat her. One evening she came to me when her husband was away and
told me that she loved me and that we would fly together. 'I love thee
as I hate my husband, and see, if thou wilt not do this, I will break
my spinning-wheel before thee.' And I trembled, for now I knew that my
life was doomed. For should I not take her, she must kill me as sure
as there is a God in heaven, and if I fled with her, her husband and
his relations would surely track me down. And she was very beautiful,
and we must all die. So we fled here that same night. What could I
do?" he asked, smiling again.

[Illustration: VELIKA]

"But why stay here?" I asked.

"Because," he answered, "my brothers live here and I must stay here
till I die. If I am not to be found, then my brothers must die for me.
It will not last long, for there are many bags of money on my head. My
enemy is a rich man."

"But," he went on, "wilt thou ask the Voivoda, who is a good man, to
give me a magazine rifle and some cartridges? See my rifle, it is old,
and I have but five cartridges left. For thee he will do it, and so I
can die fighting a good fight, and perhaps can kill two or three of my
enemies first. To-day I have wounded one."

"I will ask the Voivoda," I replied, "though I doubt if I have any
influence with him. Ask him thyself."

I did ask the Voivoda, but he said the thing was impossible. He had no
rifles to give away. But our fugitive continued his request at
intervals for the rest of the time that he was with us.

At Velika, a collection of half a dozen houses, very charmingly
situated in a valley, we halted and rested for many hours while the
Voivoda transacted business and received reports from a very young
officer who held this dangerous command. We commented on his youth,
and were told that his father, recently dead, had held the position,
and that he had inherited it. "Besides," continued our informant, "he
is quite up to his work."

As we dismounted, our escort unloaded their rifles, the snapping of
locks and breeches bringing the excitement of the last hour or two
vividly back to our memory.

The men of Velika were fierce-looking and of great stature. Rifle,
handjar, and revolver were carried by all. Our escort were equally
fine men, that fearless look so characteristic of the Montenegrin
race, being accentuated here. Yet the faces are pleasing, honest, and
good-tempered. There is to be found in the world no more splendid
specimens of fighting humanity than the Montenegrin borderer. Brave,
reckless to a fault, with absolutely no fear of death, inured to every
hardship, and able to live and thrive on the barest fare, they are
typical of the old Viking, chivalrous and courteous, with the purest
blood of the Balkans flowing in their veins.

Our meal was sumptuous. Fish shot in the river by one of our escort on
the way, a bowl of ground maize cooked in oil, raw ham, eggs, bread,
cheese and onions, the whole washed down in draughts of fiery spirits.
Not a feast, I grant you, in an epicurean sense, but highly acceptable
in Montenegro. We were waited upon by two women, who were always most
careful to leave the room backwards. Our meal was very jolly, and at
its conclusion we took corners in the room and slept. About three p.m.
we started again for home, taking the fugitive with us.

He had decided to return to his farm, but as we neared the Gusinje
strip of land where he lived the extreme nervous tension of the
morning returned to him. Poor devil, it would be difficult to forget
the sharp sighs which burst from him, when his control over himself
left him for a moment, but it was with a smile and a cigarette between
his lips that he left us, bounding over the ground like a deer.

In all probability he is dead by now.

In Gusinje we made a lengthy halt, while the Voivoda settled several
boundary disputes between the inhabitants, our escort taking up
commanding positions all round us and keeping a very sharp look-out.

It would seem that the Voivoda has right of jurisdiction in this strip
of land, though how we were unable to elicit. At any rate Albanians
came and stated their cases, bringing witnesses, and amongst great
noise the Voivoda gave his judgments, which seemed to be final.

On re-entering Montenegro we dismounted on the bank of the River Lim;
the Voivoda pointed out a stone on the opposite side about three
hundred yards distance, and taking a rifle he fired at it. In a few
seconds we were all shooting at it in turn, the Voivoda acting as
umpire with the aid of my field-glasses. It seemed a risky thing to do
in a country so easily alarmed, but no rapid firing was allowed.

The shooting was moderately good.

As the last shot had been fired, and some of us already mounted, a
corporal from Andrijevica came up at a trot, bringing a telegram for
the adjutant. It contained the notification of his promotion to a
captain.

This led to a salvo of revolver-shots and cheers, and we proceeded on
our way.

At the first khan (Morina) we stopped for coffee, and found two or
three hundred men assembled under the command of the district captain.
Had anything happened to us, revenge would have come very quickly.
Here our additional escort left us, and our long ride home was
commenced, which ended in the dark.

It was a nasty ride, for both P. and Stephan's horses came down
repeatedly, and the path was constantly about two hundred feet above
the Lim. It requires care in the daytime, but in the uncertain light
of evening it was distinctly dangerous. Both horses were done up, and
Stephan lost his temper, and we saw him in his true colours, as
he kicked and beat his unlucky animal. It was not till I took very
energetic measures that he would stop, which amused the Voivoda
immensely.

[Illustration: MORINA]

[Illustration: THE FUGITIVE OF VELIKA]

[Illustration: THE VASOJEVICKI KOM]

[Illustration: ALBANIANS AND MONTENEGRINS AT ANDRIJEVICA]

P.'s horse was ill--in fact, it was his last journey. A few days
afterwards he died from inflammation of the lungs, contracted at
Velika that day.

We went for a few days' shooting on the Vasojevicki Kom, and were
handed over by the Voivoda to one called Vaso, a rich peasant of the
district. He swore to be answerable for our safety, with his head and
all that was his, and we lived with him for many days on the side of
the mighty mountain.

The shooting was not good, however; it was not the season, but
otherwise our stay was very pleasant. The grassy plateau was about
five thousand feet high and bitterly cold at night; below us, on
either side, stretched great beech forests, and the Kom rose abruptly
before us.

Our hut was large and roomy, but draughty to an extreme. At night the
icy wind whistled through its crevices, and we had to bury our heads
in blankets. The whole family shared it with us, and in one corner
stood an unwearied calf, too tender to brave the cold of the outside.

Those evenings which we spent round the fire are impossible to
describe adequately. Tired from a long day's tramping and sliding
through the forests, often wet to the skin from heavy showers, the
peace and warmth of that camp fire were delightful.

The shepherds came from far and near, and asked us many questions: if
we carried an apparatus for making banknotes (this is not meant as an
insult, but a common belief that Europeans can fabricate their
paper-money at will--a belief of which we had sadly to disillusionise
them); if our glasses could show us Belgrade, and so on--questions
sometimes so difficult to answer that we had to give them up. Then
they would talk of themselves; the older men would tell of past deeds,
of fighting and bloodshed, and the fitful glow of the fire would light
up their animated faces and picturesque costumes.

Great simple children they were, unknown in the art of lying, and yet
they repeat stories of bygone battles and slaughter, which they have
heard and believed, as gospel truth. Like Esau, with the smell of the
field upon them, they love to listen, too, to stories of unknown
lands, where the houses are even larger and finer than those of
Cetinje or Podgorica, which towns many even have not seen; but too
much of the outside world one cannot tell them, for then they look
hurt at being deemed so childish. They are curious, too, as are all
children, and love to examine the clothes which we strange foreign
creatures wear. There they sit on the hard earthen floor, as happy and
contented as princes, nay, more so, for they have no cares to trouble
them. They proffer us their tobacco tins, accepting ours in return,
touching their caps as they do so; then the cigarette, deftly rolled,
is lit by a glowing ember, which they rake from the fire, and the now
burning cigarette is handed to us to light from. Again we all touch
our caps, for it is rigid etiquette, in accepting a light, to
acknowledge the courtesy by a half military salute. In the corner the
calf will moan, and we, now half asleep, will stretch out our weary
limbs, draw our coats and blankets over us, and to the murmur of the
now subdued conversation, find forgetfulness in sweet sleep.

I remember a conversation with a boy of about fifteen, who was out
shooting with me, and acting as my guide and beater.

It was nearing sunset, and we sat and rested on a ridge which
overlooked both sides of the valleys.

He asked me so many questions that I asked him if he had never even
been to Podgorica.

"No," he said, "I shall never go."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I am content here. If I went to that great town, I should be
ashamed of my ragged clothes. I should want to buy the beautiful
things which they tell me are to be bought in the shops, and not
having money I should be sad. No; it is better never to have seen such
magnificence."

"But," I argued, "if thou goest to Podgorica, thou wouldst find work.
Even I could get thee employment."

"No," he repeated; "my home is in the mountains. In time I would have
to return here, and I should be miserable with the remembrance of
those happy days."

This boy had been taught at the school, and he told me the capitals of
the great countries, which were nothing more than empty names to him.
He knew, also, a few words of German, about two phrases, though how he
picked them up was hard to make out.

He liked to ask me questions about England, Montenegro's friend in
past times of trouble, and seemed surprised to hear that I had seen
snow before I came to his land.

His father said that the boy was stupid and a dreamer, but I thought
differently of him.

P. joined me, and together we watched the sunset. On our left towered
the Kom, and running in an unbroken chain circled a mountain range,
ending in the setting sun. Low down an angry bank of clouds hung over
the distant peaks, and into this mass of black and grey the sun, in
all its glory of yellow and gold, sank slowly. The hills between us
seemed wild and mysterious. Away to our left, in gloomy confusion, the
Albanian Alps reared their heads, lit here and there with a red gleam
of sunlight. At our feet, shrouded in impenetrable blackness, lay two
steep ravines. The sun sank, leaving a weird eerie feeling behind, and
we found ourselves strangely cold.

We spent many days with Vaso, shooting with indifferent results, but
revelling in the glories of nature.




CHAPTER XV

We leave Andrijevica--Our additional escort--The arrival at our
camping-place--In an enemy's country--The story of one Gjolic--Our
slumbers are disturbed--Sunrise on the Alps--We disappoint our
escort--"Albanian or Montenegrin?"--A reconnaissance--The Forest of
Vucipotok--The forbidden land--A narrow escape--We arrive at
Rikavac--Rain damps our ardour--Nocturnal visitors.


We left Andrijevica finally one morning about eight a.m. for our many
days' ride along the Albanian frontier to Podgorica. Everyone turned
out to bid us farewell, from the Voivoda, who expressed his regret
that we had seen no one shot, downwards. The Voivoda's son and a small
party accompanied us to the outskirts of the town, where a quaint
notice-board bears the inscription that, on pain of a fine, shooting
is forbidden within the prescribed limits.

Here, after much hand-shaking and promises to come again, we mounted,
and drawing our revolvers, replied right merrily to the farewell
volleys of our friends. It is a pleasant custom that--shooting at
parting.

[Illustration: THE RAVINE OF TERPETLIS]

We rode for two or three hours along the Perusica valley till we came
to a small and scattered village, Konjuhe, where we dismounted for a
rest. It was the birthplace of the Voivoda, and his brother still
lived there. He was immediately sent for. When he heard of our
proposed tour, he insisted on our taking an additional escort (besides
Dr. S., and Stephan our servant, we had engaged another man, named
Milan, in Andrijevica) of at least two men, as the country was just
now in a very dangerous condition. The necessary guard was soon found,
and after a long halt owing to a heavy shower, we were able to proceed
on our way, first carefully loading our rifles and overhauling our
revolvers. Our two men were quite celebrated for a famous raid into
Gusinje, in which they had played an active part a short time ago.
They had killed several Albanians, and captured two hundred sheep. As
the Albanians would shoot them at sight, they seemed hardly fitted to
act as an escort; but then every man from that part is engaged, more
or less, in a blood feud across the border.

We commenced climbing almost directly, and the ascent lasted for the
rest of the day. The scenery was grand. On our right the majestic Kom,
still covered with snow; falling away precipitously to the left was
the deep ravine of Terpetlis, through which a mountain torrent dashed;
and rising high on the other side, and forming the boundary between
Montenegro and Albania, was a magnificent rocky ridge. We dismounted
at one point to breathe our horses, and made our midday meal off wild
strawberries.

Further on we passed from the Vasovic into the Kuc. These two, the
most warlike clans of Montenegro, were formerly under Turkish rule,
and bitter foes. But when war broke out, they forgot their old enmity
and joined hand-in-hand with Montenegro to drive out the still more
hated Turk. Since then they have lived together in peace and harmony.

On nearing our camping-ground for the night, our two guards ran on to
draw the fire from any concealed Albanians, while we followed more
leisurely. The scenery was wild in the extreme, though differing very
slightly from that which we had experienced during the last few weeks.
Great woods stretched half-way down the mountain to the torrent, and
up again on the further side. Immense boulders, with an occasional
tree growing out of a crevice, and every here and there clumps of
firs, every yard affording excellent cover for a hidden enemy.

Our destination was Carina, a collection of stone huts on an open
green slope, which reaches up to the rocky sides of the Kom. It is the
highest point inhabited in Montenegro by the shepherds in the summer,
and lies over five thousand feet above the sea-level. During this
period of the annual migration to the hills, the district is
comparatively safe. The Albanians do not attack large parties, but
rather stragglers, as larger numbers have an unpleasant habit of
organising themselves into avenging bands to repay the visit with
interest.

Not a soul was to be seen anywhere, not a living being of any
description. In a shower of pelting rain we took possession of the
largest hut. It is decidedly annoying to get thoroughly wet at the end
of a long day, and the prospect of a night in damp clothes was in no
way pleasing. The hut was damp and cold, and it had the chilly feeling
which only comes from a long period of emptiness, and strikes to the
marrow. But our men turned to with a will, cleaning out the hut,
strewing it with very wet rushes, and piling up a big log-fire in the
middle. We were pretty hungry, too, a couple of eggs at six a.m. and a
few strawberries at midday are not much to go on, and we had been in
the saddle for over ten hours. Stephan had brought amongst other
things some raw bacon, which he gave me, but, hungry as I was, I could
not face that. Later on, a happy thought struck me, and I went and
toasted it over the fire. I do not recollect ever relishing food so
much in my life. About a couple of hours later a lamb had been
roasted, and we were able to make a decent meal.

It was getting rapidly dark now, and watch had to be kept outside. The
horses were picketed close at hand for fear of wolves, as well as
Albanians. By the time that we had finished eating, night was upon us.
It was pitch dark and no moon. Rather reluctantly I turned out to do
my share of sentry-go in the bitter cold. But it was decidedly
interesting, as one of our party began to tell stories of the usual
blood-curdling nature. On emerging from the hut, I thoughtlessly
remained standing for a few seconds in the low doorway which, as the
fire was blazing brightly inside, showed up my figure strongly against
the surrounding gloom. Before I knew where I was I was roughly seized
by a man and thrown forcibly into the darkness. He intimated that I
must be a fool to court death in that manner. For all we knew, he
said, a dozen Albanians might be hiding around us and waiting for such
an easy shot. And when I was not allowed to smoke, I realised that we
were in an enemy's country.

Watch was kept all night by two men, one sitting on the roof, or on an
elevation which commanded it, and the other patrolling round with a
sharp eye on the horses. The roof must always be watched, for the
Albanians usually creep up and climb on to it--it is always
conveniently low--they then remove a board and shoot the sleeping
inmates.

During my watch I was told the following story, which brings out many
interesting traits of the Montenegrin character.

A certain man named Gjolic, of the tribe of Vasovic, killed two men of
his clan over a love affair, and promptly fled to Gusinje, the country
just opposite Carina, and inhabited by a tribe of Albanians, famed
for their blood-thirstiness and hatred of strangers. The only passport
to their land is crime, and no one but a fugitive from justice can
hope to enter, or leave it, alive. Gjolic swore to have revenge on his
clan, and in this respect he was a notable exception. He came
repeatedly across the border, often in broad daylight, shooting anyone
whom he met. He soon became the terror of the whole Vasovic. In the
neighbourhood of Carina he had shot many shepherds, and last autumn he
murdered a youth of sixteen. This was too much, and two men laid their
heads together. To obtain the necessary right of entrance to Gusinje,
they crossed over into Turkey and deliberately stole a cow, taking
care at the same time that they should be arrested and sentenced to
punishment. Their plan acted admirably, and they effected their
escape, fleeing to Gusinje, where they were received in a friendly
manner. But Gjolic was away, and for six months they waited for him in
patience. At last news came that he was on his way home, and could be
expected on a certain day. So the men went out to meet him, and began
shooting fish in a river where he must pass. Fish shooting is a common
and favourite sport of the people.

"God help you," said a voice, "has your luck been good?"

It was Gjolic who spoke.

"Our luck is good," they answered, and following an imaginary fish
with their rifles, they turned on him.

Crack! Crack! Gjolic was dead.

That scene I shall never forget. The starless night, all round the
land lying enshrouded in impenetrable darkness, the low voice of the
Montenegrin which rose with his excitement, but sank again immediately
to a hoarse whisper, and on the barely discernible roof of the hut a
black figure, with rifle at the ready, sitting motionless.

It was eleven o'clock when I turned in, and the next man took his
rifle and went outside to relieve one of the watchers. A roaring fire
was kept going, for it was very cold, and round it lay the others
sleeping, each with his rifle and revolver by his head. "And we are in
Europe!" I said to myself, as I lay down to sleep, which, in spite of
the mighty snoring of Dr. S., came almost immediately.

It seemed but a few minutes since I had closed my eyes when a shot
rang out, bringing me to my knees in an instant. It is not advisable
to rise quickly in these huts without taking the roof into
consideration, as I had learnt by bitter and repeated experience.
Everyone awoke, except Dr. S., who snored on peacefully. However, I
roughly awoke him, and we all dashed out, rifle in hand.

One of our sentries stood peering into the gloom, and swore that he
had seen a figure moving. We lay down and waited, but nothing came.

Then slowly the day began to dawn, and with it our anxiety diminished.
I went to get a cup of coffee, preparatory to climbing a part of the
Kom. One of our guards, of course, accompanied me. That is the worst
of these districts, we could never move a step without being followed.
It was like being under police surveillance. Furthermore, I should
have preferred to climb with a good stick; but no. Again that iron
control ordered me to take my carbine, and loaded too.

We reached a high ridge just in time to see the sun rise, and it lit
up the snow-clad mountain-tops with an indescribable beauty. But so
much has been written about the splendours of Alpine sunrises that it
is needless to say more about it. Yet it was as beautiful as anything
to be seen in Switzerland or the Tyrol. The ridge commanded a view in
both directions. The Albanian Alps and the mountains behind the Moraca
lay before us in one vast panorama, the latter looming up so close
that it was difficult to believe that so many days' hard riding lay
between us.

After climbing one of the lower peaks, we descended again to our hut,
which we reached shortly after six. Everyone was busy, washing,
packing up, or even sleeping, which is an equally important business.
To snatch half an hour's sleep here and there is an enviable art, and
cannot be overrated. But, perched on a low stone wall, sat a guard all
the time. Daylight does not imply safety.

After breakfast, luxurious with toasted bacon, I emerged from the hut
to find an excited group outside, one of whom was even lying down and
aiming.

"He is watching us. It is far better that we should finish him now
than allow him to go on and report our movements," said the man,
fingering his trigger lovingly.

On looking I saw an Albanian about six hundred yards away, half hidden
behind a boulder. The idea of shooting a man in this way did not seem
quite sporting, and Dr. S. agreed with me. The men were extremely
disappointed at our refusal to allow them to shoot. "He will follow us
till we reach the wood," they said, "and then we shall repent it." The
Albanian shortly afterwards disappeared, and we proceeded with our
packing.

About eight o'clock we left Carina, and had rather an unique
experience in riding across several large snow fields which were quite
hard, though the horses decidedly disliked the experiment. About an
hour's ride brought us to a tiny church, solidly built of stone and
standing on a ridge overlooking the whole country. It is used by the
shepherds who migrate annually to the pasturages in this district.
Only a few months ago the Albanians had broken into it and utterly
dismantled it. On the iron door and on the shutters huge dents and
even bullet splashes were plainly visible. Our Albanian we found here
awaiting us, which was a plucky thing to do. Our guards hailed him
with the cry of "Albanian or Montenegrin?" But he answered, "Friend."
I think that our men showed him our rifles rather ostentatiously, and,
as we were all armed with magazines and had plenty of ammunition, he
must have thought that we should scarcely afford the desired sport. We
did not see him again, though he took the same path which we were
going to take. This incident put us very much on our guard, and we
made preparations for the further journey with mixed feelings. Before
us lay the dense wood of Vucipotok, which is the most ill-famed spot
in Montenegro. It stretches unbrokenly down to Gusinje, and the bridle
path which traverses it is the border line between the two countries.

It was then settled that a guard and myself should climb a small hill
overlooking the wood and its approach. However, we saw nothing, and
soon rejoined our party. Before entering the wood, in the open, were
two or three stones erected to murdered men--it is customary in
Montenegro to put up either a pile of stones or a slab of rock where
the body has been found. Inscriptions on the stones are very rare, the
Vucipotok is too dangerous to waste much time in it, but wherever
these stones are seen, a dead man, as often as not headless, has been
found. Such memorial stones are to be found all over the country, but
not in such plentiful profusion as we saw them now.

Everyone dismounted, and with rather uncanny feelings we entered the
forest. First of all went one of our escort, and then in single file,
about ten paces apart, we followed. Rifles were held at the ready, and
every boulder and tree carefully scanned. The path was atrocious,
strewn with great stones, so that walking was no easy matter. When a
particularly large boulder was reached, we would halt under its
shelter to enable the horses to come up--they were following behind
under the charge of one man. We did not exactly stroll through that
wood.

Every few paces stood a memorial stone. There was one put up to the
memory of ten Montenegrins who were all shot down without seeing their
enemy. Everyone shoots at sight here, and had we met our Albanian
friend of the early morning, matters would have gone sadly with him.
At one point I insisted on taking a photograph--much to everyone's
disgust. The spot was where a famous Kuc general had been murdered.
His head was taken in triumph to Scutari. Oddly enough, we ate our
midday meal at his grave, for his friends took his body away from
here and buried it in an open place directly overlooking the valley of
Gusinje. I was rather hurried over the operation, as the Montenegrins
distinctly objected to standing still, but they were all very tickled
about it.

[Illustration: THE PATH THROUGH THE VUCIPOTOK]

The Vucipotok is used by young Montenegrins as a means of showing
their bravery. They go straight through it alone, with their rifles
over their backs, smoking cigarettes. This constitutes an act of
reckless daring in their eyes. Some even go through, at some distance
from the path, on the Albanian side. We met one young man leading his
horse and strolling along as unconcernedly as though he were in
Cetinje--so that we almost felt that we were being unduly impressed
with a sense of danger. But afterwards we met another party who were
proceeding with greater caution than we were. And then there were
those memorial stones.

At last the wood ceased, and in a clearing we made a halt. Our
Montenegrins looked relieved. For themselves they have no fear, but
had one of us been hit, the disgrace for them would have been
unspeakable. It would have necessitated a raid into Albania of the
most extensive kind, and hundreds might have fallen; the Montenegrins
guard their visitors as they guard their honour, and in that case,
life is only a secondary matter.

We now climbed a very steep hill. At the top we had to dismount, as a
narrow path, just wide enough for a horse, skirted along a great
precipice, looking straight down about one thousand feet. It was a
wonderful view, but not to be recommended to those suffering in any
way from giddiness.

We overlooked the great Vucipotok wood through which we had just
passed, and the whole valley of Gusinje. When we reached a place where
we were able to turn round with comfort, we stopped for the view. A
long, narrow valley, inclosed by the Procletia or "Damnable
Mountains," through which a river could be seen flowing, lay at our
feet. This was Gusinje, the forbidden land. With the aid of
field-glasses the town of Gusinje itself could be just distinguished,
a square and apparently walled-in town.[4] Very picturesque it looked
in the bright sunshine, the great green woods in the foreground, the
solemn and majestic snow mountains and the peaceful valley. Yet it is
inhabited by the most villainous and treacherous cut-throats in
Europe, an absolutely untameable tribe, who would die to the last man
to preserve their independence.

