Wucics, dressed in the coarse frieze jacket and boots of a Servian peasant, heard with a reverential inclination of the head the elegantly polished discourse of the gold-bedizened prelate, but nought relaxed one single muscle of that adamantine visage; the finer but more luminous features of Petronievitch were evidently under the control of a less powerful will.  At certain passages of the discourse, his intelligent eye was moistened with tears.  Two deacons then prayed successively for the Sultan, the Emperor of Russia, and the prince.

And now uprose from every tongue, and every heart, a hymn for the longevity of Wucics and Petronievitch.  “The solemn song for many days” is the expressive title of this sublime chant.  This hymn is so old that its origin is lost in the obscure dawn of Christianity in the East, and so massive, so nobly simple, as to be beyond the ravages of time, and the caprices of convention.

The procession then returned, the band playing the Wucics march, to the houses of the two heroes of the day.

We dined; and just as dessert appeared the whiz of a rocket announced the commencement of fire-works.  As most of us had seen the splendid bouquet of rockets, which, during the fetes of July, amuse the Parisians, we entertained slender expectations of being pleased with an illumination at Belgrade.  On going out, however, the scene proved highly interesting.  In the grand square were two columns a la Vicentina, covered with lamps.  One side of the square was illuminated with the word Wucics, and the other with the word Avram in colossal letters.  At a later period of the evening the downs were covered with fires roasting innumerable sheep and oxen, a custom which seems in all countries to accompany popular rejoicing.

I had never seen a Servian full-dress ball, but the arrival of Wucics and Petronievitch procured me the opportunity of witnessing an entertainment of this description.  The principal apartment in the new Konak, built by prince Michael, was the ball-room, which, by eight o’clock, was filled, as the phrase goes, by all “the rank and fashion” of Belgrade.  Senators of the old school, in their benishes and shalwars, and senators of the new school in pantaloons and stiff cravats.  As Servia has become, morally speaking, Europe’s youngest daughter, this is all very well:  but I must ever think that in the article of dress this innovation is not an improvement.  I hope that the ladies of Servia will never reject their graceful national costume for the shifting modes and compressed waists of European capitals.

No head-dress, that I have seen in the Levant, is better calculated to set off beauty than that of the ladies of Servia.  From a small Greek fez they suspend a gold tassel, which contrasts with the black and glossy hair, which is laid smooth and flat down the temple.  Even now, while I write, memory piques me with the graceful toss of the head, and the rustle of the yellow satin gown of the sister of the princess, who was admitted to be the handsomest woman in the room, and with her tunic of crimson velvet embroidered in gold, and faced with sable, would have been, in her strictly indigenous costume, the queen of any fancy ball in old Europe.