"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 Nikšić, 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