[Footnote 4: This, however, is not the case, as we afterwards learnt.]

When the path broadened out slightly our two guards left us and
returned home. Both emptied their magazines into the air at parting,
which we answered, and the din was tremendous. Below us was a small
village or collection of shepherds' huts, and, in that moment,
confusion reigned supreme. The men seized their rifles, the women
rushed into the huts, dogs barked, and horses stampeded. It seemed
rather thoughtless to thus alarm the village, but, on being
remonstrated with, the men only laughed and fired another shot. Had it
been a town below us the result might have been more serious.

A little further on, we stopped for rest and food at a narrow pass
overlooking Gusinje on the one side and Montenegro on the other. The
murdered Kuc general, whose memorial stone we had seen earlier in the
day, was buried here. Strange that his body should find its last
resting-place overlooking the home of his murderers.

By using the Montenegrin telephone (the art of talking at great
distances), we ordered some milk from the village below, and drank it
with that enjoyment which is only known to a thoroughly hungry and
thirsty man.

Our afternoon's ride was again particularly stiff. Climbing one hill,
Dr. S., who was leading, missed the path, a very easy thing to do, so
undefined as it sometimes is. He got on to a very steep and rocky bit
of the hill and his horse lost its footing. It began stumbling and
slipping about in a most alarming manner. We held our breath for the
next few seconds, for a long fall was in store for him, and certain
death. He tried to dismount, and succeeded in getting off his horse,
but his foot stuck in the stirrup, the horse still sliding on.
Fortunately, the animal recovered its balance, and Dr. S. extricated
himself, but it was a nasty moment. That is the worst of the
Montenegrins; they rely so implicitly on the sure-footedness of their
ponies that they ride up anywhere, only condescending to dismount for
very steep descents. And accidents often happen when horse or man, or
even both, are killed; but this presumable laziness affords no example
to others.

About five p.m. we began anxiously inquiring the whereabouts of our
night quarters. The usual Montenegrin _quart d'heure_ was given--and
rightly enough. A sharp descent, lasting over an hour, made painfully
on foot, saw us in a great hollow basin among the mountains, with the
pretty lake of Rikavac at the further end and a small collection of
wooden huts.

To these we proceeded and were met by the village Fathers. Dr. S. was
well known here and they had recognised him coming down. Five dear old
boys they were, who kissed Dr. S. most affectionately, one unshaven
old ruffian including me in his salute. I do not appreciate the
Montenegrin custom of kissing among men; it is not pleasant. An empty
hut was immediately put at our disposal. It was the most primitive
and tumble-down habitation that we had had as yet. Of course it
rained. It was almost the first rain on the trip, and we had to lie up
here a whole day as P. was unwell and unable to ride. Everyone turned
out to make the hut comfortable, but it was not a success. I lay down
outside and promptly fell asleep, when a sharp thunderstorm came on
and drove me inside. There was not a dry corner to be found. The rain
came through in steady rivulets everywhere. There was no getting away
from those persistent little streams, either head, body, or feet had
to suffer--and the fire refused to burn. Added to that, the whole
population crowded in to look at us. It was no fun at all Stephan
stood cursing in German that he could not get near the fire to cook,
and that he would not cook at all if the mob were not cleared out.
This Dr. S. refused to allow, as it would be considered inhospitable.

In course of time the rain stopped and our visitors left us, but only
temporarily. Stephan cooked and we went outside to dry ourselves. The
food was then ready, and after putting away a good meal we were able
to view the world with more equanimity.

After supper it came on to rain again and damped us thoroughly before
going to bed. I was very annoyed to find, after having discovered as I
fondly imagined a dry corner, that one of my pockets was full of
water. I should not have been so irritated had my tobacco been in
another pocket; it was a leather coat and held the water beautifully.
Then we tried to go to sleep. My pillow was a stone, like Jacob's, and
though I tried covering it with my coat it was of no avail, since the
cold forced me to put it on again. I do not mind a hard bed, but a
hard pillow is distinctly objectionable. We were just on the point of
sleeping when in stalked two men for an after-supper smoke and chat,
and one of them, to P.'s intense disgust, sat on his feet. It cost Dr.
S. all his diplomacy to hint that we had been up since three a.m. and
were disinclined to talk.




CHAPTER XVI

More memorial stones--We get wet again--Unwilling hosts--A fall--The
Franciscan of Zatrijebac--The ravine of the Zem--Methods of settling
tribal differences--A change of diet and more pleasant evenings--A
fatalist--Sunday morning.


Punctually at eight a.m. next morning we took an affectionate farewell
of the Fathers, though I mounted hurriedly first to avoid the
repetition of the welcoming chaste salute.

Our path lay for two hours over a rocky and barren country similar to
the naked Katunska district round Cetinje. Gone were the rich green
pasturages and wooded valleys in exchange for a waste of grey rocks.
But a large wood was ultimately reached, only a little less dangerous
than the wood of Vucipotok. Similar precautions were observed in
passing through--in fact, our carbines were carried loaded again all
day. The Albanian border was never more than a rifle-shot away.
Numerous gentle reminders of the dangers of the path existed in the
shape of memorial stones all the way along. We met several families,
all fully armed of course, driving their flocks before them to the
mountain grazing-grounds of the Kom.

It was about one o'clock when we emerged on a large barren plateau.
On the further side, just across the border, lay the Albanian village
of Korito, which Dr. S. knew, and where we intended spending the rest
of the day and night.

Half-way across, a sudden storm of rain and hail came down, and I have
never got wet through so quickly in my life. Within five minutes, the
water was running out of my boots. My leather coat, though waterproof,
let regular rivers down my neck. It was a rain that would not be
denied, and icy cold.

In that waterspout we sat and waited while Dr. S. hunted up his
friends; but apparently they had all left, with their flocks. A few
Albanians appeared, and by the dint of much persuasion Dr. S. induced
them to show us an empty hut. As soon as they had done this they left
us, looking at us in an unfriendly and suspicious manner. We got our
baggage in as quickly as possible, and by this time we were shivering
with cold. No wood could be seen, and Dr. S. again sallied forth, and
by the aid of small bribes some wood was brought and we soon had a
fire burning.

However, our natural buoyancy rose again with the fire, and we made a
very light meal off the food that we had with us. It was not more than
a few mouthfuls apiece, but nothing could be got here. Then we
solemnly stood round the fire and dried ourselves, the steam rising
like pillars of cloud, and hiding our figures from each other. The
warmth was very agreeable and comforting.

Several Albanians now crowded in, examining our arms, and were so
unfriendly, not to say threatening, that we hastily reconsidered our
plans. Firstly and foremostly, we had no food, watch would have to be
kept all the time, over the horses and at the hut, using up two men,
so the prospect was not pleasing.

So we saddled up and left about three for Zatrijebac, four hours'
distance, happy to be rid of our unwilling hosts.

The difference between the treatment of strangers by Albanians and
Montenegrins was very marked.[5]

Our path led us through the great wood of Kostice, and, owing to the
recent heavy rain, the track, never very plain, was in parts entirely
obliterated. Twice we lost ourselves, and once more a drenching shower
came on, repeating the morning douche. Still we plodded on with
stumbling horses over the slippery way till we emerged on the great
plain or plateau of Zatrijebac. Zatrijebac is an Albanian clan several
thousand strong who live under Montenegrin rule. They serve as
Montenegrin subjects in the army, give no trouble except in occasional
border fights with rival Albanian clans, and their bravery is
proverbial. Further, they are Roman Catholics. The country is most
curious, great slabs of stone lying about in a promiscuous fashion as
if it had once rained them, and the path was certainly the most vile
of the whole trip, which is putting it as strongly as possible.

[Footnote 5: I have since learnt differently.--R.W.]

It was climbing or rather scaling a small rock that my long-expected
fall came. Alat, my horse, floundered badly at an angle of forty-five
degrees and lost his balance completely. The doctor, who was behind,
shouted to me to pull him up, but as I was sliding off his back with a
broken girth at an ever-increasing velocity, I was unable to follow
this very excellent advice. Down I came heavily on the stones, luckily
on the high side of the path, landing on my back with my legs all
mixed up in Alat's. My saddle and saddlebags followed me in quick
succession, and something hit me violently over the head--that was my
carbine. Providentially Alat stood still, and my cartridge belt saved
my back.

I got up when I could sort out my legs, making remarks to Dr. S. about
that girth which he said afterwards were quite artistic. Many, many
years ago the girth may have been good and strong, and it had
undoubtedly seen better days. Next I sought one named Stephan. He had
always assured me that it would last another week. Montenegrins are
careless about such things.

The rest of the way I had to walk, which dried me, as the path was
steep and tiring. At the house of Dr. S. in Podgorica we had met a
young Franciscan monk, a Neapolitan and a great student. He at once
invited us to visit him in Zatrijebac, where he is the spiritual
shepherd, and to spend a few weeks with him. On approaching a roofless
church, in the course of rebuilding, we espied this young monk rushing
to meet us. With all the fervour of his race, he embraced and kissed
us repeatedly, welcoming us to his home. He gave me his bed, and the
other remaining one was put at P.'s disposal, and he would not hear of
our leaving next day or the next.

There are but two other Roman Catholic churches in Montenegro, in
Antivari and Dulcigno,[6] in fact only where the Albanians are in
sufficient evidence.

[Footnote 6: The Austrian Legation in Cetinje has also its own
chapel.]

We had intended to visit Zatrijebac at the beginning of our mountain
tour, but the district was considered unsafe at that time. A quarrel
over the appointment of a new captain had led to the relations of the
disappointed candidate shooting the brother of the new captain. Two
boys, aged fifteen and sixteen respectively, had ambushed their
victim, and put no less than seven bullets into him at a distance of
four hundred yards, which is pretty good shooting. The boys got away
across the border, but wholesale arrests took place, and it is not
well to visit districts thus excited. The young Franciscan repeated
to us the story that evening round the kitchen fire, where we spent
very many happy hours. He spoke of it sadly.

"The vendetta is a terrible thing," he said. "It respects neither the
laws of God nor man."

Our host would not rest till he had shown me the famous view, and Dr.
S. accompanied us. As one stands outside the church, a magnificent
panorama is spread out, seemingly without a break. But should one wish
to ascend the mountains opposite so temptingly near, a great ravine
must be first descended. Ten minutes' walk brings one to the edge of a
precipice 2,400 feet deep, so appalling and so sudden that one's
breath is momentarily taken away. It is a spot to sit and meditate on
the grandeur of the work of the Master of all architects. The majesty
of that mighty ravine is, indeed, awe-inspiring.

At the bottom, a mere tiny thread, flows the Zem, a river which has
often run blood, and whose source is hardly known as it rises in the
unknown Procletia, "the Accursed Mountains" of history. A wall of
mountains rises beyond. Steep and precipitous as is the descent on the
Zatrijebac side, still a path trodden daily by mountaineers winds and
zigzags down to the bottom. Then as we seated ourselves on a carefully
selected and safe ledge and gazed on this unique picture, the monk
told us of a bloody battle fought not so very many years ago by the
men of Zatrijebac and the clan of Hotti who inhabit the opposite
mountains. It was a quaint illustration how questions of boundary
lines are settled without the aid of expensive Courts of Arbitration.

When the new frontier was laid down at the conclusion of the late war,
the River Zem was Montenegro's limit. On the hill beyond lies a
grazing-ground which has been used as a summer pasturage by the
Zatrijebac from times immemorial. Though technically now belonging to
Albania, and in particular to the clan of Hotti, the Zatrijebac still
continued to drive their flocks across the ravine. The Hotti
remonstrated, and finding this of no avail, took possession of the
plateau. Their opponents coming over found the rival clan posted in a
seemingly impregnable position on every point of vantage on that steep
ascent. Though armed with inferior rifles (in those days), they
attacked at once, and by reckless bravery came to hand-to-hand
conflict. Then a terrible encounter ensued, men seized each other and
threw themselves over the cliffs, and to complete the utter
discomfiture of the Hotti, the Kuc came to the assistance of their
neighbours and the Hotti were nearly annihilated. Since then no
questions have been asked, and annually the cattle and sheep of
Zatrijebac graze in peace in Albania.

It was a very similar dispute which has happened so very recently at
Mokra near Andrijevica.[7]

Supper gave us a much needed change of diet. Boiled fowl and
vegetables came as a luxury after days of tough and stringy lamb. We
sat at a table again too, on chairs, and felt quite ashamed of our
recently acquired habits.

The evenings round the kitchen fire were just as delightful as our hut
experiences, and if possible, more novel. Here we had fierce
Albanians, with their half-shaven heads and scalping lock, and a
scholar, a student of philosophy, a man of wonderful ideals, in the
form of the young Franciscan, instead of unkempt shepherds.

[Footnote 7: Since writing the above another tribal disturbance has
taken place between the Zatrijebac and the Hotti. This time it was the
Hotti who drove their flocks, also from time immemorial, to a certain
spot in Zatrijebac, and as the latter tribe have since cultivated the
intervening ground, they felt justly irritated. As the only real
argument is the rifle, they met and argued the point in this fashion
in February, 1902, and many fell on both sides. A notable incident
which is worth recording is, that a man of Hotti fought on the side of
the Zatrijebac against his brethren and was killed. His body was
afterwards handed back and his clan demanded to know if he had fought
as a man. "In the front rank," was the answer. Then they took the body
and gave it an honourable burial and agreed to let the dispute drop.
In this action our friend the monk had his habit riddled with bullets
whilst attending the wounded.]

Round the fire another evening an argument as to the wrongs of
Fatalism, _i.e._ God's Will, led to a characteristic story by the monk
in defence of his views. Dr. S., like many men who lead such lives as
he does, was a rigid fatalist.

An Albanian found his enemy in vendetta, working in a field. Hiding
himself, he prayed to God and S. Nicholas to direct the bullet.

"Lord," he prayed, "should I hit this man in the breast, then I shall
know that I do this deed by Thy Will."

He laid his rifle on a stone, took careful aim, and the other fell
dead shot through the breast.

"By God's Will I killed him," he answered, when the priest endeavoured
to impress upon him his crime.

The lighter side of nature was given us by another story.

Shortly after the priest's arrival at Zatrijebac a half-naked man came
to him. The worthy friar took pity on him and gave him a clean white
shirt of his own.

On the following Sunday during the Mass, as he turned to his
congregation to give the Benediction, to his horror he saw the man
with the shirt drawn over all his ragged clothes, in a front row. It
was with the greatest difficulty, he concluded, that he could restrain
a smile.

We were afforded a novel and striking scene before we left Zatrijebac
in the form of an open-air Mass on Sunday.

The church being in the course of rebuilding, a rough altar had been
hastily constructed, or rather knocked up--for it was of most crude
workmanship--of wood planks on a small grass plot.

From nine a.m. onwards the people began to assemble, coming from all
parts of the large and straggling district, and sat about in groups
gravely talking. Towards eleven o'clock a large number of peasants had
arrived, and the altar was covered with not a fair white cloth as
usual, but with something suspiciously resembling a long and not
overclean towel. A tiny crucifix was placed upon it, and the young
priest robed himself there in sight of the whole congregation.

A group of elder men knelt or squatted on the small open space
immediately in front of the High Altar, but the majority of
worshippers ranged themselves under the shade of some small trees and
on the low surrounding walls.

These same trees bear weekly a strange and incongruous fruit, for they
are used as pegs whereon the Albanians hang their rifles during
service. All round, the walls are stacked with rifles, for, like the
Puritans of old, they come to church fully armed with rifle, handjar,
and revolver, and round their waists, the inevitable bandolier of
cartridges.

[Illustration: AFTER MASS AT ZATRIJEBAC]

On approaching the altar every man pushed back the cloth which is
swathed round his half-shaven head, and kneeling, piously crossed
himself. The older men displayed even more reverence, and kissed
the earth. The younger men were much the same as their cultured and
civilised brothers, lounging through the service, half seated on a
wall, and barely crossing themselves.

But the general effect was one of great reverence and striking in the
extreme. We watched this strange congregation with great interest, and
during the most sacred part of the service, when all, even the blase
young men, prostrated themselves, the effect was unique.

Picture a cut-throat, shave half his head, leaving a tuft of hair on
the back by which he kindly assists his victor to decapitate him,
expecting a like consideration in return, long drooping moustachios,
clad in Turkish clothes, a belt full of cartridges, with revolver and
murderous-looking yataghan artistically displayed--of such was this
congregation. Men who half-an-hour afterwards would shoot an enemy in
the course of a vendetta, or otherwise, without any thought of
remorse. Yes, and coolly cut off his head and bring it home to his
admiring wife and daughters, now so discreetly and respectfully
kneeling behind them. This is not an over-drawn picture. It happens
often.

Of such consisted the congregation under the green trees, blue sky,
brilliant sunshine, in that perfect landscape this Sunday morning. And
of such is peopled a part of the vast country of Albania. A people
who hold human life as nothing--a reckless and brave nation of devout
Roman Catholics.

At the conclusion of the service we came in for a lot of inspection,
and going in to dine soon afterwards we chanced to look out of the
window overlooking the scene of the morning Mass. Still a great crowd
hung about, and on the late High Altar sat men smoking cigarettes.
After dinner we bade farewell to our young host, amidst honest regrets
on both sides. The Franciscan had given us a new insight into the
mysteries of life.




CHAPTER XVII

A modern hero, and our sojourn under his roof--Keco's story--The laws
of Vendetta and their incongruity--We return to Podgorica--The
Montenegrin telephone--An elopement causes excitement--The Sultan's
birthday--The reverse of the picture--A legal anomaly.


"At Fundina," said Dr. S., "you will meet one of the modern heroes of
Montenegro. A man named Keco, whose fame has reached to the uttermost
ends of the land."

We had bidden farewell to our host and were riding past the last
houses and huts of the clan of Zatrijebac on our way to Fundina. The
path tended downwards, and shortly the great plain of the Zeta burst
suddenly into view as we rounded a corner of the mountains. Beyond lay
the Lake of Scutari with its background of mountains.

It was early in the evening when we reined in our horses before a
modest stone house and dismounted. It was Fundina, a straggling
village built on the sloping sides of a mountain from which it takes
its name.

Voivoda Marko, the hero of Medun, defeated the Turks on these slopes
in the first engagement of the last war, successfully inaugurating
the campaigning which secured to Montenegro all the territory through
which we had been riding for so many weeks, including the towns of
Podgorica and Niksic, and the great valley now stretched at our feet.

Podgorica lies like an oasis of green trees on the rolling, but
treeless, plain.

The Albanian border is but a rifle-shot away, and the village of Dinos
and the fortress of Tusi are plainly to be seen.

We decided to spend the night here and hear Keco's story, though
Podgorica was only three hours' distance. It would be a fitting finish
to our mountain tour to sleep on the battlefield of Fundina, and in
the house of a modern hero.

"I warn you," remarked the doctor, "that Keco much belies his deeds by
his appearance."

Keco was not in his house when we arrived, and we had our ceremonial
and inevitable black coffee brought to us on a small natural platform
of rock overlooking the magnificent valley.

Shortly afterwards a small and insignificant man approached us, with
haggard looks and grey hair. He greeted the doctor effusively.

"This is Keco," said Dr. S.

As he took the tobacco tin which was proffered him his hands trembled
so excessively that the rolling of a cigarette was a work of art.

"His nerves are gone," explained the doctor. "He lives in hourly
danger of his life."

Keco soon left us to prepare our meal and quarters for the night, and
it was not till after supper, when we were seated round the fire in
his little house and smoking, that he would consent to tell his story.
Even then he spoke at first reluctantly, but soon warmed to his
subject. His wife was always present and looked anxious. Several men
were in the room.

"Though my hands tremble and my hair is growing white," he began, "yet
I do not fear death. We must all die, and I know that my fate must
speedily overtake me. This house I have built for my wife, and stocked
with what money I had, to provide for her. They shall not kill me
easily. Twice have they tried. The first time I was in the fields when
men fired at me from a long distance. I took my rifle and made a
detour, and, as my enemies recrossed the border, I was there waiting
for them. But I did not hit one. Another time seven men hid themselves
only thirty yards away from my house, in the evening, but they dared
not shoot then, for my wife was by my side."

"You know," explained the doctor, "the life of a woman is sacred;
should a woman by the greatest accident shoot a man, the vendetta
falls on her husband--she may not be touched; or, should a woman be
killed in a vendetta, even by the merest accident, the shame would be
unspeakable. The murderers and their families, or even their clan,
would be blotted out, for in such revenge all would join. Keco's wife
never leaves his side after dusk, and, you see, she has saved his life
once already within his knowledge; who knows how often unawares?"

"Tell us the origin of thy blood-guiltiness," said we. Dr. S. had told
us the story, but we wished to hear it from his lips.

"I had a cow which was my pride," went on Keco. "She yielded more milk
than any other cow and of a far better quality. Men praised the milk
and the cheese when I took it to the market in Podgorica for sale, and
none more than Achmet, a Turk from Dinos.

"One morning I went to milk my cow, and could find her nowhere. My
most treasured possession was gone. I searched for her all that day
and the next on the mountain sides, but in vain. On the next market
day as I wandered gloomily across the market-place of Podgorica,
Achmet, the Turk, accosted me.

"'Where is thy milk?' he asked, 'which is so wonderful, and where are
thy marvellous cheeses?'

"I replied that I knew not, and would have passed on.

"'Make thy mind easy,' continued Achmet, an evil smile spreading over
his face, 'for I have thy cow.'

"'Ah! she has strayed across the border,' I cried. 'Thank God she is
found.'

"'She strayed across the border,' said Achmet, 'but under my guidance.
Thou hast not lied. Her milk is indeed of the good quality that thou
hast boasted. For a Christian dog like thee she is far too good.'

"To this hour I wonder that I did not strike him dead. My rage
rendered me powerless to move or see. It was as if a black cloud
descended over my eyes. When I recovered, Achmet was gone.

"For many weeks I went to the Law Court whenever I visited the market,
demanding the restitution of my cow by legal means, and each time was
I put off by answers and promises. And Achmet was always on the
market-place taunting me with tales of the cow and her calf. For she
had calved. But the law is strict, and I never dared shoot him whilst
in the town, and this the coward knew.

"When I saw that I should get no help from the law, I took two men
from this village. They are here in this room," he said, pointing to
two men seated near us. "And one morning I went across to Dinos. I did
not go at night, like the thief, but when the sun was highest, and
when all could see me. I left my comrades outside Achmet's house, and
went in alone. There I found my cow and her calf, but only the women
were present. So I drove the cow and the calf out of the door towards
my comrades. Then, lest any should think that I was afraid, I fired my
rifle into the air. Very soon the men came running from the fields,
and amongst them Achmet and his son. When they saw me and my cow, they
came towards me firing, but being unsteady from running, the bullets
flew wide. Then I took careful aim and shot Achmet dead, and then his
son. We then ran quickly, and though men pursued us, they were afraid
to come too near lest I should shoot them likewise, and so we came
back to Fundina in safety. Since then the men of Dinos wait for me,
and they will kill me soon, for the insult is very great that I have
put upon them, and the fame of my deed has travelled into all lands."
As he said this his eyes lit with fire, and the spirit of heroism
shone out in the seemingly timid-looking man.

"Must thou stay here, in Fundina?" I asked, "where thy enemies are so
near. Why not go to Cetinje or Niksic?"

