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