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.