"Men know me for a hero," he answered proudly. "What would they say if
I ran away and sought safety elsewhere? I should be a double coward,
for I should leave my brothers to inherit my fate. No, I shall wait
here till they come, and they shall not find me unprepared or
sleeping. See, every night I make my bed in a different place,
sometimes in one room of the house, sometimes in the bushes outside.
They never know where I shall sleep, for these dogs love to kill their
enemy in the night."

Silence fell upon us as Keco finished. The wood fire crackled and
flickered, lighting up fitfully the serious faces of the men sitting
round.

Half guessing our thoughts, Keco said--

"To-night no attack will be made. We shall keep guard outside."

We felt abashed. We confess thoughts of a nocturnal assassination had
not pleased us, and yet these wild mountaineers had already provided
for such a contingency. When we went outside the house before turning
in, Dr. S. pointed out the figure of a motionless sentinel leaning on
his rifle some little distance away.

"It is odd that the women are so respected," I remarked to the doctor,
"when no other law seems recognised. Do they never take part in a
vendetta?"

"Never as a woman," said the doctor. "If it should happen that a woman
is the last surviving member of a family, the rest having been killed
in a vendetta, she may continue the feud, but as a man. She then
assumes the clothes of the opposite sex, procures arms and cuts
herself off from the world, living as a hermit. Do you remember that
Albanian woman at Easter time in Podgorica who kissed me so
fervently?"

We nodded, for we had been much amused at the scene. A wild-looking,
unkempt Albanian woman had kissed the doctor most effusively.

"Though she had assumed the woman's garb for the Easter festival, she
is to all intents and purposes a man, and hence the man's kiss of
peace. She then asked me for a revolver which I had promised her some
time ago."

We turned in soon after, but not before we heard another story.

Two cairns on the road to Plavnica, and but half an hour from
Podgorica, had often been pointed out to us. They were erected to the
memory of an attack made on four gendarmes in connection with a
long-standing vendetta. A party of Albanians had hidden themselves in
two hollows beside the main road at night and as the gendarmes passed
they fired into them, killing one and badly wounding two others. This
happened shortly before our arrival.

Another scene had been enacted a few days ago which they now related
to us, to prevent us perhaps thinking too much of Keco's story, and
dreaming of it.

The men of the Zeta had sworn revenge for the death of their gendarme,
a famous man and great favourite, but at the time Prince Nicolas had
sternly forbidden reprisals. But such things are not forgotten, and a
man had crossed the Zem into Albania. Coming on a party of men working
in a field, he had fired, but his aim was unsteady, and he only
wounded his intended victim slightly. Then he fled, hotly pursued, and
received a bad wound as he crossed an open space. Still he managed to
elude his pursuers for the time being, and reached the River Zem. Here
his strength failed him and he clung, half fainting from loss of
blood, to the bushes fringing the bank, unable to go any further. In
this position a man of the clan Hotti found him, as he was coming
along the river. Having heard the shots and seeing a bleeding
Montenegrin, he put two and two together and promptly shot him. The
other Albanians, directed by the report, now came up, and literally
hacked the corpse to pieces. So the Zeta peasants are now two deaths
to the bad. In conclusion, we were told that the authorities have
reason to believe that the murdered man had been accompanied by others
on his raid into a friendly country and were seeking for these men
most diligently to punish them severely.

For their violating the border laws?

No, for deserting their comrade, and leaving him to meet his death
alone, and the sentence for this craven deed is ten years.

Next morning we rode into Podgorica, and comparative civilisation,
after a period of roughing it of the hardest description. We had often
gone from five a.m. till seven or eight p.m. on a couple of eggs and
an occasional glass of milk, and had hard going all the time. It
proved to us pretty conclusively how we of civilised lands
disgustingly and habitually overeat ourselves.

We finished considerably harder and more fit than at the start, and we
had lived the whole time as the Montenegrins of the mountains live.

One remarkable gift of which these mountaineers are possessed, and
which deserves special remark, is that of long-distance talking. Men
can speak with each other in the higher altitudes at distances of five
miles and more, where our ears could hardly distinguish a faint sound
of the human voice. Children are accustomed to it at an early age, and
the quaint sight of a mother conversing with her child guarding some
sheep on a neighbouring hillside is often to be witnessed. This gift
must be acquired young, it seems, for Dr. S., who has lived twelve
years amongst the Montenegrins, could neither make himself heard, nor
understand, though he said that he had given himself much pains to
learn the art.

As we rode into Podgorica that morning, we were struck by meeting
several groups of the Turkish inhabitants hanging about outside the
town. Arriving in the town, only Montenegrins were to be seen in the
streets, walking somewhat ostentatiously up and down, their natural
swagger greatly exaggerated. The news of the elopement of another
Turkish maiden soon reached us, and that day at dinner, an officer,
detailed to prove the matter, told us the story.

A young Montenegrin had won the heart of the maiden, and accompanied
by a friend, he had gone to the wall of her house and given a
preconcerted signal. The girl had come, but a dispute now arose
between the men as to who should ultimately marry her, and she, in
great disgust, had told them to go away and settle the matter. It
seems that the girl had no particular wishes as to whom she should
marry. At last the friends arranged matters satisfactorily and the
girl was abducted, if one can call an elopement an abduction. However,
in the eyes of the Turks it was a forcible abduction, and the fact
that the girl was related to the most influential Turk in the town did
not improve matters. The Beg had demanded the restitution of the girl
at once and punishment of the offenders. The Prince had sent officials
to settle the dispute. The girl, however, very naturally refused to be
given back, as she would probably have been killed, and insisted on
her baptism and marriage taking place forthwith.

As the officer said to us--

"This is a free country, and we shall not give back the maiden against
her will."

This had incensed the Turks beyond measure. The town was being
patrolled nightly, and the Beg attempted flight to mark his anger. But
this the Prince would not allow, and the Beg was stopped by gendarmes
as he was entering a carriage one night. Only if he first gave up his
orders, decorations, and his sword of honour, and, furthermore, took
his wives and belongings with him, could he leave the country.

Such was the state of affairs on our return. At night we went armed,
and really had hopes of seeing a street fight. One evening a shot was
fired in the town, and in the twinkling of an eye men turned out rifle
in hand. Nothing came of it, and the crowd of several hundred armed
Montenegrins slowly dispersed. Had further shots been fired, we were
told, the peasants from far and near would have taken up the alarm,
and in an hour thousands would have flocked into the town. No wonder
the Turks were chary of taking revenge into their own hands.[8]

[Footnote 8: Again, since writing the above, this statement has been
fully proved. In February, 1902, a party of Turkish soldiers, half
starved in their frontier block-houses, attempted a raid into
Montenegro. They were accompanied by a brother of the famous Achmet
Uiko; whose story has been related elsewhere. In spite of the caution
which the raiders displayed, the news reached Podgorica as soon as
they had crossed the border and seemingly eluded the vigilance of the
Montenegrin frontier guards. A party of Montenegrins lay in wait for
them in Dr. S.'s summer garden (a spot where we had often spent many
pleasant hours) and the Turks were challenged. As an answer the
marauders fired at their unseen challengers, doing no harm, but an
answering volley killed two of them. The rest were captured, one only
making good his escape, and were brought into the town. But the
volleys had alarmed the whole district, hundreds of men pouring into
Podgorica from all the neighbouring villages and hills, till many
thousands had assembled.
--Cetinje, March, 1902.]

But the mischief done was great. Many families emigrated, much to
Prince Nicolas' anger, for he encourages by every means in his power
the extension of the Turkish population. They bring trade and
cultivate the lands far more diligently than the Montenegrin warriors.

So it was that we witnessed during these few days the festival of the
Sultan's birthday, which seemed strangely incongruous considering the
mixed feelings of the inhabitants.

In the morning, all the town officials called on the Turkish Consul.
The militia were formed up and the whole, led by the Montenegrin War
Banner, proceeded in solemn procession to the principal mosque. On
their return, a royal salute was fired from a bastion of the old wall,
and in the evening the town was illuminated.

It was an extraordinary sight, and one not easily to be forgotten. All
the houses stuck candles in every window, by order of the Prince; the
market-place and the War Memorial were covered with lamps, but the
most striking feature of all was the illumination on a small hill
immediately behind the old town. This hill overlooks the town, and was
covered by rows of lamps. In the streets Turks, Albanians, and
Montenegrins jostled each other; at peace, at any rate, for one
evening.

A day or two later, a very different spectacle could have been
witnessed. The main street leading to the church on the outskirts of
the town was lined by waiting Montenegrins, and not a Turk was to be
seen. Soon a carriage drove rapidly from the church, with a blushing
Montenegrin girl and a gold-embroidered Montenegrin at her side. It
was the late Turkish maiden, now a radiant Montenegrin bride and
Christian. Several Turks had been caught endeavouring to approach the
church with revolvers concealed, but were promptly turned back.

And so ended an eventful week.

One day, quite by accident, we discovered the arrest-house, or place
where prisoners are detained pending their trial and sentence. We were
passing a door which led down by a few steps into a courtyard, when an
acquaintance of ours accosted us.

We went inside and spoke to him for some minutes. He was a merry
individual and a clerk in a Government office.

He requested us to bring our camera and photograph him on the next
day. Then he moved and a chain clanked. Neither of us had realised
that this was a prison till that moment, though we had passed that
door many times.

Next day we came again, and took a picture of our genial friend, whom
we found seated and playing the gusla to a crowd of other prisoners,
some exceedingly heavily chained.

One or two guards came up and we spent an hour in a pleasant chat.

Our friend was only "in" for a few days for making a rude remark about
the Chief of Police. The chained men were mostly murderers, if we may
use such a harsh term for those who are compelled to kill their
enemies by the relentless laws of the vendetta, and who would be
punished by the laws of man should they prove themselves guilty of
cowardice.

The vendetta in Montenegro is a legal anomaly. Men are punished in
either case.




CHAPTER XVIII

S. Vasili and Ostrog--Our drive thither--Joyful pilgrims--Varied
costumes--We meet the Vladika of Montenegro--The ordeal of hot
coffee--A real pilgrimage--The shrine of S. Vasili--The ancient
hermit--A miracle--Niksic--The gaudy cathedral and the Prince's
palace--We are disappointed in Niksic.


Though we visited the famous Monastery of Ostrog at the very beginning
of our visit to Montenegro, and Niksic at the conclusion, both places
lie so near together that we put them now in this order for the sake
of simplicity.

It was our good fortune to be enabled to witness the annual pilgrimage
to the shrine of S. Vasili, which takes place during the Greek
Whitsuntide.

Ostrog is the Lourdes of the Balkans, as many equally miraculous cures
take place as at the Roman Catholic rival in the Pyrenees. The
Serb-speaking races from far and near flock there in enormous numbers,
as well as many Mahometans and Catholics.

S. Vasili (or Basil) was a native of the Hercegovina and a holy man of
great repute. About a century ago he had a vision telling him to
travel to Montenegro, and there to found a monastery. Accordingly he
set out, taking with him a great quantity of building material, and
chose a spot not far from Podgorica, on the right bank of the Zeta.
But in the night the material disappeared, and S. Vasili hunted high
and low. After a weary search it was found at Ostrog, and there he
built his place of retreat, living many years, working many miracles,
and dying as a saint. He is buried there, and it is said that any
believer has but to visit the shrine, and whatever his wish may be, it
will be fulfilled. Thus cripples have walked back the way which they
were carried, sick have been made whole, and the mentally afflicted
have gone away rejoicing. Certain it is that many wonderful cures are
yearly effected there.

Furthermore, the name of Ostrog appears often in the glorious annals
of Montenegrin history. The oft-told tale of Prince Nicolas' father,
Mirko, "The Sword of Montenegro," who was besieged in that
inaccessible cleft in a precipice with a handful of men, is one of the
most famous feats of Montenegrin arms. The charred cliffs still bear
silent witness to the efforts which the Turks made to burn out the
little garrison by throwing bundles of flaming straw from above.

Ostrog is about six hours' drive from Podgorica. The road passes along
the River Zeta, leaving the village of Spuz on the right, and past the
flourishing little town of Danilovgrad, soon to be the connecting
town between Cetinje and Niksic on completion of the projected road.

There is nothing of interest in Danilovgrad, though the market is of
some importance. A little way beyond the town a nearly complete
building can be noticed. It is the lunatic asylum.

From this point onwards the road ascends slowly but steadily until a
deep valley lies to the right, and the Zeta assumes quite diminutive
proportions. The mountains opposite rise to an ever-increasing height,
until a few tiny buildings can be made out by the help of
field-glasses. It is Ostrog. That morning we could make out the tents
and booths of the pilgrims, and a dark mass of surging humanity. But
it is still a very long distance away. The road climbs up to the head
of the valley to the village of Bogetic, full that morning of the
carriages of the wealthy pilgrims. During the Whitsun festival
carriages are scarcely to be procured in the whole of Montenegro, or
in Cattaro either.

We broke our fast here, and then drove for another mile or so where a
path leaves the road, and the pilgrim has either to proceed on
horseback or on foot. We had to go on foot, and a very long and tiring
walk it proved to be. Besides Dr. S. and his factotum, Lazo, we took
another man with us, a wretched puny individual, but seemingly
possessed of more endurance than any of us. He led us by a short cut
over rocks, and up slippery breakneck walls of cliffs, over which our
guide skipped nimbly, and having reached the top seemingly hours
before us, sat down and beamed benevolently.

Half-way, the rain came down in sheets, and we took shelter in a
wayside inn, or rather hut. It was crowded with returning pilgrims
whom the threatening weather had forced to depart earlier than is
their wont.

As the weather momentarily cleared, we pushed on, and the remaining
distance was one of the most interesting walks it had been our fortune
to witness. A ceaseless stream of pilgrims poured down the rocky path.
It came on to rain again, but one and all wished us luck in the name
of God and S. Vasili. Nearly every costume of the Balkans was
represented. The Bosnian, in sack-shaped baggy trousers, fitting the
lower leg, either of crimson or blue cloth, a smart-coloured Turkish
jacket, a broad shawl round his waist displaying armouries of knives
and pistols, on his head a fez wound round with a huge turban cloth,
mounted, or leading a pack-horse; his wife in coarse black trousers;
the Hercegovinans, with breastplates of silver ornaments, exquisite in
workmanship and of great antiquity; sombre Servians, and white-clad
Albanians, whose trousers are embroidered with black braid in
fantastic tracing; fez, head-cloth, and neat little Montenegrin cap;
trousers of red, pink, blue and black; gigantic Albanians in high
riding-boots, sitting their horses like Life Guardsmen; Macedonians,
Greeks, and even pure-blooded Turks; Montenegrins in creamy white
frock-coats worn over gold-braided crimson jackets; and dark-blue
costumes with red worsted tassels of the poor Dalmatian peasants--all
passed us in bewildering confusion.

The women (who were for the most part Montenegrin) showed up well in
comparison with their sisters from Sarajevo, whose attire is, to say
the least, comical. For in the larger towns of the Austrian occupation
territory they are undergoing the stage from East to West, and appear
in huge Turkish trousers and cheap, gaudy European blouses. The
contrast between the Sarajevan and the graceful Montenegrin is
positively ludicrous. But of all the costumes, male and female, the
palm must be given to the Montenegrin. They carry themselves with a
princely air, and their picturesque costume is a model of good taste;
for Montenegro is, as Mr. Gladstone has remarked, the beach on which
was thrown up the remnants of Balkan freedom. After the battle of
Kossovo, all the Serb nobility who would not submit to the Turk fled
to Crnagora, and the traces of heredity are easily to be recognised in
their superb carriage.

[Illustration: MONTENEGRIN WOMEN]

It was well after midday when we reached the plateau on which the
lower and modern monastery is situated. We entered through a gate into
a wide path bordered with booths in which crowds of joyful pilgrims
sat refreshing themselves. In spite of the departing crowds that we
had passed, the place was still densely packed, for over twenty
thousand people visit Ostrog. We squeezed into one of the booths and
sat watching the surging mass pass to and fro.

The mixture of costume was even more marked than on the path below. It
was a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour. Nothing but colour--colour.
Very rarely could a man in European clothes (the richer Dalmatians) be
noticed, and he seemed strangely out of place and harmony.

As we sat and gazed, two Bosnian minstrels, from bad memory and an
indifferent ear, began playing on a fiddle and a guitar, and though
their music was atrocious, the wild Turkish songs which they sang gave
the finishing touch to the scene. It was not till they began playing
snatches of music-hall airs, such long-forgotten tunes as "Daisy,"
that we hurriedly moved on.

The Archbishop, Mitrofanban, heard of our arrival soon after, and
immediately sent for us. When we approached, he was sitting on the
steps of a house, surrounded by a brilliant staff of Montenegrin
nobles and many priests, while below a great crowd of pilgrims stood
in a ring, watching the national dance, which was being performed
before His Grace. The dance stopped as we drew near. The Archbishop
received us very kindly--this was our first meeting with him--and
expressed his pleasure to see strangers from such a distant land in
Ostrog. He assigned a room to us in his house, and gave orders for us
to be fed during our stay. Murmuring our thanks, we attempted to
withdraw, but we did not escape before we had solemnly drunk the usual
coffee. It was rather an ordeal to consume that very hot coffee in the
face of the multitude, and we were painfully conscious of our many
shortcomings in personal appearance. Muddy and half-wet riding clothes
and flannel shirts do not seem to go with crimson and gold, high boots
of patent leather, and sparkling orders. A Horseguardsman's uniform
would be more in keeping. When we left, the dancing resumed and was
kept up till a late hour that night. We noticed another national dance
at Ostrog. A much more barbaric performance than the stately and
solemn movement of the ring dance, or kolo.

In this case two performers dance at a time, a man and a woman. A
small ring is made by the spectators, who also supply the relay
couples. The man endeavours to spring as high as possible into the
air, emitting short, Red Indian yells, and firing his revolver. The
woman gives more decorous jumps; and, keeping opposite each other,
they leap backwards and forwards across the small open space. After
a few minutes they are unceremoniously pushed aside, after giving each
other a hasty kiss, and another couple takes their place. This goes on
_ad lib._, and we were soothed to sleep by those wild yells.

[Illustration: THE LOWER MONASTERY, OSTROG]

Next morning we were up bright and early, and about seven o'clock
commenced the actual pilgrimage. A steep and stony path winds up
through a dense wood for about an hour. Fanatical pilgrims make this
journey sometimes barefoot, but the ordeal is sufficiently severe
without these little additions. The whole way is lined with beggars,
sometimes hardly recognisable as human beings, who must reap a rich
harvest by the exhibition of their ghastly woes. _They_ constitute the
ordeal.

Maimed stumps of limbs, deformed children, repulsive and festering
sores, and other diseases too foul for description were proudly
exhibited at every step. A cap was placed invitingly in front of each,
and partly filled with alms already given. In piteous agony diseased
hands and quavering voices besought us in the name of God and their
saint to alleviate their sufferings with the gift of a kreutzer. It
was not a sight that will lightly escape the memory.

We reached the top, hot and nauseated, but were fully compensated by
the unique view. The monastery is built under an overhanging precipice
which rises to a giddy height above. The charred rocks bear telling
evidence to the miracles which have saved the little edifice from
burning.

We went straight to the shrine, through a little door scarcely more
than four feet high (the wooden lintels of which being the handiwork
of S. Vasili were piously kissed by the Montenegrins), through two
long and narrow passages hewn from the living rock and emerged
suddenly in a small rock chamber, dimly lit by an oil lamp and about
twelve feet square. The five of us filled the space, and, as our eyes
grew accustomed to the gloom, we were able to distinguish a wooden
shrine taking up the whole length of one side--where the mortal
remains of the Hercegovinan lay. Another side was occupied by an open
coffin containing the vestments and crucifix. On a chair sat a Greek
priest who rose when we entered. At the foot of the shrine lay a
cripple.

We stood for some minutes in utter silence, and then followed the lead
of the doctor, who approached the coffin and kissed the crucifix,
which a priest gave to us all in turn: a plate for alms lay on the
vestments: then the woodwork of the shrine was likewise kissed, and we
emerged again into the narrow gallery.

The heat had been intense in the little chapel, and we were in that
limp and exhausted state that one experiences in a Turkish bath.

[Illustration: THE UPPER MONASTERY]

The gallery was open on one side where a large bell was fixed, and
this our puny guide struck four times vigorously in the sign of a
cross without a word of warning.

After the impressive solemnity and silence of the preceding minutes,
we nearly jumped out of our skins, and when our injured hearing had
sufficiently recovered so that we could distinguish the sound of our
own voices, we demanded an explanation of this apparently childish and
wanton outrage.

He said that he had struck the bell for the renewal of his strength.
It appeared an unnecessary request.

Dr. S. explained that pilgrims strike the bell on emerging from the
shrine, praying for some special benefit.

We next went up a lot of steps to a platform under the shelving cliff
where there was a beautiful spring of water. The view which it
commanded was magnificent. Below us lay the lower monastery and the
deep valley of the Zeta, the mountains rising again sharply on the
further side; to the right and left stretched wooded slopes.

Then we descended again and paid the priest a visit. This man, over
eighty years of age, has spent forty years of his life as a hermit in
that rocky crag. With the exception of Whitsuntide and the occasional
visits of pilgrims, he lives entirely alone, subsisting on vegetables.
His appearance was most patriarchal, his snowy white beard and
saintly look impressing us greatly. When he heard that we were from
England, he embraced and kissed us repeatedly, much to our
embarrassment. His joy knew no bounds, and he kept us with him in his
rock-hewn cell for a considerable time. He even consented to be
photographed, for the first time in his life, facing the ordeal with
unflinching courage.

The descent to the lower monastery was made in record time, and with
half-closed eyes. We found the Archbishop standing in the shade of an
enormous tree surrounded by a large ring of Montenegrins. He beckoned
to us, asking us for our impressions, and needless to say we solemnly
drank coffee. This beverage began to pall before we left Montenegro.

After partaking of a splendid meal (for the country), washed down with
wine such as is not to be obtained elsewhere in the land, we paid a
farewell visit to His Grace and departed.

Already the booths were fast disappearing and a mere handful of
peasants remained. Many pilgrims journey from seven to eight days on
foot or on horseback to Ostrog, over mountain passes and barren
regions; so that the pilgrimage is very real.

Before we leave Ostrog, we will mention one of the miracles which we
had the opportunity of authenticating.

A wretched Turk living to-day in Podgorica, a cripple crawling
painfully on hands and knees, once made the pilgrimage to Ostrog.
Friends carried him to the shrine, where he lay all night. Then he
rose up and walked back to Podgorica rejoicing, with those who had
carried him the day before. As he crossed the Vizier bridge, he
sceptically remarked that he would have been healed without undergoing
the farce of the pilgrimage. Straightway he fell to the ground, the
same helpless cripple that he was before.

The Turk and the witnesses still live--in fact it happened but a few
years ago--to tell the tale.

The road to Niksic, which we left to proceed to Ostrog, climbs to the
height of 750 metres in crossing the mountain ridge dividing the
valley of the Zeta from that of Niksic. The scenery is throughout fine
and wild. In a succession of serpentines, the road descends sharply on
to the great plain, the fertile valley of Niksic.

The town can be seen immediately on leaving the mountainous gorge, the
cupola of the cathedral standing up boldly from the surrounding flat.

A long viaduct is crossed, built by the Russians, at the foot of the
mountain, for in the winter floods are common, and Niksic was at times
nearly cut off from the rest of Montenegro.

Niksic is probably the coming capital of Montenegro. In fact, it has
been but a question of money that has prevented the removal of the
Government from Cetinje a long time ago.

The Prince has recently built himself a large palace, the Russians
have erected a large church, and roads are now in the course of
construction connecting it with Risano on the Bocche di Cattaro, and
Cetinje, and again with the Cattaro-Cetinje road.

