The Land Of The Black Mountain

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""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 Nik i?, 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. "

Comparatively little is well known about Europe's newest and one of its smallest independent states: the small mountain fastness Montenegro. In a book written for specialists and general readers alike, Elizabeth Roberts traces its history from pre-Slavic times, including its part in the 1389 battle of Kosovo and its prominent role in resisting the Ottomans. She recounts Montenegro's development under its Prince-Bishops toward the independence achieved at the Congress of Berlin and lost after the Versailles Conference when the Podgorica Assembly voted to join the new Kingdom of Yugoslavia. When Slobodan Milosevic spoke of Montenegro and Serbia as "two eyes in the same head," he encapsulated a view that has deep roots in both nations. But not all Montenegrins agreed, and many chafed at being forced to play the role of Serbia's junior partner. Indeed, Montenegro's complex and shifting cultural and political identity is the main theme of Roberts's witty and dispassionate book, which culminates in Montenegro's defining referendum and subsequent international recognition in the summer of 2006.The history of Montenegro is at once a colorful, often bloodily violent story and instructive about how land, religion, and politics (both domestic and international) have intersected over centuries to shape and reshape cultural identities in Southeastern Europe. Students of national identity have much to learn from the Montenegrin case, and general readers will be enthralled by the dramatic tale that unfolds in Realm of the Black Mountain.

"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 volume looks at the natural and human history of North Carolina's Mount Mitchell, part of the Black Mountain range and the highest peak in the United States. It chronicles the geological forces that created this landscape, traces its environmental change and human intervention.

Early in the autumn of 1826 the Abbe Birotteau, the principal personage of this history, was overtaken by a shower of rain as he returned home from a friend's house, where he had been passing the evening. He therefore crossed, as quickly as his corpulence would allow, the deserted little square called "The Cloister," which lies directly behind the chancel of the cathedral of Saint-Gatien at Tours. The Abbe Birotteau, a short little man, apoplectic in constitution and about sixty years old, had already gone through several attacks of gout. Now, among the petty miseries of human life the one for which the worthy priest felt the deepest aversion was the sudden sprinkling of his shoes, adorned with silver buckles, and the wetting of their soles. Notwithstanding the woollen socks in which at all seasons he enveloped his feet with the extreme care that ecclesiastics take of themselves, he was apt at such times to get them a little damp, and the next day gout was sure to give him certain infallible proofs of constancy. Nevertheless, as the pavement of the Cloister was likely to be dry, and as the abbe had won three francs ten sous in his rubber with Madame de Listomere, he bore the rain resignedly from the middle of the place de l'Archeveche, where it began to come down in earnest.