Mr. Holman subsequently went, as I understood, to Wallachia and Transylvania.

Having delayed my departure for the interior, in order to witness the national festivities, nothing remained but the purgatory of preparation, the squabbling about the hire of horses, the purchase of odds and ends for convenience on the road, for no such thing as a canteen is to be had at Belgrade.  Some persons recommended my hiring a Turkish Araba; but as this is practicable only on the regularly constructed roads, I should have lost the sight of the most picturesque regions, or been compelled to take my chance of getting horses, and leaving my baggage behind.  To avoid this inconvenience, I resolved to perform the whole journey on horseback.

The government showed me every attention, and orders were sent by the minister of the interior to all governors, vice-governors, and employes, enjoining them to furnish me with every assistance, and communicate whatever information I might desire; to which, as the reader will see in the sequel, the fullest effect was given by those individuals.

On the day of departure, a tap was heard at the door, and enter Holman to bid me good-bye.  Another tap at the door, and enter Milutinovich, who is the best of the living poets of Servia, and has been sometimes called the Ossian of the Balkan.  As for his other pseudonyme, “the Homer of a hundred sieges,” that must have been invented by Mr. George Robins, the Demosthenes of “one hundred rostra.”  The reading public in Servia is not yet large enough to enable a man of letters to live solely by his works; so our bard has a situation in the ministry of public instruction.  One of the most remarkable compositions of Milutinovich is an address to a young surgeon, who, to relieve the poet from difficulties, expended in the printing of his poems a sum which he had destined for his own support at a university, in order to obtain his degree.

Now, it may not be generally known that one of the oldest legends of Bulgaria is that of “Poor Lasar,” which runs somewhat thus:—­

“The day departed, and the stranger came, as the moon rose on the silver snow.  ‘Welcome,’ said the poor Lasar to the stranger; ‘Luibitza, light the faggot, and prepare the supper.’

“Luibitza answered:  ’The forest is wide, and the lighted faggot burns bright, but where is the supper?  Have we not fasted since yesterday?’

“Shame and confusion smote the heart of poor Lasar.

“‘Art thou a Bulgarian,’ said the stranger, ’and settest not food before thy guest?’

“Poor Lasar looked in the cupboard, and looked in the garret, nor crumb, nor onion, were found in either.  Shame and confusion smote the heart of poor Lasar.

“‘Here is fat and fair flesh,’ said the stranger, pointing to Janko, the curly-haired boy.  Luibitza shrieked and fell.  ‘Never,’ said Lasar, ‘shall it be said that a Bulgarian was wanting to his guest,’ He seized a hatchet, and Janko was slaughtered as a lamb.  Ah, who can describe the supper of the stranger!