When these roads are completed, Niksic will have a most central
position, and the unquestionably rich and fertile plain can be opened
up. Without doubt it is the coming trading centre, and already it is
running Podgorica very close.

The day after our arrival--we had arrived in the night--we saw the
town under most unfavourable conditions. A violent thunderstorm had
raged incessantly for many hours, and the streets were in parts
inundated. Water was pouring in miniature waterfalls from the ground
floors of many houses which possessed a higher background. Braving the
elements, and often making detours to avoid the lakes, we walked to
the palace and the church. Both lie together outside the town.

A flight of steps lead up an artificial mound, over-shadowing the
somewhat barrack-like palace, where stands the new cathedral. It is
the most striking edifice in the whole country, surmounted with a
dingy light yellow cupola. It is not pretty or tasteful, but it is
distinctly imposing, and one can well realise the marvellings that
it has given the simple Montenegrins. Inside it is severely plain and
void of any furniture, except the thrones for the Royal Family. Round
the walls are lists of the men who have fallen in recent wars.

[Illustration: THE CHURCH, NIKSIC]

[Illustration: THE CHURCH AND PALACE]

The platform on which the church stands commands a view of the
country. The simplicity of Prince Nicolas' palace is thus accentuated,
for it is situated on perfectly open ground, and there is no garden or
any railings round it. Naked and forlorn, it gives the spectator a sad
impression of poverty. On another side is the old Church of Niksic,
ridiculously small and half-ruined. The Russians did a good deed, for
the comparison is absolutely absurd if a comparison can be drawn
between a hovel and a S. Peter's.

The town is a long straggling collection of small houses, very
uninteresting and plain, and beyond lies the historical ruin of the
old fortress, stormed by Prince Nicolas in person.

In the town itself, broad streets and an enormous market-place are the
only features.

We spent a few days in Niksic, but in this instance we were never able
to rid ourselves of the first impressions, and we left gladly, though
the town was not without its humour. It contains the only brewery in
Montenegro, a ramshackle place and producing very poor beer. The post
office is a tumble-down outhouse, also we were shown the house which
would in the course of time be the Bank of Montenegro.

It is hard to realise that Niksic is the coming town, in spite of its
gaudy cathedral, but progress makes sometimes wonderful strides.

Our visit to Niksic was a failure all round. We arrived to see the
Prince ride out of the town at the head of a great cavalcade for the
mountains, and again missed the opportunity of presenting ourselves.

Our intended tour to the Durmitor, Montenegro's highest mountain, was
frustrated, owing to the Prince's retinue having taken every horse in
the place, in addition to the weather having completely broken up, and
so we missed one of the finest parts of the country.




CHAPTER XIX

The Club and its members--Gugga--Irregularities of time--The absence
of the gentle muse and our surprise--The musician's story and his
subsequent fate--The Black Earth--A typical border house--The ordeal
of infancy--A realistic performance which is misunderstood--Concerning
a memorable drive--A fervent prayer.


Before we leave Podgorica for good our readers must be introduced to
the Club. It was not a club in the English sense of the word, but P.
and I always called that hour or two at sunset so delightfully spent
in the company of that cosmopolitan gathering, the Club. Podgorica was
our base, from which we made all our trips and excursions, so that we
were there off and on during the whole of our lengthy sojourn amongst
the sons of the Black Mountain. From the "members" we gleaned many
stories of past and present vendettas and quaint customs which we had
not had the good fortune to witness ourselves. Amongst the regular
members was of course Dr. S., who was three nationalities rolled into
one--to explain, born in Roumania, he entered into Austrian service
and became an Austrian subject, and finally twelve years in Montenegro
had quite "Montenegrinised" him. He was very angry if we told him
this. In the course of his duties as sole veterinary surgeon he had
travelled, and travelled continually from one end of the land to the
other, there was not a corner or collection of huts where he had not
been. He had been snowed up in winter in the mountains, attacked by
wolves, and shot at by Albanians, and had witnessed many a scene of
the vendetta.

Another even more interesting character was L., an Austrian, who for
years had been employed by scientific institutions in ornithological
and geological research in Montenegro and Albania. He had carried his
life in his hands for weeks together amongst the untameable
mountaineers across the border. A man whose terribly hard life had
turned him into a man of bone and muscle, rivalling the most active
Montenegrin in strength and endurance. And what a fund of anecdote and
adventure he could reel off! Without doubt he was one of the most
interesting and fascinating men we have ever met; a perfect rifle,
gun, and revolver shot, fine horseman and entertaining companion.

Then there was a Montenegrin professor, he was the father of the
party, though the tales _he_ told were not at all becoming to his age
and learning. He spoke about eight languages well and perhaps that had
slightly turned his brain. Once he had served a term of imprisonment
for an outspoken criticism, and when he became tired of it, he sent
an ultimatum to the effect that if he were not released at once, he
would break out himself, take a rifle and bundle of cartridges and
hold the Lovcen (a high mountain) against all comers. The originality
of his threat gained him his freedom. Since then he has kept a closer
guard over that unruly member and only unburdened himself in the
seclusion of the Club. Otherwise P., myself, and a young and intensely
patriotic Scotchman completed the list of regular members.

We had a few occasional "country members," officers and officials whom
some of us knew well from Cetinje or Niksic, but we were mostly alone.
At first we met in the garden of one Petri, a good-tempered giant of
about six feet eight inches, but in spite of our patronage he managed
to ruin himself at cards and so we were forced to adjourn to an old
Albanian rascal named Gugga. What fun we had with that dear old boy,
whom we irreverently called Skenderbeg! One day in a moment of
ill-advised confidence he had told us that he was descended from that
great Albanian hero and patriot. But he was an educated and travelled
man, having lived for many years in Venice, spoke an excellent Italian
and correspondingly atrocious German, which latter he delighted to
inflict upon us. He was most amusing in his hatred and contempt of the
Montenegrin peasant.

Gugga kept a big shop, and when irritated by a customer he had a
regular formula which loses much of its wit when translated, as it
rhymes in Serb. The humble Montenegrin is remarkably feminine in the
way he shops. He will spend half an hour in the store examining
everything with great curiosity. At last he will ask the price of a
certain article. Gugga, whose choler has been slowly rising during his
customer's long and tiring inspection, gives a purposely indistinct
answer, whereupon the Montenegrin will inquire "What does he say?"
Gugga, furious at being spoken to in the third person, turns savagely
upon the astonished Montenegrin saying--

"What dost thou say? What dost thou mean?
 What stinks here? Get out, ass and son of an ass."

Another famous saying of his was in speaking of Montenegro, its past
and present rulers. "This land," Gugga would say in all seriousness,
"was first accursed by God, its maker; then by Diocletian, then by the
Sultan, then by our Gospodar (Prince), and lastly by Gospodin
Milovan." Gospodin (Mr.) Milovan was the last Governor of Podgorica, a
man always endeavouring to introduce modern improvements into the
town, much to the disgust of its inhabitants who are nothing if not
conservative, and amongst other sufferers was our friend Gugga. He
substitutes the word "blessed" for "accursed," according to his
audience.

We met after the arrival of the mail diligence from Cetinje about
half-past six or seven o'clock in the evening. Proceedings usually
commenced with a heated argument as to the time, the last comer being
accused of unpunctuality. It was always an unsatisfactory argument,
for no member ever had the same time as another. A sort of
go-as-you-please time was kept in the town, but as either your watch
invariably gained ten minutes in the day--according to the town clock
it did--or lost a quarter of an hour, no one had any confidence in the
official time, and each swore to the regularity of his own timepiece.
One great advantage of this discrepancy of time was that try as one
would, one was never late for an appointment. Somebody was sure to be
present to back up an indignant protest, that you were five minutes
early.

One evening was particularly memorable, it was in Petri's garden,
then, that we had met as usual. P. was in a pensive and sentimental
mood, usually caused by the magnificent sunsets. From our table we
commanded a splendid view of those crimson-tinted peaks in the far
distance, and the mysterious purple gloom which, like a rich robe,
covered the intervening hills. By some strange coincidence the subject
of music came up, and P. bitterly lamented the absence of that gentle
muse from such grand surroundings. I don't believe there is a piano in
the country except at the girls' school at Cetinje. The Scotchman had
suggested the gusla as a substitute, and had been met with derisive
laughter, for he had made the suggestion in all good faith. He was one
of the most unmusical men I have ever met. The professor had followed
this up with a learned discourse on the gusla, and the lesson to be
learnt from it in the origin and development of modern music, when
suddenly the sounds of a violin, being tuned in the room behind us,
arrested his flow of speech. In another few moments the unseen
musician began to play, and a deep silence fell upon us, for he was
playing our music and recalling memories of bygone days. Snatches from
Italian opera, and old well-known songs followed each other as we sat
in the twilight and listened, conjuring up pictures of opera-house and
concert-hall in this far-away land. Then the music ceased, and the
tinkling of coins on a plate proclaimed the status of our serenader.
In a few minutes a ragged, fair-haired boy stood before us, wearily
holding a plate in his hand. As we dived into our pockets the doctor
asked him in Serb, who he was and whence he came. He gazed blankly in
answer, and P. said to me, "He looks quite English." A joyful smile
lit up his tired face as he answered--

"I am English, sir. I will fetch father; he will be so pleased."

His father came out, a battered violin under his arm, and we were all
struck with his miserable half-starved and ragged appearance. He
played to us, he did not even play well, poor fellow, but still we
listened appreciatively, and then some of us took him home, fed him,
and we all contributed to his wardrobe. We were all of different sizes
and build, and the result was sadly comical. Before he left us he told
his story. It was not new or even interesting, but intensely pathetic;
one of a large family, fair education, and finally a clerk at L80 a
year. A pretty typewriter, marriage, and no help from his father.
First the girl wife was dismissed, and then the boy husband. The child
was born, and the mother died from lack of proper nourishment and
comfort. For a few years the father earned a few coppers by playing
before public-houses in the East End, and then took to the road.
Somehow or other he found himself on the Continent, and after many
years he had turned up here. It was all very vague and incoherent.
Often starving, homeless, and speaking no language but his own, is it
to be wondered that the man had lost count of days, years, and time?
Now he had a desire to journey to Greece, why, he knew not, but he
clung to it with all a weak man's obstinacy. We could never let him
trudge through Albania, and so the Scotchman procured him a free
passage to Corfu by steamer. He left us one morning, leading his son
by the hand, and over his shoulder a sack containing his worldly
possessions, a sorrowful, ludicrous, and pitiful picture.

Many weeks afterwards--P. and I had been on an expedition in the
meantime--we sat again in Petri's garden at just such a sunset. We
remembered the musician, and one of us jokingly remarked that his
music would not be so appreciated in Greece as by us music-starved
exiles. Then the Austrian told us the sequel. He had heard it from a
murderous Albanian friend of his, who sometimes brought him specimens.
The wanderer had not used his ticket, and had walked from Antivari to
Dulcigno, from thence he had attempted his original plan of crossing
Albania on foot. He knew nothing of geography or nationality, and
doubtless imagined that he could earn his way as in a civilised
country. On the way to Scutari a band of Albanians stopped him, and he
played to them. The instrument pleased them, and they took it from
him. Then they took the boy--though why they did so is not clear, for
they do not kidnap children--and the father, in a fit of wild despair,
sprang at the nearest Albanian. The Albanians are always glad of an
excuse to kill; the wanderer found his death in perhaps the only
moment of heroism that he had displayed throughout his wretched life.
Such, though, was the story our informant had gleaned, and it took the
edge off our evening's amusement.

But other evenings we were merry, and many were the wonderful stories
of adventure told over bottled beer and an extraordinary salad which
old Gugga mixed before us--to make an appetite, as he said.

We got to love Podgorica in the end, and left its streets, full of
gaudy-coloured humanity, the old shot-riddled town across the river,
and the glorious mountain panorama, with sorrow. There was always
something to talk about, from a threatened raid of the Albanians to
the abduction of a Turkish maiden. Death is always very near in that
unknown border town.

The day of our final departure from Podgorica, we drove to the famous
Crna Zemlja, or Black Earth.

The object of our visit was chiefly to call on a young Albanian, who
had repeatedly invited us. Though an Albanian, he is a Montenegrin
subject and a corporal in the standing army.

As a matter of fact, he is a fugitive from his clan, the Klementi,
where his life is forfeited in a blood feud. The Prince wisely uses
such men as a kind of extra border guard, giving them land and houses
on the actual frontier line, knowing that they will keep a doubly
sharp watch to preserve their own lives.

The Black Earth is an absolutely flat and treeless plain, covered at
times with grass, which mischievous Albanians love to set fire to in
the hopes of some sport with peasants, who might attempt to
extinguish the conflagration. The River Zem divides it and constitutes
the boundary, but the land on both sides is neutral by mutual consent.
It is courting death to walk upon it. Block-houses dot it at frequent
intervals, containing small garrisons of Montenegrin and Turkish
soldiers.

As we drove past the first Montenegrin block-house, we were reminded
of a ride which we once took to it, while our knowledge of the border
dangers was nil. On that occasion we had cantered, innocently,
straight towards it, and were amused to see its little garrison
promptly turn out. A man came running towards us motioning us to halt.
This unmistakable request we suddenly obeyed, for the men behind had
covered us with their rifles.

Explanations followed, and the rest of the men came up smiling; but
they sent us back towards Podgorica at once, which was only half an
hour's ride away--saying that a bullet from the overlooking hill would
be no unusual thing.

To-day we left this block-house on our left, and, striking the Zem, we
drove along it till we reached a solitary house. A few hundred yards
further down was a Turkish fort, with the banner of the Star and
Crescent hanging lazily at the mast.

This house was the home of our friend, quite a young man of sixteen,
but married and a proud father. He could well have been mistaken for
twenty-five.

He was working in his field as we drew near, and hurried to meet us.
First of all we went to the Zem, which fifty yards away would be
unnoticed, as it lies between two deep banks, which break off suddenly
and without any indication. This historical little river looked very
peaceful as it flowed through deep basins, hollowed out of the rocky
bed, and splashed over great boulders. How often has it been crossed
by bands of men intent on bloodshed and murder, who often recrossed,
flying and hunted fugitives! What quantities of blood have dyed those
clear and crystal pools! What awful doings of death have they
reflected!

The Turkish soldiers opposite turned out, and viewed our movements
inquisitively. Our Albanian friend hinted that a too lengthy
inspection might be misunderstood, so we withdrew.

The house was a curiosity. One-storied, and solidly built of stone; it
had no windows, but suggestive loopholes. The ground floor was empty.
We looked inside for the staircase, but in vain, and this was scarcely
odd, because there was none. The family lives above, and the only
means of entry to their dwelling is by a ladder. This is drawn up
after the last man, for the night.

As we clambered up the ladder and crawled through the narrow doorway,
the young mother (of fifteen) kissed our hands.

An aged lady, evidently the great-grandmother of one of the young
couple--at least, to judge by her decrepit appearance, she might well
have been that (in reality she was the boy's mother)--sat spinning in
a corner. A weeping and noisy infant lay strapped immovably in a
wooden cradle with no rockers, which a young maiden attempted to
soothe by covering it with a thick cloth and rocking it vigorously.

That Montenegrins survive the ordeal of infancy is a proof of their
iron constitutions. An ordinary healthy English baby would be
suffocated in five minutes under that hermetic pall, or, escaping this
fate, would die of concussion of the brain from violent jarring to and
fro, which we have inadvertently termed "rocking."

A wood fire smouldered in one corner of the room, and the embers were
blown into flames as the little can of water was placed in them to
boil. As the water boils, several spoonfuls of coffee are put in--of
the _good_ coffee, only used for distinguished visitors--and the whole
allowed to boil up three or four times. Then cups are produced, sugar
added, and the thick mixture poured out. This beverage is drunk when
it is cool enough, and when the grounds have sunk in a thick sediment
at the bottom of the cup.

[Illustration: A REALISTIC PERFORMANCE]

[Illustration: AN ALBANIAN HOME ON THE CRNA ZEMLJA]

The room, our treatment, and the coffee-brewing are typical of many
such visits that we paid in Montenegro.

Afterwards spirits were produced, tobacco tins exchanged, and
arms--rifles, revolvers, and handjars--inspected and criticised. Any
relics or curiosities are produced, and everyone becomes very
friendly.

Before we left, an old man (some relation of our host) came up as we
were examining a fine handjar, that heavy and hiltless sword which
forms part of both the Albanian and Montenegrin fighting kit, though
they are no longer universally carried in times of peace. The handy
revolver has replaced the former beltful of pistols and yataghan. But
in border fighting the handjar is always taken, and, when time
permits, the victim is still decapitated by a single blow of that
murderous weapon.

The old man--a villainous-looking rascal, with shaven head and
scalping lock--favoured us with a graphic mimicry of a fight, showing
the methods in his day. He took the handjar between his teeth and a
musket in his hands, yelling and scowling fearfully; then, the last
cartridge fired or the moment for hand-to-hand combat arrived, the
rifle was thrown away, and brandishing the handjar in the air, he
darted towards us. It was a most realistic performance, and made us
feel thankful that it was only play.

Suddenly the old man stopped his wild yelling and burst out laughing.
He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.

We glanced behind us at the loophole door, and there, with a horrified
look, peered our driver, revolver in hand.

He thought that we were being murdered. He was a foreigner and new to
Podgorica, but more of him anon.

Then we took our leave and drove on to another block-house, and
visited the commandant. After that we returned to Podgorica, and that
afternoon, affectionate leave-takings over, we departed for Cetinje,
en route for Cattaro.

That drive, which should have taken about seven hours, was a memorable
one, and a fitting conclusion to our visit.

We wired to the hotel in Cetinje in the morning, ordering supper to be
ready for eight o'clock. Then we had hoped to leave at one p.m. At two
we again wired from Podgorica for supper to be delayed till ten.

A hundred yards from the town we stopped, and the driver mended some
harness with a piece of wire. A mile further on something else broke.
If nothing gave way, a horse kicked a leg over a trace, necessitating
its partial unharnessing. Each time the driver (he of the morning's
drive and a native of Hercegovina) descended, swearing softly between
clenched teeth, in caressing tones, and his face set in a forced
smile. If we had not understood what he said, he might have been
addressing endearing remarks to his horse, or holding serious converse
with a friend.

It became very monotonous after a few hours--should we go for three
hundred yards without a stop of five or ten minutes, it was a matter
for comment. We began to feel alarmed, fearing worse things.

Rijeka we reached at eight p.m. instead of five, and we sent another
wire, stating our arrival to be uncertain, if not improbable.

We seriously contemplated staying the night, but an appointment next
morning forced us to give up this idea.

After an hour's rest we proceeded. The same weary repetition was
resumed, either the near side horse lashed out violently and remained
hung over a trace, or the axle boom or something broke.

We dozed, and I awoke from a sudden jar to find the driver sound
asleep, the horses wandering aimlessly along, a precipice of many
hundred feet below us on one side. The road takes sharp turns every
hundred yards, rendering it impossible to see far ahead, and traffic
even at night is not uncommon. Drivers shout when nearing a corner,
particularly on coming downhill, which they do at a great pace. I
shuddered at the thought of a carriage dashing suddenly round a
corner upon us as we painfully climbed, for our driver slept soundly.
I even shouted in his ear, but in vain. Then I struck him, and with
effect. Inured as we were already by the dangers of that drive, we
slept no more.

I looked at my watch; it was one o'clock. In another hour the look-out
hut of Bella Vista loomed up indistinctly, and we thought of that
grand view of the Lake of Scutari and the mountain panorama to be seen
from there.

We stopped all the way down into Cetinje, at intervals, and had a long
wait actually in the town itself while the driver hunted up a friend
and borrowed a spanner.

At three a.m. we arrived, and refused the offer of our driver to take
us down to Cattaro next day. He assured us that everything would be in
order by the afternoon. But we declined, even though he made us a
cheap offer, below the ordinary price. We had no more confidence in
him or his carriage, or his wonderful kicking horse--in fact, we gave
quite a curt and rude refusal, when he pressed the matter.

Safe inside the old-fashioned hostelry of Reinwein, we thanked
Providence for our safe arrival. We had been through a few dangerous
experiences during our sojourn in the Land of the Black Mountain, but
none worse than this.

The carriage was small, and we suffered agonies from cramp; every
moment we expected to see it fall to pieces; one of the horses lashed
out violently, narrowly missing the face of the driver, if only
touched with the whip, every time hitching itself over a trace and
threatening to kick the decrepit structure behind it to bits; the
devilish anger of the man, his lurid and comprehensive cursing in that
soft voice, the danger of dashing over a precipice, constituted a
journey which we fervently pray may never again fall to our lot.




CHAPTER XX

We reconsider our opinion of Cetinje--A Montenegrin wake and its
consequences--A hero's death--Montenegrin conversation--Needless
appeals to the Deity--We visit the hospital.


We have said that there are not many stirring events happening in
Cetinje. But this was due to the fact that we had only a very
superficial knowledge of the town. To appreciate it fully, though, it
is absolutely necessary to know the country and the people first. We
had quite made up our minds to go down to Cattaro the day following
the memorable drive from Podgorica, but a mutual acquaintance, a
Montenegrin of high standing, met us as we strolled aimlessly down the
main street that morning. When he heard that we were leaving in a few
hours, he became quite excited. Had we really seen everything, in
Cetinje too?

"Yes," said we. "We have visited the monastery, watched the soldiers
drilling, chatted with the criminals, and know every burgher of the
town, at least by sight."

"First you must see the hospital and then you must attend a trial in
the Supreme Court of Appeal," said our seducer. "And as for
vendettas," he added with pride, "we too have our little quarrels. On
the spot you are standing a man was shot five years ago, and in the
act of dying he killed his assailant."

"Tell us the story," we broke in eagerly. Montenegro is demoralising
in this respect. One becomes so used to bloodthirsty anecdotes that
one wonders how other countries exist without the excitement of the
vendetta. Then the intercourse with noted murderers and assassins
makes a mere ordinary man whose hands are not stained with the blood
of his fellow-beings seem dull and tame. Our eagerness pleased our
friend and we adjourned to the cafe opposite.

About five years ago a near relation of the Prince died, and was taken
to the home of Petrovic in Njegusi. To do honour to the dead man, the
men of Cetinje and the men of Bajice--a village at the further end of
the valley--accompanied the corpse as a guard of honour.

Now a corpse is waked in true Irish style in this country, and by the
time the escort had returned to the valley of Cetinje and halted at
Bajice for a parting glass, the condition of the mourners resembled
the close of a Bank Holiday in London. The too liberal indulgence in
raki or spirits does not always provoke that mellowness which follows
a good dinner and a glass of port. On the contrary, you become
argumentative and convinced of the truth of your side of the question,
and you do not hesitate to tell the other man that he is more or less
of a fool. So it came to pass in Bajice that those of Cetinje argued
that they were the better men, a statement which did not conduce to
good fellowship--in fact, a Voivoda who was present, a native of
Bajice, had to interfere to prevent the only true solution of the
question in point. He was an aged man, and the men of Cetinje
proceeded home without proving their statement. One man, however,
stayed behind to continue the argument, and this naturally enraged the
Voivoda. He ordered him to be beaten. Nothing loath, the worthy
villagers fell upon him, and belaboured him with such fervour that he
soon fell insensible to the ground. Before he lost consciousness, he
was heard to utter a threat to the effect that his assailants would be
sorry for it.

Then he was carried to the hospital in Cetinje and lay six weeks
recovering.

When he was well again, his thoughts were occupied with revenge, and
in this scheme he was greatly assisted by his relations.

"Thou wilt be killed, of course," they said, "but thine and our honour
must be avenged. Who are the men of Bajice to beat one of us and go
unpunished?"

He was of the same opinion, and cast about for a suitable victim. Now
the son of the aged Voivoda who had ordered the assault lived in
Cetinje. He was the captain of the Royal Body Guard, the hero of many
a fight with the Turks, and famed throughout the land. We knew his
son, who stands about six feet four inches, and he is said to have
been small compared to what his father was.

"He shall be the victim," said the man of Cetinje, and his relations
applauded the choice.

One morning early the captain emerged from a shop, and from a distance
of a few feet, the avenger of his honour fired at him from behind,
hitting him in the neck. The captain fell forward on his face, saying,
"Who has shot me?" and turning saw the assassin running up the street.
With his last strength he drew his revolver, and resting his elbow on
the ground, he fired once; the man reeled but continued his headlong
flight: again the wounded officer fired, and as he sank forward dying,
he had the satisfaction of seeing the fugitive throw up his hands and
fall dead, shot through the heart. The last shot was fired at a
distance of fifty yards.

"As you can imagine," concluded our informant, "the news of this
affray nearly caused a pitched battle between Bajice and Cetinje,
which was only prevented by the energetic action of the Prince. He
called the two clans together before his palace and with marvellous
judgment picked out the ring-leaders and imprisoned them, and the rest
were sent home with such a warning of what would come if he heard any
more about it, that all interest was lost in the dispute. Men do not
like to face our Prince when he is angered, and his constant presence
in Cetinje is a great drawback to the vendetta. Now I must leave you,
and to-morrow you shall visit the hospital."

We strolled to the market-place, which was full of peasants and their
produce. It is not nearly such a scene of life as is met with
elsewhere. The Albanian element is almost totally absent, and that
alone takes fifty per cent. of the wildness off. Neither are rifles
brought to Cetinje, so that it presents a far more peaceable aspect.
Still it is crowded, the guslars do a literally roaring trade, and
there are always a sprinkling of men from the Vasovic and other
outlying clans to liven up the scene.

Here old friends and comrades in arms meet, called to the capital as
witnesses, or principals, in a law case, or to draw their salaries as
small officials of their districts. The conversation on these
occasions is always the same, and if heard often, becomes monotonous.
The unvarying formula of greeting is quaint and terse, but it loses
much of its impressive character by translation. One word in
explanation. The Montenegrins cannot utter the simplest remark
without invoking the Almighty in some form or another. The use of the
word "Bog," or "God," is incessant.

Picture an aged man, whose grey stubble fringes a weather-beaten and
furrowed face with a grizzled moustache. He is smoking a grimy
tchibouque in a contemplative fashion, as he stands on the outskirts
of the chattering throng. To him approaches a second stalwart, lean
man about the same age and appearance. He is also smoking a long
tchibouque; it is a custom which the elder inhabitants have adopted
from the Turks.

"May God protect thee," says the new-comer gravely, as though he had
never given vent to such a momentous utterance before.

"May God give thee good fortune," answers the other, with equal
solemnity; and removing their pipes, they clasp hands and fervently
kiss each other. Then the smoking is resumed, and between the puffs
the following conversation ensues.

"How art thou?" says the new-comer, gazing with affection at his old
comrade.

"Well, thank God," replies the other.

"Thank God."

"And how art thou?"

"Well, thank God."

"Thank God."

Now it is the new-comer's turn for the Montenegrin catechism.

The questions already asked and answered are only the prelude, so to
speak, before they settle down to serious business. "Kako ste?" ("How
art thou?") is simply as meaningless as "How do you do"; in fact, a
mere matter of form.

"Art thou well?" says the questioner, referring to the other's state
of health, who replies--

"I am well, by God, thank God."

"Thank God," says the questioner, breathing more freely, and
continuing.

"How is thy wife?" "How are thy children?" "Thy grandchildren?" "Thy
brother?" "Thy sister?" To all of which a deep-toned "Well, thank
God," is given.

Having satisfied himself that the whole family is in reasonable
health, and quite certain that he has omitted no important relation,
the catechiser proceeds to inquire as to the other's worldly
possessions.

"How are thy crops?"

"God will give me a good harvest."

"How are thy horses?" "Thy sheep?" "Thy goats?" "Thy cows?" "Thy
pigs?" "Thy bees?"

It must be clearly understood, to appreciate the humour of the scene,
that the formula has been shortened to avoid vain repetition. Every
question is asked in full, and answered with a pious "Dobro, hfala
Bogu" ("Well, thank God"). Not a word is omitted. The concluding
question is put, after a few moments' thought that really no item has
been left out, and this covers any lapse of memory.

"And, in short, How art thou?"

"Dobro, hfala Bogu" ("Well, thank God").

"Hfala Bogu" ("Thank God").

Now it is the other's turn, and precisely the same questions are
asked, varied perhaps with an inquiry as to the state of health of the
district "standard bearer" or "mayor." Then a few minutes' general
conversation are indulged in as to the direct cause of the other's
visit to Cetinje, and each satisfied that he has gained every particle
of information, they clasp hands, kiss, and part with a measured
"S'Bogom," signifying that they commend each other to the Almighty's
keeping.

The simplest and most inoffensive query is answered thus:--

"Hast thou any milk?" says the thirsty wayfarer, pausing at a hut.

"I have none, by God," and the stranger proceeds wearily on his way.

Our visit to the hospital was decidedly interesting. The senior doctor
of Montenegro was an ex-Austrian military surgeon. He was very
pressing in his invitation, so one day we wended our steps thither at
eleven o'clock. We were met by a smart-looking nurse, who told us that
the doctor was at present engaged in an operation, and would be with
us shortly. He soon appeared, and, apologising for the simplicity of
the building, started taking us round. First he led us into the
accident-room, where the injured are first treated. There were the
usual operating-tables and cases of instruments. "We treat wounds that
are suppurating here," he said pleasantly. "Our real operating-room is
in the other house, and is much better fitted up. This being the only
hospital in the country I have all the operations to perform,
generally one a day."

Then we went into the Roentgen room. The X rays, the doctor informed
us, was very useful in locating bullets. In the men's ward a young man
was pointed out to us who had been shot twice during a kolo dance in
the arm and leg.

"The Montenegrins," said the doctor, "are very careless when they fire
their revolvers during a dance, and I get a good many patients that
way." Afterwards we visited some other wards, and we were finally
taken to the other operating-room, or theatre. But it was only a
reproduction of the other on a large scale. "The Prince is very
generous," said the doctor, "and gives me a free hand. We have every
modern appliance, and I have trained my assistants to such an extent
that I can absolutely rely on them. The hospital costs a lot of money,
for we only charge a krone (about a franc) a day, and then they
petition that they cannot pay."

After inscribing our names in a book we went back to our midday meal.

The hospital, from a medical and surgical standpoint, is extremely up
to date, and at its head is a doctor who may be counted as one of the
finest operators in Europe; at his own request his name has not been
mentioned. It is another instance of Prince Nicolas' benevolence to
his people, another of the progressive movements which he is ever
introducing into the country. Every district has a doctor, all of whom
are under the head doctor at Cetinje, who directs all treatment in the
case of an epidemic. Serious cases are sent to Cetinje and treated
there, but these are largely surgical. The fame of the doctor at
Cetinje has reached the furthermost village; men who have suffered for
years now troop joyfully to the capital, and the number of operations
increases yearly.

May the hospital and its capable chief flourish and continue to bring
the blessings of science to the worthy sons of the Black Mountain!




CHAPTER XXI

The Law Court in Cetinje--The Prince as patriarch--A typical
lawsuit--Pleasant hours with murderers--Our hostel--A Babel of
tongues--Our sojourn draws to a close--The farewell cup of coffee and
apostrophe.


The Law Court in Cetinje is distinctly quaint. All civil cases are
conducted in public, and the method of procedure is simplicity
itself.[9] Firstly there are no lawyers and no costs, the rival
parties conducting their case in person--that is to say, they are
present, and are examined and cross-examined by the judge and his six
assistants. All the preliminaries have been committed to writing and
are read out by the clerk of the court, the only other official
present. In a small inclosure sit the plaintiff and defendant and
their witnesses; behind a railing, stand and sit the audience of
admiring friends and relations.

[Footnote 9: This is all altered now since the end of 1902, when a new
code and system was introduced, more up to date.]

The room is long and low. At the further end on a raised dais sits the
judge, behind whom is a lifesize reproduction of the Prince's
photograph. At a horseshoe-shaped table sit the other judges, three on
each side, and in the middle is another table holding the Bible,
crucifix, and two candles. The candles are lit when a witness takes
the oath.

In the intervening space is a large and comfortable easy-chair, or
perhaps it would be more correct and dignified to call it a throne. It
is occupied by Prince Nicolas whenever he comes in, as he often does,
for an hour or so, for he takes a keen interest in the law cases of
his subjects. When he is present the proceedings are in no way
altered, but the Prince himself puts now and then a pertinent question
to the witnesses. Furthermore, it is here that the Prince every
Saturday, when he is in residence in Cetinje, holds public audience
and receives petitions and complaints from his lowliest subjects.
Every petition must be committed to writing, and in the appointed
order each man or woman steps forward while the document is read aloud
by the clerk. The Prince puts a question or two to the petitioner and
then gives his answer to the request, which is duly noted, and the
next person called.

It is all so simple and quick that it is hard to realise the
importance of this commendable institution. In the olden days the
Prince dispensed justice and favours, seated under the shade of an
enormous tree, which has now, however, been destroyed. But in the
height of summer, a shady spot in the open air is still found.

We listened to one case, that of a woman who had amassed a large sum
of money--for Montenegro--by fetching water from a distance at so much
a gallon. Cetinje is almost waterless in summer, and water-carriers
can earn small fortunes, particularly if equipped with a donkey or
two, as was this woman. Having saved a few hundred guldens, she
proceeded to lend it to needy friends--people are foolish in this
respect, even in Montenegro. It would have been all right if she had
not neglected the simple precaution of insisting on an I.O.U. for each
loan. Her money gone, she not unnaturally asked that some of it should
be returned, for she had fallen on evil days. But all knowledge of
such loans was denied by the ungrateful borrowers.

It was a knotty point to decide. Should the judges believe the woman's
word, or the emphatic denials of the debtors that they had ever
received a kreutzer? The seven looked hopelessly at each other, and
then wisely retired to the seclusion of a private room, awaiting
divine inspiration.

As of yore, the little prison, or rather house of detention, had a
great attraction for us. Many afternoons we wended our way thither to
while away an hour in the genial company of the prisoners and their
warders. The handsome young director of prisons usually accompanied
us, ostensibly but to bear us company, though doubtless he was acting
on higher orders, and had instructions to see that our eccentricities
did not go too far.

We organised sports on some occasions, chiefly consisting of putting
the weight, _i.e._ a large stone, but they _would_ swindle and
invariably overstepped the limit line, declaring that they hadn't
afterwards.

But it was their stories that we loved to listen to. They were mostly
harmless quarrellers, for we shunned the debased thieving criminal; a
man who could steal was vigorously excluded from our circle. There was
one exception, however, and he was a Hungarian, a deserter from his
regiment. That in itself is not a punishable crime, but he had eased
the regimental cash-box of a thousand kronen at the time of his
departure, and was awaiting the result of investigations. He
maintained that the money was his, and was quite indignant when it was
hinted that he must have stolen it; but unluckily he destroyed any
belief in his honesty by invariably contradicting himself as to how he
came by it. But he was such a good-natured, pleasant-spoken man that
we let him sit by our side and prevaricate, till we bade him cease
from further blackening his soul.

We gleaned a lot more information from the young director of the
prison, and amongst it the method of recapturing escaped prisoners. In
the central prison at Podgorica, if a prisoner escapes, the rest of
the criminals are sent out to catch him. Very often they find him, and
never has a prisoner abused this privilege, all punctually returning
by a given date.

We stayed at Reinwein's inn, an unpretentious building, both as
regards the exterior and interior, but as Reinwein himself is a
Viennese, and has been for twelve years in the service of the Prince,
acting often as cook, it is quite safe to say that at his house the
best cooking in the whole of Montenegro is to be found. Coming into
the country this would not be so noticeable, but after months in other
Montenegrin towns the cooking is most appreciable. We spent very happy
evenings in his bare little dining-room, with a decidedly cosmopolitan
gathering. The most noticeable feature was the number of languages in
use. Even Dalmatia, Bosnia, and the Hercegovina, where a
three-languaged man is the rule, paled into insignificance. There was
a Turkish official staying at Reinwein's, transacting business for his
Government, and every evening men came to see him; that man was to be
heard--he was a Neapolitan by birth--conversing fluently in Turkish,
Albanian, Serb, Greek, Italian, and French, alternately. One evening I
was trying to follow the conversation, which began in Italian, then he
wandered off into other tongues, explaining, evidently, a letter
written in Turkish. I got interested and went over to his table, and,
afterwards, he told me which languages he had been using. Besides this
little list, Reinwein spoke Russian with another man, German largely
with us, and P. and I passed remarks to each other in English, which
was the only unknown language. One evening two Hungarian tourists
arrived, and then we fled from that Babel, fearing for our reason.

An affable old Turk, seedy in appearance, but extremely entertaining,
owned to six languages, not counting others of which he had only a
smattering. Serb he didn't count as he said he could only talk on easy
subjects in that tongue. It is very humiliating, that sort of thing,
it is liable to lower the opinion of one's own intelligence. We kept
late hours, too, at Reinwein's, we couldn't help it.

But all good things must come to an end, and at last the day of our
departure arrived. Cetinje itself was quite a different place to us
than when we knew it formerly. Representative of the land in a certain
sense it rightly is, but then a fairly full knowledge of the country
must be acquired first to understand in what respects it represents
the life and customs of the people beyond. To the stranger who extends
his visit for only a week, it is sure to give manifold false
impressions, for though Montenegro is quiet and peaceable enough, the
appearance of Cetinje is rather too assuring. For here there is little
trace of vendetta and quarrelling, which, however, under the powerful
hand of the present Prince Nicolas, are surely dying out through all
the land. When the fact is taken into consideration that the
Montenegro of forty years ago was a rough and dangerous country,
inhabited by a people who knew nothing of the outside world, and lived
simply for themselves in their own land, it will be seen what
miraculous progress has been made in the path of civilisation during
the present reign. Peace and order have been established to a
wonderful degree, and the State reorganised and set on a surer basis.
With a powerful hand and not too much external help the Prince has
carried through his reforms, and, like David in his final exhortation
to Solomon, leaves the way ready for still greater progress to be made
in the future. And the comparison holds good in more respects than
one.

We drank our last little cup of coffee, oddly enough, in the
historical monastery of Ivan Beg in the company of the Vladika, to
whom we were paying our farewell respects, and half an hour later were
whirling down to Bajice under the shadow of the mighty Lovcen.

As the grand Bocche di Cattaro again burst on our view and the first
black and yellow sign-post of Austria was passed, we turned again for
a last look at those seemingly forbidding and inhospitable mountains;
but only forbidding and inhospitable to the enemy of the brave little
race beyond. To the stranger, fresh from the comforts and improvements
of civilisation, it is a revelation of how men live, knowing nothing
of the luxuries of the outer world, and keep themselves untarnished in
honour; honest and God-fearing where a man is judged by his deeds and
not by his words. Where men do not steal or lie, and where the humble
peasant looks his Prince in the face and says--

"Lord, I am a man like thyself."

They have their faults and failings, many of their customs seem
barbaric to our eyes: but may they long be preserved from the evils of
civilisation!

Later, as the ship ploughed her way through the waves, and the
mountains of Crnagora became ever more and more faint and indistinct,
we thought of Tennyson's words:--

    "They rose to where their sov'ran eagle sails,
    They kept their faith, their freedom, on the height,
    Chaste, frugal, savage, armed by day and night
    Against the Turk; whose inroad nowhere scales
    Their headlong passes, but his footstep fails,
    And red with blood the Crescent reels from fight
    Before their dauntless hundreds in prone flight
    By thousands down the crags and through the vales.

       *       *       *       *       *

    O smallest among peoples! rough rock-throne
    Of Freedom! warriors beating back the swarm
    Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years,
    Great Crnagora! never since thine own
    Black ridges drew the cloud and broke the storm
    Has breathed a race of mightier mountaineers."


THE END




INDEX


Alarm,      87, 187
Albanian costume,      139
  " custom house,      133
  " mass,      231
Andrijevica,      65, 183
Antivari,      113, 270
Army,      26, 27, 46
Austria,      8, 13, 137

Babel,      295
Bajice,      281
Balsic,      17
Band of Good Hope,      155
Barracks,      46
Bella Vista,      55, 143
Billard,      43
Bogetic,      250
Bojana,      121, 132
Brda,      2, 145
Budua,      22
Business methods,      77

Cardplaying,      169
Carina,      206
Catherine II.,      21
Cattaro,      22, 34
  " Bocche di,      33
Caxton,      19
Cetinje,      18, 40, 42, 280
Church,      13
  " militant,      137
Conversation,      285
Crimean War,      22
Crnagora,      15, 17, 297
Crna Zemlja,      74, 271
Curzola,      33

Daibabe,      89
Danilo, Crown Prince,      7, 30, 114, 156
Danilo II.,      22
Danilovgrad,      69, 249
Death dirge,      85
Dinos,      234, 236
Dukla,      93
Dulcigno (Ulcinj),      24, 117, 270

Easter,      66, 74
Edward VII.,      166

Fatalism,      228
Fishing,      105
Food,      3, 107, 170, 196
Fundina,      83, 233

Gambling,      7, 265
Gjolic,      208
Grahovo,      23
Gravosa,      33
Gugga,      265
Gusinje,      25, 187, 197, 205, 216
Guslar,      39

Heraclius,      16
Hildebrand,      16
Hospital,      46, 287
Hospitality,      60
Hotti,      227

Imperfect valleys,      2

Karst,      2
Katunska,      2
Keco,      233
Kiuprili Pasha,      20
Klementi,      20, 271
Kohl,      5
Kolasin,      65, 153
Kolo,      157
Kom, Kucki,      211
   " Vasojevicki,      199
Konjuhe,      205
Korito,      222
Kostice,      223
Krivosejans,      23
Krusevac,      62, 72
Kuc,      20, 79, 206, 227

Lakic Voivodic,      183
Law,      28, 290
Lesina (Hvar),      33
Lijeva Rijeka,      150
Lim,      183
Ljubotin,      143
Lovcen,      28, 103, 265
Lunatic Asylum,      69

Mala,      148
Market,      73
Marko Ivankovic,      118
Martinovic,      154
Medun,      83
Memorial stones,      214, 221
Michael Dozic,      164
Militia,      171
Mirko (father to the reigning Prince),      23, 249
Mokra,      182, 228
Moraca,      101, 147
  "    monastery,      162
Morina,      198

Nicolas, Prince,      4, 5, 9, 43, 115, 177, 261
Niksic,      24, 250, 259
Njegusi,      38

Obod,      19, 59
Ostrog,      160, 248

Pannonia,      32
Perusica,      204
Peter, St.,      21
Peter II.,      21
Petri,      265
Petrovic,      20
Pilgrims,      251
Plavnica,      110
Podgorica,      15, 28, 56, 66, 241, 263
Pola,      32
Popovic, Simeon,      89
Prison,      28, 47, 69, 292
Procletia,      216, 226
Prstan,      113

Quagmires,      152

Radonic,      20
Ragusa,      33
Raskrsnica,      175
Reinwein,      294
Revolvers,      37
Rijeka,      56, 58, 142
Rikavac,      218
Risano,      34, 260
Roads,      29, 36, 65, 132, 146
Roman Catholics,      13, 223, 225
Rumija, 56, 103

Samuel, Czar,      16
Sandjak of Novipazar,      1, 14
Scutari,      15, 135
Shooting,      57, 88, 90,103, 198, 217
Skenderbeg,      17, 265
Sokol Baco,      100
Spalato,      32
Spizza,      22
Spuz,      89, 249
Stature,      6
Stefan Crnoievic,      17
Stefan Duzan,      16
Stefan Mali,      21
Stefan Nemanja,      16, 160
Sutorman Pass,      112

Tara,      152
Terpetlis,      205
Teuta,      15
Theatre,      46
Tobacco,      105
Topolica,      111
Trieste,      31
Tusi,      234

Uiko, Achmet,      96, 120, 244

Vaccination,      129
Velika,      195
Vendetta,      75, 205, 225, 239, 240, 247, 281
Venice,      19
Virpazar,      110
Vizier Bridge,      62
Vladika,      43
  " Mitrofanban,      44, 253, 296
Voivoda Marko,      79, 233
  " of the Zeta,      18, 62
Vranjina,      103, 110
Vucipotok,      213

Wake, Montenegrin,      281
Women,      5, 71, 243
Wurmbrand,      31

Yussuf Mucic,      81

Zabljak,      17, 102
Zara,      32
Zatrijebac,      223
Zem,      226, 241, 272
Zeta,      1, 249




A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS
PUBLISHED BY METHUEN
AND COMPANY: LONDON
36 ESSEX STREET
W.C.




CONTENTS

GENERAL LITERATURE,

  ANTIQUARY'S BOOKS,

  BEGINNER'S BOOKS,

  BUSINESS BOOKS,

  BYZANTINE TEXTS,

  CHURCHMAN'S BIBLE,

  CHURCHMAN'S LIBRARY,

  CLASSICAL TRANSLATIONS,

  COMMERCIAL SERIES,

  CONNOISSEUR'S LIBRARY,

  LIBRARY OF DEVOTION,

  ILLUSTRATED POCKET LIBRARY OF PLAIN AND COLOURED BOOKS,

  JUNIOR EXAMINATION SERIES,

  METHUEN'S JUNIOR SCHOOL-BOOKS,

  LEADERS OF RELIGION,

  LITTLE BLUE BOOKS,

  LITTLE BOOKS ON ART,

  LITTLE GALLERIES,

  LITTLE GUIDES,

  LITTLE LIBRARY,

  METHUEN'S MINIATURE LIBRARY,

  OXFORD BIOGRAPHIES,

  SCHOOL EXAMINATION SERIES,

  SOCIAL QUESTIONS OF TO-DAY,

  HANDBOOKS OF THEOLOGY,

  METHUEN'S STANDARD LIBRARY,

  WESTMINSTER COMMENTARIES,


FICTION,

  METHUEN'S SHILLING NOVELS,

  BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS,

  NOVELS OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS,




A CATALOGUE OF MESSRS. METHUEN'S PUBLICATIONS


       *       *       *       *       *

Colonial Editions are published of all Messrs. METHUEN'S
Novels issued at a price above _2s. 6d._, and similar editions are
published of some works of General Literature. These are marked in the
Catalogue. Colonial editions are only for circulation in the British
Colonies and India.

An asterisk denotes that a book is in the Press.

       *       *       *       *       *


PART I.--GENERAL LITERATURE

Abbot (Jacob). See Little Blue Books.

Acatos (M.J.). Modern Language Master at King Edward School, Birmingham.
See Junior School Books.

Adams (Frank). JACK SPRATT. With 24 Coloured Pictures. _Super Royal
16mo. 2s._

Adeney (W.F.), M.A. See Bennett and Adeney.

AEschylus. See Classical Translations.

AEsop. See Illustrated Pocket Library.

Ainsworth (W. Harrison). See Illustrated Pocket Library.

*Alderson (J.P.) MR. ASQUITH. With Portraits and Illustrations. _Demy
8vo. 6d. net._

Alexander (William), D.D. Archbishop of Armagh. THOUGHTS AND COUNSELS OF
MANY YEARS. Selected by J.H. BURN, B.D. _Demy 16mo. 2s. 6d._

Alken (Henry). THE NATIONAL SPORTS OF GREAT BRITAIN. With descriptions
in English and French. With 51 Coloured Plates. _Royal Folio. Five
Guineas net._ See Illustrated Pocket Library.

Allen (Jessie). See Little Books on Art.

Allen (J. Romilly), F.S.A. See Antiquary's Books.

Almack (E.). See Little Books on Art.

Amherst (Lady). A SKETCH OF EGYPTIAN HISTORY FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO
THE PRESENT DAY. With many illustrations, some of which are in Colour.
_Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._

Anderson (F.M.). THE STORY OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE FOR CHILDREN. With
many Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 2s._

Andrewes (Bishop). PRECES PRIVATAE. Edited, with Notes, by F.E.
BRIGHTMAN, M.A., of Pusey House, Oxford. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Aristophanes. THE FROGS. Translated into English by E.W. HUNTINGFORD,
M.A., Professor of Classics in Trinity College, Toronto. _Crown 8vo. 2s.
6d._

Aristotle. THE NICOMACHEAN ETHICS. Edited, with an Introduction and
Notes, by JOHN BURNETT, M.A., Professor of Greek at St. Andrews. _Demy
8vo. 10s. 6d. net._

Ashton (R.). See Little Blue Books.

Atkins (H.G.). See Oxford Biographies.

Atkinson (C.M.). JEREMY BENTHAM. _Demy 8vo. 5s. net._ A biography of
this great thinker, and an estimate of his work and influence.

Atkinson (T.D.). A SHORT HISTORY OF ENGLISH ARCHITECTURE. With over
200 Illustrations by the Author and others. _Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._

Aurelius (Marcus). See Methuen's University Library.

Austen (Jane). See Little Library and Methuen's University Library.

Aves (Ernest). See Books on Business.

Bacon (Francis). See Little Library and Methuen's Universal Library.

Baden-Powell (R.S.S.), Major-General. THE DOWNFALL OF PREMPEH. A Diary
of Life in Ashanti, 1895. With 21 Illustrations and a Map. _Third
Edition. Large Crown 8vo. 6s._
A Colonial Edition is also published.
THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN, 1896. With nearly 100 Illustrations. _Fourth
and Cheaper Edition. Large Crown 8vo. 6s._;
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Baker (W.G.) M.A. See Junior Examination Series.

Baker (Julian L.) F.I.C., F.C.S. See Books on Business.

Balfour (Graham). THE LIFE OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. _Second Edition.
Two Volumes. Demy 8vo. 25s. net._
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Bally (S.E.) See Commercial Series.

Banks (Elizabeth L.). THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A 'NEWSPAPER GIRL'. With a
Portrait of the Author and her Dog. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Barham (R.H.) See Little Library.

Baring-Gould (S.) Author of 'Mehalah,' etc. THE LIFE OF NAPOLEON
BONAPARTE. With over 450 Illustrations in the Text, and 12 Photogravure
Plates. _Gill top, Large quarto. 36s._
THE TRAGEDY OF THE CAESARS. With numerous Illustrations from Busts,
Gems, Cameos, etc. _Fifth Edition. Royal 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._
A BOOK OF FAIRY TALES. With numerous Illustrations and Initial Letters
by ARTHUR J. GASKIN. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. Buckram, 6s._
A BOOK OF BRITTANY. With numerous Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
Uniform in scope and size with Mr. Baring-Gould's well-known books on
Devon, Cornwall, and Dartmoor.
OLD ENGLISH FAIRY TALES. With numerous Illustrations by F.D. BEDFORD.
_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. Buckram, 6s._
A Colonial Edition is also published.
THE VICAR OF MORWENSTOW: A Biography. A new and Revised Edition. With
a Portrait. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._
A completely new edition of the well-known biography of R.S. Hawker.
DARTMOOR: A Descriptive and Historical Sketch. With Plans and numerous
Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE BOOK OF THE WEST. With numerous Illustrations. _Two volumes._ Vol.
I, Devon. _Second Edition._ Vol. II. Cornwall _Second Edition. Crown
8vo. 6s. each._
A BOOK OF NORTH WALES. With numerous Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
This book is uniform with Mr. Baring-Gould's books on Devon, Dartmoor,
and Brittany.
*A BOOK OF SOUTH WALES. With many Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
A BOOK OF GHOSTS. With 8 Illustrations by D. Murray Smith. _Second
Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
A Colonial Edition is also published.
OLD COUNTRY LIFE. With 67 Illustrations. _Fifth Edition. Large Crown
8vo. 6s._
*AN OLD ENGLISH HOME. With numerous Plans and Illustrations. _Cr.
8vo. 2s. 6d. net._
*YORKSHIRE ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS. _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo.
2s. 6d. net._
*STRANGE SURVIVALS AND SUPERSTITIONS. _Third Edition. Cr. 8vo. 2s.
6d. net._
A Colonial Edition is also published.
A GARLAND OF COUNTRY SONG: English Folk Songs with their Traditional
Melodies. Collected and arranged by S. BARING-GOULD and H.F. SHEPPARD.
_Demy 4to. 6s._
SONGS OF THE WEST: Traditional Ballads and Songs of the West of
England, with their Melodies. Collected by S. BARING-GOULD
and H.F. SHEPARD, M.A. In 4 Parts. _Parts I., II., III., 2s.
6d. each. Part IV., 4s. In One Volume, French Morocco, 10s. net.;
Roan, 15s._
See also The Little Guides.

Barker (Aldred F.). Author of 'Pattern Analysis,' etc. See Textbooks
of Technology.

Barnes (W.E.), D.D., Hulsaean Professor of Divinity at Cambridge. See
Churchman's Bible.

Barnett (Mrs. P.A.). See Little Library.

Baron (R.R.N.), M.A. FRENCH PROSE COMPOSITION. _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Key, 3s. net._ See also Junior School Books.

Barron (H.M.), M.A., Wadham College, Oxford. TEXTS FOR SERMONS. With
a Preface by Canon SCOTT HOLLAND. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Bastable (C.F.), M.A., Professor of Economics at Trinity College,
Dublin. See Social Questions Series.

Batson (Mrs. Stephen). A BOOK OF THE COUNTRY AND THE GARDEN. Illustrated
by F. CARRUTHERS GOULD and A.C. GOULD. _Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._
A CONCISE HANDBOOK OF GARDEN FLOWERS. _Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

*Batten (Loring W.). Ph.D., S.T.D., Rector of St. Mark's Church,
New York; sometime Professor in the Philadelphia Divinity School. THE
HEBREW PROPHET. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._

Beaman (A. Hulme). PONS ASINORUM; OR, A GUIDE TO BRIDGE. _Second
Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 2s._

Beard (W.S.) See Junior Examination Series.
EASY EXERCISES IN ARITHMETIC. Arranged by. _Cr. 8vo._ Without Answers,
_1s._ With Answers, _1s. 3d._

Beckford (Peter). THOUGHTS ON HUNTING. Edited by J. OTHO PAGET, and
Illustrated by G.H. JALLAND. _Second and Cheaper Edition. Demy 8vo.
6s._

Beckford (William). See Little Library.

Beeching (H.C.), M.A., Canon of Westminster. See Library of
Devotion.

Behmen (Jacob). THE SUPERSENSUAL LIFE. Edited by BERNARD
HOLLAND. _Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Belloc (Hilaire). PARIS. With Maps and Illustrations. _Crown 8vo.
6s._

Bellot (H.H.L.), M.A. THE INNER AND MIDDLE TEMPLE. With numerous
Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 6s. net._
See also L.A.A. Jones.

Bennet (W.H.), M.A. A PRIMER OF THE BIBLE. _Second Edition. Crown
8vo. 2s. 6d._

Bennett (W.H.) and Adeney (W.F.). A BIBLICAL INTRODUCTION. _Second
Edition. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d._

Benson (Archbishop). GOD'S BOARD: Communion Addresses. _Fcap, 8vo.
3s. 6d. net._

Benson (A.C.), M.A. See Oxford Biographies.

Benson (R.M.). THE WAY OF HOLINESS: a Devotional Commentary on the
119th Psalm. _Crown 8vo. 5s._

Bernard (E.R.), M.A., Canon of Salisbury. THE ENGLISH SUNDAY. _Fcap.
8vo. 1s. 6d._

Bertouch (Baroness de). THE LIFE OF FATHER IGNATIUS, O.S.B., THE
MONK OF LLANTHONY. With Illustrations. _Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net._
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Bethune-Baker (J.F.), M.A., Fellow of Pembroke College, Cambridge.
See Handbooks of Theology.

Bidez (M.). See Byzantine Texts.

Biggs (C.R.D.), D.D. See Churchman's Bible.

Bindley (T. Herbert), B.D. THE OECUMENICAL DOCUMENTS OF THE FAITH.
With Introductions and Notes. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
A historical account of the Creeds.

Binyon (Laurence). THE DEATH OF ADAM, AND OTHER POEMS. _Crown 8vo.
3s. 6d. net._

Birnstingl (Ethel). See Little Books on Art.

Blair (Robert). See Illustrated Pocket Library.

Blake (William). See Illustrated Pocket Library and Little Library.

Blaxland (B.), M.A. See Library of Devotion.

Bloom (T. Harvey), M.A. SHAKESPEARE'S GARDEN. With Illustrations.
_Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d.; leather, 4s. 6d. net._

Blouet (Henri). See The Beginner's Books.

Boardman (T.H.). See Text Books of Technology.

Bodley (J.E.C.), Author of 'France.' THE CORONATION OF EDWARD VII.
_Demy 8vo. 21s. net._ By Command of the King.

Body (George), D.D. THE SOUL'S PILGRIMAGE: Devotional Readings from his
published and unpublished writings. Selected and arranged by J.H. BURN,
B.D. F.R.S.E. _Pott 8vo. 2s. 6d._

Bona (Cardinal). See Library of Devotion.

Boon (F.C.), See Commercial Series.

Borrow (George), See Little Library.

Bos (J. Ritzema). AGRICULTURAL ZOOLOGY. Translated by J.R. AINSWORTH
DAVIS, M.A. With an Introduction by ELEANOR A. ORMEROD, F.E.S. With 153
Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. Third Edition. 3s. 6d._

Botting (C.G.), B.A. EASY GREEK EXERCISES. _Crown 8vo. 2s._ See also
Junior Examination Series.

Boulton (E.S.). GEOMETRY ON MODERN LINES. _Crown 8vo. 2s._

Bowden (E.M.). THE IMITATION OF BUDDHA: Being Quotations from Buddhist
Literature for each Day in the Year. _Fourth Edition. Crown 16mo. 2s.
6d._

Boyle (W.). CHRISTMAS AT THE ZOO. With Verses by W. BOYLE and 24
Coloured Pictures by H.B. NEILSON. _Super Royal 16mo. 2s._

Brabant (F.G.), M.A. See The Little Guides.

Brodrick (Mary) and Morton (Anderson). A CONCISE HANDBOOK OF EGYPTIAN
ARCHAEOLOGY. With many Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Brooke (A.S.), M.A. SLINGSBY AND SLINGSBY CASTLE. With many
Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d._

Brooks (E.W.). See Byzantine Tests.

Brown (P.H.), Fraser Professor of Ancient (Scottish) History at the
University of Edinburgh. SCOTLAND IN THE TIME OF QUEEN MARY. _Demy
8vo. 7s. 6d. net._

Browne (Sir Thomas). See Methuen's Universal Library.

Brownell (C.L.). THE HEART OF JAPAN. Illustrated. _Third Edition.
Crown 8vo. 6s.; also Demy 8vo. 6d._
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Browning (Robert). See Little Library.

Buckhand (Francis T.). CURIOSITIES OF NATURAL HISTORY. With
Illustrations by HARRY B. NEILSON. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Buckton (A.M.). THE BURDEN OF ENGELA: a Ballad-Epic. _Third Edition.
Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._
EAGER HEART: A Mystery Play. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 1s. net._

Budge (E.A. Wallis). THE GODS OF THE EGYPTIANS. With over 100 Coloured
Plates and many Illustrations, _Two Volumes. Royal 8vo. L3. 3s. net._

Bull (Paul), Army Chaplain. GOD AND OUR SOLDIERS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Bulley (Miss). See Social Question Series.

Bunyan (John). THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. Edited, with an Introduction,
by C.H. FIRTH, M.A. With 39 Illustrations by R. ANNING BELL. _Cr. 8vo.
6s._ See also Library of Devotion and Methuen's Universal Library.

Burch (G.J.), M.A., F.R.S. A MANUAL OF ELECTRICAL SCIENCE. With
numerous illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 3s._

Burgess (Gelett). GOOPS AND HOW TO BE THEM. With numerous Illustrations.
_Small 4to. 6s._

Burke (Edmund). See Methuen's Universal Library.

Burn (A.E.), D.D., Prebendary of Lichfield. See Handbooks of Theology.

Burn (J.H.), B.D. See Library of Devotion.

Burnand (Sir F.C.). RECORDS AND REMINISCENCES, PERSONAL AND GENERAL.
With many Illustrations. _Demy 8vo. Two Volumes. Third Edition. 25s.
net._
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Burns (Robert), THE POEMS OF. Edited by ANDREW LANG and W.A. CRAIGIE.
With Portrait. _Third Edition. Demy 8vo, gilt top. 6s._

Burnside (W.F.), M.A. OLD TESTAMENT HISTORY FOR USE IN SCHOOLS. _Crown
8vo. 3s. 6d._

Burton (Alfred). See Illustrated Pocket Library.

Butler (Joseph). See Methuen's Universal Library.

Caldecott (Alfred), D.D. See Handbooks of Theology.

Calderwood (D.S.), Headmaster of the Normal School, Edinburgh. TEST
CARDS IN EUCLID AND ALGEBRA. In three packets of 40, with Answers,
_1s._ each. Or in three Books, price _2d., 2d., and 3d._

Cambridge (Ada) [Mrs. Cross]. THIRTY YEARS IN AUSTRALIA. _Demy 8vo. 7s.
6d._
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Canning (George). See Little Library.

Capey (E.F.H.). See Oxford Biographies.

Careless (John). See Illustrated Pocket Library.

Carlyle (Thomas). THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. Edited by C.R.L. FLETCHER,
Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford. _Three Volumes. Crown 8vo. 18s._
THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF OLIVER CROMWELL. With an introduction by C.H.
FIRTH, M.A., and Notes and Appendices by Mrs. S.C. LOMAS. _Three
Volumes. Demy 8vo. 18s. net._

Carlyle (R.M. and A.J.), M.A. See Leaders of Religion.

Chamberlin (Wilbur B.). ORDERED TO CHINA. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
A Colonial Edition is also published.

Channer (C.C.) and Roberts (M.E.). LACE-MAKING IN THE MIDLANDS, PAST AND
PRESENT. With 16 full-page Illustrations. _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._

Chatterton (Thomas). See Methuen's Universal Library.

Chesterfield (Lord), THE LETTERS OF, TO HIS SON. Edited, with an
Introduction by C. STRACHEY, and Notes by A. CALTHROP. _Two Volumes. Cr.
8vo. 12s._

Christian (F.W.) THE CAROLINE ISLANDS. With many Illustrations and
Maps. _Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net._

Cicero. See Classical Translations.

Clarke (F.A.), M.A. See Leaders of Religion.

Cleather (A.L.) and Crump (B.). RICHARD WAGNER'S MUSIC DRAMAS:
Interpretations, embodying Wagner's own explanations. _In Four Volumes.
Fcap 8vo. 2s. 6d. each._
VOL. I.--THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG.
VOL. II.--PARSIFAL, LOHENGRIN, and THE HOLY GRAIL.

Clinch (G.) See The Little Guides.

Clough (W.T.), Head of the Physical Department East Ham Technical
College. See Junior School Books.

Coast (W.G.), B.A. EXAMINATION PAPERS IN VERGIL. _Crown 8vo. 2s._

Cobb (T.). See Little Blue Books.

Collingwood (W.G.), M.A. THE LIFE OF JOHN RUSKIN. With Portraits. _New
and Cheaper Edition. Cr. 8vo. 6s._ Also a Popular Edition. _Cr. 8vo. 2s.
6d. net._

Collins (W.E.), M.A. See Churchman's Library.

Colonna. HYPNEROTOMACHIA POLIPHILI UBI HUMANA OMNIA NON NISI SOMNIUM
ESSE DOCET ATQUE OBITER PLURIMA SCITU SANE QUAM DIGNA COMMEMORAT. An
edition limited to 350 copies on hand-made paper. _Folio. Three Guineas
net._

Combe (William). See Illustrated Pocket Library.

Cook (A.M.), M.A. See E.C. Marchant.

Cooke-Taylor (R.W.). See Social Questions Series.

Corelli (Marie). THE PASSING OF THE GREAT QUEEN: A Tribute to the
Noble Life of Victoria Regina. _Small 4to. 1s._
A CHRISTMAS GREETING. _Sm. 4to. 1s._

Corkran (Alice). See Little Books on Art.

Cotes (Rosemary). DANTE'S GARDEN. With a Frontispiece. _Second Edition.
Fcap. 8vo. cloth 2s. 6d.; leather, 3s. 6d. net._
BIBLE FLOWERS. With a Frontispiece and Plan. _Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._

Cowley (Abraham). See Little Library.

Cox (J. Charles), LL.D., F.S.A. See Little Guides.

Cox (Harold), B.A. See Social Questions Series.

Crabbe (George). See Little Library.

Craigie (W.A.). A PRIMER OF BURNS. _Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d._

Craik (Mrs.). See Little Library.

Crashaw (Richard). See Little Library.

Crawford (F.G.). See Mary C. Danson.

Crouch (W.), BRYAN KING. With a Portrait. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net._

Cruikshank (G.). THE LOVING BALLAD OF LORD BATEMAN. With 11 Plates.
_Crown 16vo. 1s. 6d. net._
From the edition published by C. Tilt, 1811.

Crump (B.). See A.L. Cleather.

Cunliffe (F.H.E.), Fellow of All Souls' College, Oxford. THE HISTORY
OF THE BOER WAR. With many Illustrations, Plans, and Portraits. _In 2
vols. Quarto. 15s. each._

Cutts (E.L.), D.D. See Leaders of Religion.

Daniell (G.W.), M.A. See Leaders of Religion.

Danson (Mary C.) and Crawford (F.G.). FATHERS IN THE FAITH. _Small
8vo. 1s. 6d._

Dante. LA COMMEDIA DI DANTE. The Italian Text edited by PAGET TOYNBEE,
M.A., D. Litt. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Paget Toynbee, Little Library,
and Methuen's Universal Library.

Darley (George). See Little Library.

Davenport (Cyril). See Connoisseur's Library and Little Books on
Art.

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Dickens (Charles). See Illustrated Pocket Library.

Dickinson (Emily). POEMS. First Series. _Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. net._

Dickinson (G. L.). M.A., Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. THE GREEK
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Dilke (Lady). See Social Questions Series.

Dillon (Edward). See Connoisseur's Library.

Ditchfield (P.H.). M.A., F.S.A. ENGLISH VILLAGES. Illustrated. _Crown
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Dixon (W.H.). M.A. A PRIMER OF TENNYSON. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 2s.
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Dryhurst (A.R.). See Little Books on Art.

Duguid (Charles), City Editor of the _Morning Post,_ Author of the
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Duncan (S.J.) (Mrs. COTES), Author of 'A Voyage of
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Edwards (Clement). See Social Questions Series.

Edwards (W. Douglas). See Commercial Series.

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Egan (Pierce). See Illustrated Pocket Library.

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Ellaby (C.G.). See The Little Guides.

Ellerton (P.G.). See S. I. Stone.

Ellwood (Thomas), THE HISTORY OF THE LIFE OF. Edited by C.G. CRUMP, M.A.
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Engel (E.). A HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE: From its Beginning to
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Freudenreich (Ed. von). DAIRY BACTERIOLOGY. A Short Manual for the Use
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Gibbon (Edward). THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. A New
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Gibson (E.C.S.), D.D., Vicar of Leeds. See Westminster Commentaries,
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Gilbert (A.R.). See Little Books on Art.

Godfrey (Elizabeth). A BOOK OF REMEMBRANCE. _Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net._

Godley (A.D.), M.A., Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford. LYRA FRIVOLA.
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Goudge (H.L.), M.A., Principal of Wells Theological College. See
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Graham (P. Anderson). See Social Questions Series.

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Green (E.T.), M.A. See Churchman's Library.

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Greenwell (Dora). See Miniature Library.

Gregory (R.A.) THE VAULT OF HEAVEN. A Popular Introduction to Astronomy.
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Gregory (Miss E.C.). See Library of Devotion.

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Grubb (H.C.). See Textbooks of Technology.

Guiney (Louisa I.). HURRELL FROUDE: Memoranda and Comments. Illustrated.
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Gwynn (M.L.). A BIRTHDAY BOOK. _Royal 8vo. 12s._

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Hadfield (R.A.). See Social Questions Series.

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Hamilton (F.J.), D.D. See Byzantine Texts.

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Hawthorne (Nathaniel). See Little Library. HEALTH, WEALTH AND WISDOM.
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Heath (Frank R.). See The Little Guides.

Heath (Dudley). See Connoisseur's Library.

Hello (Ernest). STUDIES IN SAINTSHIP. Translated from the French by
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Henderson (T.F.). See Little Library and Oxford Biographies.

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Henley (W.E.) and Whibley (C.). A BOOK OF ENGLISH PROSE. _Crown 8vo.
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Herbert Of Cherbury (Lord). See Miniature Library.

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Hill (Glare), Registered Teacher to the City and Guilds of London
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Holyoake (G.J.). See Social Questions Series.

Hoppner. See Little Galleries.

Horace. See Classical Translations.

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Horton (R.F.), D.D. See Leaders of Religion.

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Howell (G.). See Social Questions Series.

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Juvenal. See Classical Translations.

Kaufmann (M.). See Social Questions Series.

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Lambert (F.A.H.). See The Little Guides.

Lambros (Professor). See Byzantine Texts.

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Locke (John). See Methuen's Universal Library.

Locker (F.). See Little Library.

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M'Dowall (A.S.). See Oxford Biographies.

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Marlowe (Christopher). See Methuen's Universal Library.

Marr (J.E.), F.R.S., Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge. THE
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Marvell (Andrew). See Little Library.

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Massee (George). THE EVOLUTION OF PLANT LIFE: Lower Forms. With
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May (Phil). THE PHIL MAY ALBUM. _Second Edition, 4to. 1s. net._

Mellows (Emma S.). A SHORT STORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. _Crown 8vo. 3s.
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Millais (Sir John Everett). See Little Galleries.

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Milne (J.G.), M.A. A HISTORY OF ROMAN EGYPT. Fully Illustrated. _Crown
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Milton, John, THE POEMS OF, BOTH ENGLISH AND LATIN, Compos'd at several
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The Songs were set in Musick by Mr. HENRY LAWES, Gentleman of the
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Moore (H.E.). See Social Questions Series.

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Oliphant (Mrs.). See Leaders of Religion.

Oman (C.W.C.), M.A., Fellow of All Souls', Oxford. A HISTORY OF THE
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Ottley (R.L.), D.D., Professor of Pastoral Theology at Oxford and
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Parmenter (John). HELIO-TROPES, OR NEW POSIES FOR SUNDIALS, 1625.
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Parmentier (Prof. Leon). See Byzantine Texts.

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Shakespeare (William).
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HAMLET. Edited by EDWARD DOWDEN, Litt.D. ROMEO AND
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Sherwell (Arthur). M.A. See Social Questions Series.

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Skipton (H.P.K.). See Little Books on Art.

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Steel (R. Elliott) M.A., F.C.S. THE WORLD OF SCIENCE. Including
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Stephenson (C.), of the Technical College, Bradford, and Suddards (F.)
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Stephenson (J.), M.A. THE CHIEF TRUTHS OF THE CHRISTIAN FAITH _Crown
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Sterne (Laurence). See Little Library.

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Stevenson (R.L.). THE LETTERS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON TO HIS FAMILY
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Stoddart (Anna M.). See Oxford Biographies.

Stone (E.D.), M.A., late Assistant Master at Eton. SELECTIONS FROM THE
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Starch (F.)., Manual Training Instructor to the Surrey County Council.
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Suckling (Sir John). FRAGMENTA AUREA: a Collection of all the
Incomparable Pieces, written by. And published by a friend to
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MOSELEY, and are to be sold at his shop, at the sign of the Princes
Arms in St. Paul's Churchyard, 1646.

Suddards (F.). See C. Stephenson.

Surtees (R.S.). See Illustrated Pocket Library.

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THE CHRISTIAN YEAR. Edited by Walter Lock, D.D. _Second Edition._

THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. Edited by C. Bigg, D.D. _Fourth Edition._

A BOOK OF DEVOTIONS. Edited by J.W. Stanbridge. B.D. _Second Edition._

LYRA INNOCENTIUM. Edited by Walter Lock, D.D.

A SERIOUS CALL TO A DEVOUT AND HOLY LIFE. Edited by C. Bigg, D.D.
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THE TEMPLE. Edited by E.C.S. Gibson, D.D.

A GUIDE TO ETERNITY. Edited by J.W. Stanbridge, B,D.

THE PSALMS OF DAVID. Edited by B.W. Randolph, D.D.

LYRA APOSTOLICA. Edited by Canon Scott Holland and Canon H.C.
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THE INNER WAY. By J. Tauler Edited by A.W. Hutton, M.A.

THE THOUGHTS OF PASCAL. Edited by C.S. Jerram, M.A.

ON THE LOVE OF GOD. By St. Francis de Sales. Edited by W.J.
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A MANUAL OK CONSOLATION FROM THE SAINTS AND FATHERS. Edited by J.H.
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THE SONG or SONGS. Edited by B. Blaxland, M.A.

THE DEVOTIONS OF ST. ANSELM. Edited by C.C.J. Webb, M.A.

GRACE ABOUNDING. By John Bunyan. Edited by S.C. Freer, M.A.

BISHOP WILSON'S SACRA PRIVATA. Edited by A.E. Burn, B.D.

LYRA SACRA: A Book of Sacred Verse. Edited by H.C. Beeching, M.A.,
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A DAY BOOK FROM THE SAINTS AND FATHERS. Edited by J.H. Burn, B.D.

HEAVENLY WISDOM. A Selection from the English Mystics. Edited by E.C.
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LIGHT, LIFE, and LOVE. A Selection from the German Mystics. Edited by
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GREEK ART. H.B. Walters. _Second Ed._

BOOKPLATES. E. Almack.

REYNOLDS. J. Sime.

ROMNEY. George Paston.

WATTS. Miss R.E.D. Sketchley.

LEIGHTON. Alice Corkran.

VELASQUEZ. Wilfrid Wilberforce and A.R. Gilbert.

GREUZE AND BOUCHER. Eliza F. Pollard.

VANDYCK. M.G. SMALLWOOD.

TURNER. F. Tyrell-Gill.

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HOLBEIN. Mrs. G. Fortescue.

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MILLET. Netta Peacock.

*RAPHAEL. A.R. DRYHURST.

*ILLUMINATED MSS. J.W. Bradley.


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A LITTLE GALLERY OF ROMNEY.

A LITTLE GALLERY OF HOPPNER.

A LITTLE GALLERY OF MILLAIS.

A LITTLE GALLERY OF ENGLISH POETS.


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OXFORD AND ITS COLLEGES. By J. Wills, M.A. Illustrated by E.H. New.
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CAMBRIDGE AND ITS COLLEGES. By A. Hamilton Thompson. _Second Edition._
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ENGLISH LYRICS, A LITTLE BOOK OF. Anon.

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE. By Jane Austen. Edited by E.V. Lucas. _Two
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NORTHANGER ABBEY. By Jane Austen. Edited by E.V. Lucas.

THE ESSAYS OF LORD BACON. Edited by Edward Wright.

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A LITTLE BOOK OF ENGLISH PROSE. Edited by Mrs. P.A. Barnett.

THE HISTORY OF THE CALIPH VATHEK. By William Beckford. Edited by E.
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SELECTIONS FROM WILLIAM BLAKE. Edited by M. Perugini.

LAVENGRO. By George Borrow. Edited by F. Hindes Groome. _Two Volumes._

THE ROMANY RYE. By George Borrow. Edited by John Sampson.

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THE ESSAYS OF ABRAHAM COWLEY. Edited by H.C. Minchin.

SELECTIONS FROM GEORGE CRABBE, Edited by A.C. Deane.

JOHN HALIFAX GENTLEMAN. By Mrs. Craik. Edited by Annie Matheson. _Two
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THE ENGLISH POEMS OF RICHARD CRAWSHAW. Edited by Edward Hutton.

THE INFERNO OF DANTE. Translated by H.F. Cary. Edited by Paget
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SELECTIONS FROM THE POEMS OF GEORGE DARLEY. Edited by R.A.
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A LITTLE BOOK OF LIGHT VERSE. Edited by A.C. Deane.

MARRIAGE. By Susan Ferrier. Edited by Miss Goodrich Freer and Lord
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THE INHERITANCE. By Susan Ferrier. Edited by Miss Goodrich Freer and
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CRANFORD. By Mrs. Gaskell. Edited by E.V. Lucas. _Second Edition._

THE SCARLET LETTER. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Edited by Percy Dearmer.

A LITTLE BOOK OF SCOTTISH VERSE. Edited by T.F. Henderson.

POEMS. By John Keats. With an Introduction by L. Binyon and Notes by
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EOTHEN. By A.W. Kinglake. With an Introduction and Notes. _Second
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ELIA, AND THE LAST ESSAYS OF ELIA. By Charles Lamb. Edited by E.V.
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LONDON LYRICS. By F. Locker. Edited by A.D. Godley, M.A. A reprint of
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SELECTIONS FROM LONGFELLOW. Edited by L.M. Faithfull.

THE POEMS OF ANDREW MARVELL. Edited by E. Wright.

THE MINOR POEMS OF JOHN MILTON. Edited by H.C. BEECHING, M.A.

MANSIE WAUCH. By D.M. Moir. Edited by T.F. Henderson.

A LITTLE BOOK OF ENGLISH SONNETS. Edited by J.B.B. Nichols.

THE MAXIMS OF LA ROCHEFOUCAULD. Translated by Dean Stanhope. Edited by
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REJECTED ADDRESSES. By Horace and James Smith. Edited by A.D. Godley,
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A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY. By Laurence Sterne. Edited by H.W. Paul.

THE EARLY POEMS OF ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. Edited by J. Churton
Collins, M.A.

IN MEMORIAM. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Edited by H.C. Beeching, M.A.

THE PRINCESS. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Edited by Elizabeth
Wordsworth.

MAUD. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Edited by Elizabeth Wordsworth.

VANITY FAIR. By W.M. Thackeray. Edited by S. Gwynn. _Three Volumes._

PENDENNIS. By W.M. Thackeray. Edited by S. Gwynn. _Three Volumes._

ESMOND. By W.M. Thackeray. Edited by S. Gwynn.

CHRISTMAS BOOKS. By W.M. Thackeray. Edited by S. Gwynn.

THE POEMS OF HENRY VAUGHAN. Edited by Edward Hutton.

THE COMPLEAT ANGLER. By Izaak Walton. Edited by J. Buchan.

A LITTLE BOOK OF LIFE AND DEATH. Edited by Mrs. Alfred Waterhouse.
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SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH. Edited by Nowell C. Smith.

LYRICAL BALLADS. By W. Wordsworth and S.T. Coleridge. Edited by George
Sampson.


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EUPHRANOR: A Dialogue on Youth. By Edward FitzGerald. From the edition
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THE LIFE OF EDWARD, LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY. Written by himself. From
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POEMS. By Dora Greenwell. From the edition of 1848. _Leather, 2s.
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The Oxford Biographies

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DANTE ALIGHIERI. By Paget Toynbee, M.A., D.Litt. With 12
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SAVONAROLA. By E.L.S. Horsburgh, M.A. With 12 Illustrations. _Second
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JOHN HOWARD. By E.C.S. Gibson, D.D., Vicar of Leeds. With 12
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TENNYSON. By A.C. BENSON, M.A. With 9 Illustrations.

WALTER RALEIGH. By I.A. Taylor. With 12 Illustrations.

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THE YOUNG PRETENDER. By C.S. Terry. With 12 Illustrations.

ROBERT BURNS. By T.F. Henderson. With 12 Illustrations.

CHATHAM. By A.S. M'Dowall. With 12 Illustrations.

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. By Anna M. Stoddart. With 16 Illustrations.

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BEACONSFIELD. By Waller Sichel. With 12 Illustrations.

GOETHE. By H.G. Atkins. With 12 Illustrations.


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Social Questions of To-day

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TRADE UNIONISM--NEW AND OLD. By G. Howell. _Third Edition._

THE CO-OPERATIVE MOVEMENT TO-DAY. By G.J. Holyoake. _Fourth Edition._

MUTUAL THRIFT, by J. Frome Wilkinson, M.A.

PROBLEMS OF POVERTY. By J.A. Hobson, M.A. _Fourth Edition._

THE COMMERCE OF NATIONS. By C.F. Bastable, M.A. _Third Edition._

THE ALIEN INVASION. By W.H. Wilkins, B.A.

THE RURAL EXODUS. By P. Anderson Graham.

LAND NATIONALIZATION. By Harold Cox, B.A.

A SHORTER WORKING DAY. By H. de Gibbins and R.A. Hatfield.

BACK TO THE LAND. An Inquiry into Rural Depopulation. By H.E. Moore.

TRUSTS, POOLS, AND CORNERS. By J. Stephen Jeans.

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LIFE IN WEST LONDON. By Arthur Sherwell, M.A. _Third Edition._

RAILWAY NATIONALIZATION. By Clement Edwards.

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Methuen's Standard Library

EDITED BY SIDNEY LEE. _In Sixpenny Volumes._

MESSRS. METHUEN are preparing a new series of reprints containing both
books of classical repute, which are accessible in various forms, and
also some rarer books, of which no satisfactory edition at a moderate
price is in existence. It is their ambition to place the best books of
all nations, and particularly of the Anglo-Saxon race, within the reach
of every reader. All the great masters of Poetry, Drama, Fiction,
History, Biography, and Philosophy will be represented. Mr. Sidney Lee
will be the General Editor of the Library, and he will contribute a Note
to each book.

The characteristics of METHUEN'S UNIVERSAL LIBRARY are five:--

1. SOUNDNESS OF TEXT. A pure and unabridged text is the primary object
of the series, and the books will be carefully reprinted under the
direction of competent scholars from the best editions. In a series
intended for popular use not less than for students, adherence to the
old spelling would in many cases leave the matter unintelligible to
ordinary readers, and, as the appeal of a classic is universal, the
spelling has in general been modernised.

2. COMPLETENESS. Where it seems advisable, the complete works of such
masters as Milton, Bacon, Ben Jonson and Sir Thomas Browne will be
given. These will be issued in separate volumes, so that the reader who
does not desire all the works of an author will have the opportunity of
acquiring a single masterpiece.

3. CHEAPNESS. The books will be well printed on good paper at a price
which on the whole is without parallel in the history of publishing.
Each volume will contain from 100 to 350 pages, and will be issued in
paper covers, Crown 8vo, at Sixpence net. In a few cases a long book
will be issued as a Double Volume at One Shilling net.

4. CLEARNESS OF TYPE. The type will be a very legible one.

5. SIMPLICITY. There will be no editorial matter except a short
biographical and bibliographical note by Mr. Sidney Lee at the beginning
of each volume.

The volumes may also be obtained in cloth at One Shilling net, or in the
case of a Double Volume at One and Sixpence net. Thus TOM JONES may be
bought in a Double paper volume at One Shilling net, or in one cloth
volume at 1s. 6d. net.

The Library will be issued at regular intervals after the publication of
the first six books, all of which will be published together. Due notice
will be given of succeeding issues. The orders of publication will be
arranged to give as much variety of subject as possible, and the volume
composing the complete works of an author will be issued at convenient
intervals.

These are the early Books, all of which are in the Press.

THE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. In 10 volumes.

VOL. I.--The Tempest; The Two Gentlemen of Verona; The Merry Wives of
Windsor; Measure for Measure; The Comedy of Errors.

VOL. II.--Much Ado About Nothing; Love's Labour's Lost; A Midsummer
Nights' Dream; The Merchant of Venice; As You Like It.

VOL. III.--The Taming of the Shrew; All's Well that Ends Well; Twelfth
Night; The Winter's Tale.

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. By John Bunyan.

THE NOVELS OF JANE AUSTEN. In 5 volumes. VOL. I.--Sense and
Sensibility.

THE ENGLISH WORKS OF FRANCIS BACON, LORD VERULAM. Vol. I.--Essays and
Counsels and the New Atlantis.

THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

ON THE IMITATION OF CHRIST. By Thomas a Kempis.

THE WORKS OF BEN JOHNSON. In about 12 volumes. VOL. I.--The Case is
Altered; Every Man in His Humour; Every Man out of His Humour.

THE PROSE WORKS OF JOHN MILTON.
  VOL. I.--Eikonoklastes and The Tenure of Kings and Magistrates.

SELECT WORKS OF EDMUND BURKE.
  Vol. I.--Reflections on the French Revolution
  Vol. II.--Speeches on America.

THE WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING.
  Vol. I.--Tom Jones. (Double Volume.)
  Vol. II.--Amelia. (Double Volume.)

THE POEMS OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. In 2 volumes.
  Vol. I.--Miscellaneous Poems.
  Vol. II.--The Rowley Poems.

THE MEDITATIONS OF MARCUS AURELIUS. Translated by R. Graves.

THE HISTORY OF THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. By Edward
Gibbon. In 7 volumes. The Notes have been revised by J.B. Bury, Litt.D.

THE PLAYS OF CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.
  Vol. I.--Tamburlane the Great; The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus.
  Vol. II.--The Jew of Malta: Edward the Second; The Massacre at Paris;
  The Tragedy of Dido.

THE NATURAL HISTORY AND ANTIQUITIES OF SELBORNE. By Gilbert White.

THE COMPLETE ANGLER. In 2 volumes.
  Vol. I.--By Izaak Walton.
  Vol. II.--Part 2, by Cotton, and Part 3 by Venables.

THE POEMS OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. In 4 volumes.
  Vol. I.--Alastor; The Daemon of the World; The Revolt of Islam, etc.

THE WORKS OF SIR THOMAS BROWNE. In 6 volumes.
  Vol. I.--Religio Medici and Urn Burial.

THE POEMS OF JOHN MILTON. In 2 volumes.
  Vol. I.--Paradise Lost.
  Vol. II.--Miscellaneous Poems and Paradise Regained.

HUMPHREY CLINKER. By T.G. Smollett.

SELECT WORKS OF SIR THOMAS MORE.
  Vol. I.--Utopia and Poems.

THE ANALOGY OF RELIGION, NATURAL AND REVEALED. By Joseph Butler, D.D.

ON HUMAN UNDERSTANDING. By John Locke. In 3 volumes.

THE POEMS OF JOHN KEATS. In 2 volumes.

THE DIVINE COMEDY OF DANTE. The Italian Text edited by Paget Toynbee,
M.A., D.Litt. (A Double Volume.)


Westminster Commentaries, The

General Editor, WALTER LOCK, D.D., Warden of Keble College,

Dean Ireland's Professor of Exegesis in the University of Oxford.

The object of each commentary is primarily exegetical, to interpret the
author's meaning to the present generation. The editors will not deal,
except very subordinately, with questions of textual criticism or
philology; but, taking the English text in the Revised Version as their
basis, they will try to combine a hearty acceptance of critical
principles with loyalty to the Catholic Faith.

THE BOOK OF GENESIS. Edited with Introduction and Notes by S.R. Driver,
D.D. _Fourth Edition Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d._

THE BOOK OF JOB. Edited by E.C.S. Gibson. D.D. _Second Edition. Demy
8vo. 6s._

THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES. Edited by R.B. Rackham, M.A. _Demy 8vo. Second
and Cheaper Edition. 10s. 6d._

THE FIRST EPISTLE OF PAUL THE APOSTLE TO THE CORINTHIANS. Edited by H.L.
Goudge, M.A. _Demy 8vo. 6s._

THE EPISTLE OF ST. JAMES. Edited with Introduction and Notes by R.J.
Knowling, M.A. _Demy 8vo. 6s._




PART II.--FICTION

Marie Corelli's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

A ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS. _Twenty-Fifth Edition._

VENDETTA. _Twenty-First Edition._

THELMA. _Thirty-Second Edition._

ARDATH: THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF. _Fifteenth Edition._

THE SOUL OF LILITH. _Twelfth Edition._

WORMWOOD. _Fourteenth Edition._

BARABBAS: A DREAM OF THE WORLD'S TRAGEDY. _Fortieth Edition._
'The tender reverence of the treatment and the imaginative beauty of the
writing have reconciled us to the daring of the conception. This "Dream
of the World's Tragedy" is a lofty and not inadequate paraphrase of the
supreme climax of the inspired narrative.'--_Dublin Review._

THE SORROWS OF SATAN. _Forty-Eighth Edition._
'A very powerful piece of work.... The conception is magnificent, and is
likely to win an abiding place within the memory of man.... The author
has immense command of language, and a limitless audacity.... This
interesting and remarkable romance will live long after much of the
ephemeral literature of the day is forgotten.... A literary phenomenon
... novel, and even sublime.'--W.T. STEAD in the _Review of Reviews._

THE MASTER CHRISTIAN. _[165th Thousand._
'It cannot be denied that "The Master Christian" is a powerful book;
that it is one likely to raise uncomfortable questions in all but the
most self-satisfied readers, and that it strikes at the root of the
failure of the Churches--the decay of faith--in a manner which shows the
inevitable disaster heaping up ... The good Cardinal Bonpre is a
beautiful figure, fit to stand beside the good Bishop in "Les
Miserables." It is a book with a serious purpose expressed with absolute
unconventionality and passion ... And this is to say it is a book worth
reading.'--_Examiner._

TEMPORAL POWER: A STUDY IN SUPREMACY. _[150th Thousand._
'It is impossible to read such a work as "Temporal Power" without
becoming convinced that the story is intended to convey certain
criticisms on the ways of the world and certain suggestions for the
betterment of humanity.... If the chief intention of the book was to
hold the mirror up to shams, injustice, dishonesty, cruelty, and neglect
of conscience, nothing but praise can be given to that
intention.'--_Morning Post._

GOD'S GOOD MAN: A SIMPLE LOVE STORY. _Sixth Edition_,


Anthony Hope's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

THE GOD IN THE CAR. _Tenth Edition._
'A very remarkable book, deserving of critical analysis impossible
within our limit; brilliant, but not superficial; well considered, but
not elaborated; constructed with the proverbial art that conceals, but
yet allows itself to be enjoyed by readers to whom fine literary method
is a keen pleasure.--_The World._

A CHANGE OF AIR, _Sixth Edition._
'A graceful, vivacious comedy, true to human nature. The characters are
traced with a masterly hand.'--_Times._

A MAN OF MARK. _Fifth Edition._
'Of all Mr. Hope's books, "A Man of Mark" is the one which best compares
with "The Prisoner of Zenda." '--_National Observer._

THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO. _Fifth Edition._
'It is a perfectly enchanting story of love and chivalry, and pure
romance. The Count is the most constant, desperate, and modest and
tender of lovers, a peerless gentleman, an intrepid fighter, a faithful
friend, and a magnanimous foe.'--_Guardian._

PHROSO. Illustrated by H.R. MILLAR. _Sixth Edition._
'The tale is thoroughly fresh, quick with vitality, stirring the
blood.'--_St. James's Gazette._

SIMON DALE. Illustrated. _Sixth Edition._
'There is searching analysis of human nature, with a most ingeniously
constructed plot. Mr. Hope has drawn the contrasts of his women with
marvellous subtlety and delicacy.'--_Times_.

THE KING'S MIRROR. _Fourth Edition._
'In elegance, delicacy, and tact it ranks with the best of his novels,
while in the wide range of its portraiture and the subtlety of its
analysis it surpasses all his earlier ventures.'--_Spectator._

QUISANTE. _Fourth Edition._
'The book is notable for a very high literary quality, and an impress of
power and mastery on every page.'--_Daily Chronicle._

THE DOLLY DIALOGUES.


W.W. Jacobs' Novels

_Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. each._

MANY CARGOES. _Twenty-Seventh Edition._

SEA URCHINS. _Eleventh Edition._

A MASTER OF CRAFT. Illustrated. _Sixth Edition._
'Can be unreservedly recommended to all who have not lost their appetite
for wholesome laughter.'--_Spectator._
'The best humorous book published for many a day.'--_Black and White._

LIGHT FREIGHTS. Illustrated. _Fourth Edition._
'His wit and humour are perfectly irresistible. Mr. Jacobs writes of
skippers, and mates, and seamen, and his crew are the jolliest lot that
ever sailed.'--_Daily News._
'Laughter in every page.'--_Daily Mail_.


Lucas Malet's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

COLONEL ENDERBY' WIFE. _Third Edition._

A COUNSEL OF PERFECTION. _New Edition._

LITTLE PETER. _Second Edition. 3s. 6d._

THE WAGES OF SIN. _Fourteenth Edition._

THE CARISSIMA. _Fourth Edition._

THE GATELESS BARRIER. _Fourth Edition._
'In "The Gateless Barrier" it is at once evident that, whilst Lucas
Malet has preserved her birthright of originality, the artistry, the
actual writing, is above even the high level of the books that were born
before.'--_Westminster Gazette._

THE HISTORY OF SIR RICHARD CALMADY. _Seventh Edition._ A Limited
Edition in Two Volumes. _Crown 8vo. 12s._
'A picture finely and amply conceived. In the strength and insight in
which the story has been conceived, in the wealth of fancy and
reflection bestowed upon its execution, and in the moving sincerity of
its pathos throughout, "Sir Richard Calmady" must rank as the great
novel of a great writer.'--_Literature._
'The ripest fruit of Lucas Malet's genius. A picture of maternal love
by turns tender and terrible.'--_Spectator._
'A remarkably fine book, with a noble motive and a sound
conclusion.'--_Pilot_.


Gilbert Parker's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. _Fifth Edition._
'Stories happily conceived and finely executed. There is strength and
genius in Mr. Parker's style.'--_Daily Telegraph._

MRS. FALCHION. _Fifth Edition._
'A splendid study of character.'--_Athenaeum._

THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE. _Second Edition._

THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD. Illustrated. _Eighth Edition._
'A rousing and dramatic tale. A book like this is a joy
inexpressible.'--_Daily Chronicle._

WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC: The Story of a Lost Napoleon. _Fifth
Edition._
'Here we find romance--real, breathing, living romance. The character of
Valmond is drawn unerringly.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._

AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH: The Last Adventures of 'Pretty Pierre.'
_Third Edition._
'The present book is full of fine and moving stories of the great
North.'--_Glasgow Herald._

THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY. Illustrated. _Thirteenth Edition._
'Mr. Parker has produced a really fine historical novel.'--_Athenaeum._
'A great book.'--_Black and White._

THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG: a Romance of Two Kingdoms. Illustrated.
_Fourth Edition._
'Nothing more vigorous or more human has come from Mr. Gilbert Parker
than this novel.'--_Literature._

THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES. _Second Edition. 3s. 6d._
'Unforced pathos, and a deeper knowledge of human nature than he has
displayed before.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._


Arthur Morrison's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

TALES OF MEAN STREETS. _Sixth Edition._
'A great book. The author's method is amazingly effective, and produces
a thrilling sense of reality. The writer lays upon us a master hand. The
book is simply appalling and irresistible in its interest. It is
humorous also; without humour it would not make the mark it is certain
to make.'--_World._

A CHILD OF THE JAGO. _Fourth Edition._
'The book is a masterpiece.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._

TO LONDON TOWN. _Second Edition._
'This is the new Mr. Arthur Morrison, gracious and tender, sympathetic
and human.'--_Daily Telegraph._

CUNNING MURRELL.
'Admirable ... Delightful humorous relief ... a most artistic and
satisfactory achievement.'--_Spectator._

THE HOLE IN THE WALL. _Third Edition._
'A masterpiece of artistic realism. It has a finality of touch that only
a master may command.'--_Daily Chronicle._
'An absolute masterpiece, which any novelist might be proud to
claim.'--_Graphic_.
'"The Hole in the Wall" is a masterly piece of work. His characters
are drawn with amazing skill. Extraordinary power.'--_Daily
Telegraph._


Eden Phillpotts' Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

LYING PROPHETS.

CHILDREN OF THE MIST. _Fifth Edition._

THE HUMAN BOY. With a Frontispiece. _Fourth Edition._
'Mr. Phillpotts knows exactly what school-boys do, and can lay bare
their inmost thoughts; likewise he shows an all-pervading sense of
humour.'--_Academy._

SONS OF THE MORNING. _Second Edition._
'A book of strange power and fascination.'--_Morning Post._

THE STRIKING HOURS. _Second Edition._
'Tragedy and comedy, pathos and humour, are blended to a nicety in this
volume.'--_World._
'The whole book is redolent of a fresher and ampler air than breathes
in the circumscribed life of great towns.'--_Spectator._

THE RIVER. _Third Edition._
'"The River" places Mr. Phillpotts in the front rank of living
novelists.'--_Punch._
'Since "Lorna Doone" we have had nothing so picturesque as this new
romance.'--_Birmingham Gazette._
'Mr. Phillpotts's new book is a masterpiece which brings him
indisputably into the front rank of English novelists.'--_Pall Mall
Gazette._
'This great romance of the River Dart. The finest book Mr. Eden
Phillpotts has written.'--_Morning Post._

THE AMERICAN PRISONER. _Third Edition._

THE SECRET WOMAN. _Fourth Edition._


S. Baring-Gould's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

ARMINELL. _Fifth Edition._

URITH. _Fifth Edition._

IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA. _Seventh Edition._

CHEAP JACK ZITA. _Fourth Edition._

MARGERY OF QUETHER. _Third Edition._

THE QUEEN OF LOVE. _Fifth Edition._

JACQUETTA. _Third Edition._

KITTY ALONE. _Fifth Edition._

NOEMI. Illustrated. _Fourth Edition._

THE BROOM-SQUIRE. Illustrated. _Fourth Edition._

DARTMOOR IDYLLS.

THE PENNYCOMEQUICKS. _Third Edition._

GUAVAS THE TINNER. Illustrated. _Second Edition._

BLADYS. Illustrated. _Second Edition._

DOMITIA. Illustrated. _Second Edition._

PABO THE PRIEST.

WINIFRED. Illustrated. _Second Edition._

THE FROBISHERS.

ROYAL GEORGIE. Illustrated.

MISS QUILLET. Illustrated.

LITTLE TU'PENNY. _A New Edition. 6d._

CHRIS OF ALL SORTS.

IN DEWISLAND. _Second Edition._


Robert Barr's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

IN THE MIDST OF ALARMS. _Third Edition._
'A book which has abundantly satisfied us by its capital
humour.'--_Daily Chronicle._

THE MUTABLE MANY. _Second Edition._
'There is much insight in it, and much excellent humour.'--_Daily
Chronicle._

THE VICTORS.

THE COUNTESS TEKLA. _Third Edition._
'Of these mediaeval romances, which are now gaining ground, "The Countess
Tekla" is the very best we have seen.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._

THE LADY ELECTRA. _Second Edition._

THE TEMPESTUOUS PETTICOAT. _Second Edition._


E. Maria Albanesi's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

SUSANNAH AND ONE OTHER. _Fourth Edition._

THE BLUNDER OF AN INNOCENT. _Second Edition._

CAPRICIOUS CAROLINE. _Second Edition._

LOVE AND LOUISA. _Second Edition._

PETER, A PARASITE.


B.M. Croker's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

ANGEL. _Fourth Edition._

PEGGY OF THE BARTONS. _Sixth Edit._

THE OLD CANTONMENT.

A STATE SECRET. _Third Edition._

JOHANNA. _Second Edition._

THE HAPPY VALLEY. _Second Edition._


J.H. Findlater's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

THE GREEN GRAVES OF BALGOWRIE. _Fifth Edition._


Mary Findlater's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s._

A NARROW WAY. _Third Edition._

OVER THE HILLS.

THE ROSE OF JOY. _Second Edition._


Robert Hichens' Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

THE PROPHET OF BERKELEY SQUARE. _Second Edition_

TONGUES OF CONSCIENCE. _Second Edition._

FELIX. _Fourth Edition._

THE WOMAN WITH THE FAN. _Fifth Edition._

BYEWAYS. _3s. 6d._

THE GARDEN OF ALLAH _Seventh Edition._

Henry James's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

THE SOFT SIDE. _Second Edition._

THE BETTER SORT.

THE AMBASSADORS. _Second Edition._

THE GOLDEN BOWL.


Mary E. Mann's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

OLIVIA'S SUMMER. _Second Edition._

A LOST ESTATE. _A New Edition._

THE PARISH OF HILBY. _A New Edition._

*THE PARISH NURSE.

GRAN'MA'S JANE.

MRS. PETER HOWARD.

A WINTER'S TALE. _A New Edition._

ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS. _A New Edition._

THERE WAS ONCE A PRINCE. Illustrated. _3s. 6d._

WHEN ARNOLD COMES HOME. Illustrated. _3s. 6d._


W. Pett Ridge's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

LOST PROPERTY. _Second Edition._

ERB. _Second Edition._

A SON OF THE STATE. _3s. 6d._

A BREAKER OF LAWS. _3s. 6d._

MRS. GALER'S BUSINESS.

SECRETARY TO BAYNE, M.P. _3s. 6d._


Adeline Sergeant's Novels

_Crown 8vo. 6s. each._

THE MASTER OF BEECHWOOD.

BARBARA'S MONEY. _Second Edition._

ANTHEA'S WAY.

THE YELLOW DIAMOND. _Second Edition._

UNDER SUSPICION.

THE LOVE THAT OVERCAME.

THE ENTHUSIAST.

ACCUSED AND ACCUSER. _Second Edition._

THE PROGRESS OF RACHEL.

THE MYSTERY OF THE MOAT.

       *       *       *       *       *


Albanesi (E. Maria). See page 35.

Anstey (F.), Author of 'Vice Versa.' A BAYARD FROM BENGAL. Illustrated
by BERNARD PARTRIDGE. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Bacheller (Irving), Author of 'Eben Holden.' DARREL OF THE BLESSED ISLES
_Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Bagot (Richard). A ROMAN MYSTERY. _Third Edition. Crown 8 vo. 6s._

Balfour (Andrew). See Shilling Novels.

Baring-Gould (S.). See page 35 and Shilling Novels.

Barlow (Jane). THE LAND OF THE SHAMROCK. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also
Shilling Novels.

Barr (Robert). See page 35 and Shilling Novels.

Begbie (Harold). THE ADVENTURES OF SIR JOHN SPARROW. _Crown. 8vo. 6s._

Belloc (Hilaire). EMMANUEL BURDEN, MERCHANT, with 36 illustrations by
G.K. CHESTERTON. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Benson (E.F.). See Shilling Novels.

Benson (Margaret). SUBJECT TO VANITY. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Besant (Sir Walter). See Shilling Novels.

Bowles (C. Stewart). A STRETCH OFF THE LAND. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Bullock (Shan. F.). THE SQUIREEN. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ THE RED LEAGUERS.
_Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels.

Burton (J. Bloundelle). THE YEAR ONE: A Page of the French Revolution.
Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE FATE OF VALSEC. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
A BRANDED NAME. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels.

Capes (Bernard), Author of 'The Lake of Wine.' THE EXTRAORDINARY
CONFESSIONS OF DIANA PLEASE. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Chesney (Weatherby). THE BAPTST RING. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE TRAGEDY OF THE GREAT EMERALD. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE MYSTERY OF A BUNGALOW. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Clifford (Hugh). A FREE LANCE OF TO-DAY. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Clifford (Mrs. W.K.). See also Shilling Novels and Books for Boys and
Girls.

Cobb (Thomas). A CHANGE OF FACE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Cobban (J. Maclaren). See Shilling Novels.

Corelli (Marie). See page 32.

Cotes (Mrs. Everard). See Sara Jeannette Duncan.

Cotterell (Constance). THE VIRGIN AND THE SCALES. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Crane (Stephen) and Barr (Robert). THE O'RUDDY. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Crockett (S.R.). Author of 'The Raiders,' etc. LOCHINVAR. Illustrated.
_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE STANDARD BEARER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Croker (B.M.). See page 35.

Dawson (A.J.). DANIEL WHYTE. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Doyle (A. Conan), Author of 'Sherlock Holmes,' 'The White Company,'
etc. ROUND THE RED LAMP. _Ninth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Duncan (Sara Jeannette) (Mrs. Everard Cotes). THOSE DELIGHTFUL
AMERICANS. Illustrated. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE POOL IN THE DESERT. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
A VOYAGE OF CONSOLATION. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Findlater (J.H.). See page 35 and Shilling Novels.

Findlater (Mary). See page 35.

Fitzpatrick (K.) THE WEANS AT ROWALLAN. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Fitzstephen (Gerald). MORE KIN THAN KIND. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Fletcher (J.S.). LUCIAN THE DREAMER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
DAVID MARCH. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Francis (M.E.). See Shilling Novels.

Fraser (Mrs. Hugh). Author of 'The Stolen Emperor.' THE SLAKING OF THE
SWORD. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Gallon (Tom), Author of 'Kiddy.' RICKERBY'S FOLLY. _Crown 8 vo. 6s._

Gerard (Dorothea), Author of 'Lady Baby.' THE CONQUEST OF LONDON.
_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
HOLY MATRIMONY. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
MADE OF MONEY. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE BRIDGE OF LIFE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Gerard (Emily). THE HERONS' TOWER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Gissing (George), Author of 'Demos,' 'In the Year of Jubilee,' etc.
THE TOWN TRAVELLER. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo 6s._
THE CROWN OF LIFE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Glanville (Ernest). THE INCA'S TREASURE. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 3s.
6d._

Gleig (Charles). BUNTER'S CRUISE. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Goss (C.F.). See Shilling Novels.

Herbertson (Agnes G.). PATIENCE DEAN. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Hichens (Robert). See page 35.

Hobbes (John Oliver), Author of 'Robert Orange.' THE SERIOUS WOOING.
_Crown 8vo. 6s._

Hope (Anthony). See page 32.

Hough (Emerson). THE MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Hyne (C.J. Cutcliffe), Author of 'Captain Kettle.' MR. HORROCKS,
PURSER. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Jacobs (W.W.). See page 33.

James (Henry). See page 36.

Janson (Gustaf). ABRAHAM'S SACRIFICE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Keays (H.A. Mitchell). HE THAT EATHETH BREAD WITH ME. _Crown 8vo.
6s._

Lawless (Hon. Emily). See Shilling Novels.

Lawson (Harry), Author of 'When the Billy Boils.' CHILDREN OF THE
BUSH. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Levett-Yeats (S.). ORRAIN. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Linden (Annie). A WOMAN OF SENTIMENT. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Linton (E. Lynn). THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON, Christian and
Communist. _Twelfth Edition. Medium 8vo. 6d._

Long (J. Luther), Co-Author of 'The Darling of the Gods.' MADAME
BUTTERFLY. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._
SIXTY JANE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Lyall (Edna). DERRICK VAUGHAN, NOVELIST. _42nd Thousand. Cr. 8vo. 3s
6d._

M'Carthy (Justin H.). Author of 'If I were King.' THE LADY OF LOYALTY
HOUSE. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE DRYAD. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Mackie (Pauline Bradford). THE VOICE IN THE DESERT. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Macnaughtan (S.). THE FORTUNE OF CHRISTINA MACNAB. _Third Edition. Crown
8vo. 6s._

Malet (Lucas). See page 33.

Mann (Mrs. M.E.). See page 36.

Marriott (Charles), Author of 'The Column.' GENEVRA. _Second Edition.
Cr. 8vo. 6s._

Marsh (Richard). THE TWICKENHAM PEERAGE. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo.
6s._
A METAMORPHOSIS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
GARNERED. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
A DUEL. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Mason (A.E.W), Author of 'The Courtship of Morrice Buckler,'
'Miranda of the Balcony,' etc. CLEMENTINA. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo.
Second Edition. 6s._

Mathers (Helen), Author of 'Comin' thro' the Rye.' HONEY. _Fourth
Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
GRIFF OF GRIFFITHSCOURT. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Meade (L.T.). DRIFT. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ RESURGAM. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Meredith (Ellis). HEART OF MY HEART. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

'Miss Molly' (The Author of). THE GREAT RECONCILER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Mitford (Bertram). THE SIGN OF THE SPIDER. Illustrated. _Sixth Edition
Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._
IN THE WHIRL OF THE RISING. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE RED DERELICT. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Montresor (F.F.), Author of 'Into the Highways and Hedges.' THE
ALIEN. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Morrison (Arthur). See page 34.

Nesbit (E.). (Mrs. E. Bland). THE RED HOUSE. Illustrated. _Fourth
Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE LITERARY SENSE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Norris (W.E.). THE CREDIT OF THE COUNTY. Illustrated. _Second Edition.
Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE EMBARRASSING ORPHAN. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
NIGEL'S VOCATION. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
LORD LEONARD THE LUCKLESS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
BARHAM OF BELTANA. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Oliphant (Mrs.). See Shilling Novels.

Ollivant (Alfred). OWD BOB, THE GREY DOG OF KENMUIR. _Eighth Edition.
Crown 8vo. 6s._

Oppenheim (E. Phillips). MASTER OF MEN. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Oxenham (John), Author of 'Barbe of Grand Bayou.' A WEAVER OF WEBS.
_Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE GATE OF THE DESERT. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Pain (Barry). THREE FANTASIES. _Crown 8vo. 1s._ LINDLEY KAYS. _Third
Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Parker (Gilbert). See page 33.

Pemberton (Max). THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE. Illustrated. _Third Edition.
Crown 8vo. 6s._
I CROWN THEE KING. With Illustrations by Frank Dadd and A. Forrestier.
_Crown 8vo. 6s._

Penny (Mrs. F.E.). See Shilling Novels.

Phillpotts (Eden). See page 34, and Shilling Novels.

Pickthall (Marmaduke). SAID THE FISHERMAN. _Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
*BRENDLE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

*Pryce (Richard). WINIFRED MOUNT, _A New Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

'Q,' Author of 'Dead Man's Rock.' THE WHITE WOLF. _Second Edition. Crown
8vo. 6s._

Queux (W. le). THE HUNCHBACK OF WESTMINSTER. _Third Edition. Crown
8vo. 6s._
THE CLOSED BOOK. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. Illustrated. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Rhys (Grace). THE WOOING OF SHEILA. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE PRINCE OF LISNOVER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Rhys (Grace) and Another. THE DIVERTED VILLAGE. With Illustrations by
DOROTHY GWYN JEFFREYS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Ridge (W. Pett). See page 36.

Ritchie (Mrs. David G.). THE TRUTHFUL LIAR. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Roberts (C.G.D.). THE HEART OF THE ANCIENT WOOD. _Crown 8vo 3s. 6d._

*Robertson (Francee Forbes). THE TAMING OF THE BRUTE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Russell (W. Clark). MY DANISH SWEETHEART. Illustrated. _Fourth Edition
Crown 8vo. 6s._
ABANDONED. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
HIS ISLAND PRINCESS. Illustrated. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Sergeant (Adeline). See page 36.

Shannon (W.F.). THE MESS DECK. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._
JIM TWELVES. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

Sonnichsen (Albert). DEEP SEA VAGABONDS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Stringer (Arthur). THE SILVER POPPY. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Sutherland (Duchess of). See Shilling Novels.

Swan (Annie). See Shilling Novels.

Tanqueray (Mrs. B.M.). THE ROYAL QUAKER. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Thompson (Vance). SPINNERS OF LIFE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Waineman (Paul). BY A FINNISH LAKE. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE SONG OF THE FOREST. _Crown 8vo. 6s._ See also Shilling Novels.

Watson (H.B.Marriott). ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
CAPTAIN FORTUNE. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Wells (H.G.) THE SEA LADY. _Crown 8vo. 6s._

Weyman (Stanley), Author of 'A Gentleman of France.' UNDER THE RED
ROBE With Illustrations by R.C. WOODVILLE. _Eighteenth Edition. Crown
8vo. 6s._

White (Stewart E.). Author of 'The Blazed Trail.' CONJUROR'S HOUSE.
A Romance of the Free Trail. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

White (Percy). THE SYSTEM. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Williamson (Mrs. C.N.), Author of 'The Barnstormers.' PAPA. _Second
Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE ADVENTURE OF PRINCESS SYLVIA. _Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._
THE WOMAN WHO DARED. _Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE SEA COULD TELL. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE CASTLE OF THE SHADOWS. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._

Williamson (C.N. and A.M.). THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR: Being the
Romance of a Motor Car. Illustrated. _Tenth Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._
THE PRINCESS PASSES. Illustrated. _Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s._


Methuen's Shilling Novels

_Cloth, 1s. net._

Encouraged by the great and steady sale of their Sixpenny Novels,
Messrs. Methuen have determined to issue a new series of fiction at a
low price under the title of 'METHUEN'S SHILLING NOVELS.' These books
are well printed and well bound in _cloth_, and the excellence of their
quality may be gauged from the names of those authors who contribute the
early volumes of the series.

Messrs. Methuen would point out that the books are as good and as long
as a six shilling novel, that they are bound in cloth and not in paper,
and that their price is One Shilling _net_, They feel sure that the
public will appreciate such good and cheap literature, and the books can
be seen at all good booksellers. The first volumes are--

Adeline Sergeant. A GREAT LADY.

Richard Marsh. MARVELS AND MYSTERIES.

Tom Gallon. RICKERBY'S FOLLY.

H.B. Marriott-Watson. THE SKIRTS OF HAPPY CHANCE.

Bullock (Shan F.). THE BARRYS. THE CHARMERS.

Gissing (George). THE CROWN OF LIFE.

Francis (M.E.). MISS ERIN.

Sutherland (Duchess of). ONE HOUR AND THE NEXT.

Burton (J. Bloundelle). ACROSS THE SALT SEAS.

Oliphant (Mrs.) THE PRODIGALS.

Balfour (Andrew). VENGEANCE IS MINE.

Barr (Robert), Author of 'The Countess Tekla. THE VICTORS.

Penny (Mrs. F.A.). A MIXED MARRIAGE.

Hamilton (Lord Ernest). MARY HAMILTON.

Glanville (Ernest). THE LOST REGIMENT.

Benson (E.F.). Author of 'Dodo.' THE CAPSINA.

Goss (C.F.). THE REDEMPTION OF DAVID CORSON.

Findlater (J.H.). Author of 'The Green Graves of Balgowrie.' A DAUGHTER
OF STRIFE.

Cobban, (J.M.) THE KING OF ANDAMAN.

Clifford (Mrs. W.K.). A WOMAN ALONE.

Phillpotts (Eden). FANCY FREE.


Books for Boys and Girls

_Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d._

THE GETTING WELL OF DOROTHY. By Mrs. W.K. Clifford. Illustrated by
Gordon-Browne. _Second Edition._

THE ICELANDER'S SWORD. By S. Baring-Gould.

ONLY A GUARD-ROOM DOG. By Edith E. Cuthell.

THE DOCTOR OF THE JULIET. By Harry Collingwood.

LITTLE PETER. By Lucas Malet. _Second Edition._

MASTER ROCKAFELLAR'S VOYAGE. By W. Clark Russell.

THE SECRET OF MADAME DE MONLUC. By the Author of "Mdlle. Mori."

SYD BELTON: Or, the Boy who would not go to Sea. By G. Manville Fenn.

THE RED GRANGE. By Mrs. Molesworth.

A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE. By L.T. Meade.

HEPSY GIPSY. By L.T. Meade. _2s. 6d._

THE HONOURABLE MISS. By L.T. Meade.


The Novels of Alexandre Dumas

_Price 6d. Double Volume, 1s._

THE THREE MUSKETEERS. With a long Introduction by Andrew Lang. Double
volume.

THE PRINCE OF THIEVES. _Second Edition._

ROBIN HOOD. A Sequel to the above.

THE CORSICAN BROTHERS.

GEORGES.

CROP-EARED JACQUOT; JANE; Etc.

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. Double volume.

AMAURY.

THE CASTLE OF EPPSTEIN.

THE SNOWBALL, AND SULTANETTA.

CECILE; OR, THE WEDDING GOWN.

ACTE.

THE BLACK TULIP.

THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE.
Part I. Louis de la Valliere. Double Volume.
Part II. The Man in the Iron Mask. Double Volume.

THE CONVICT'S SON.

THE WOLF-LEADER.

NANON; OR, THE WOMEN'S WAR. Double volume.

PAULINE; MURAT; AND PASCAL BRUNO.

THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN PAMPHILE.

FERNANDE.

GABRIEL LAMBERT.

THE REMINISCENCES OF ANTONY.

CATHERINE BLUM.

THE CHEVALIER D'HARMENTAL.

SYLVANDIRE.

THE FENCING MASTER.

CONSCIENCE.

THE REGENT'S DAUGHTER. A Sequel to Chevalier d'Harmental.


Illustrated Edition.

THE THREE MUSKETEERS. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams, _2s. 6d._

THE PRINCE OF THIEVES. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _2s._

ROBIN HOOD THE OUTLAW. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams, _2s._

THE CORSICAN BROTHERS. Illustrated in Colour by A.M. M'Lellan. _1s. 6d._

FERNANDE. Illustrated in Colour by Munro Orr.

THE BLACK TULIP. Illustrated in Colour by A. Orr.

GEORGES. Illustrated in Colour by Munro Orr. _2s._

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams. _3s._

AMAURY. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon Browne. _2s._

THE SNOWBALL, and SULTANETTA. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams, _2s._

THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. Part I. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams.

CROP-EARED JACQUOT; JANE; Etc. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon Browne.

THE CASTLE OF EPPSTEIN. Illustrated in Colour by Stewart Orr.

ACTE. Illustrated in Colour by Gordon Browne.

CECILE; OR, THE WEDDING GOWN. Illustrated in Colour by D. Murray Smith.

THE ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN PAMPHILE. Illustrated in Colour by Frank
Adams.

THE WOLF-LEADER. Illustrated in Colour by Frank Adams, _1s. 6d._









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