Our host provided most ample fare for supper, preceded by a glass of slivovitsa.  We began with soup, rendered slightly acid with lemon juice, then came fowl, stewed with turnips and sugar.  This was followed by pudding of almonds, raisins, and pancake.  Roast capon brought up the rear.  A white wine of the country was served during supper, but along with dessert we had a good red wine of Negotin, served in Bohemian coloured glasses.  I have been thus minute on the subject of food, for the dinners I ate at Belgrade I do not count as Servian, having been all in the German fashion.

The wife of the collector sat at dinner, but at the foot of the table; a position characteristic of that of women in Servia—­midway between the graceful precedence of Europe and the contemptuous exclusion of the East.

After hand-washing, we returned to the divan, and while pipes and coffee were handed round, a noise in the court yard denoted a visiter, and a middle-aged man, with embroidered clothes, and silver-mounted pistols in his girdle, entered.  This was the Natchalnik, or local governor, who had come from his own village, two hours off, to pay his visit; he was accompanied by the two captains under his command, one of whom was a military dandy.  His ample girdle was richly embroidered, out of which projected silver-mounted old fashioned pistols.  His crimson shaksheers were also richly embroidered, and the corner of a gilt flowered cambric pocket handkerchief showed itself at his breast.  His companion wore a different aspect, with large features, dusky in tint as those of a gipsy, and dressed in plain coarse blue clothes.  He was presented to me as a man who had grown from boyhood to manhood to the tune of the whistling bullets of Kara Georg and his Turkish opponents.  After the usual salutations, the Natchalnik began—­

“We have heard that Gospody Wellington has received from the English nation an estate for his distinguished services.”

Author.  “That is true; but the presentation took place a great many years ago.”

Natch.  “What is the age of Gospody Wellington?”

Author.  “About seventy-five.  He was born in 1769, the year in which Napoleon and Mohammed Ali first saw the light.”

This seemed to awaken the interest of the party.

The roughly-clad trooper drew in his chair, and leaning his elbow on his knees, opened wide a pair of expectant eyes; the Natchalnik, after a long puff of his pipe, said, with some magisterial decision, “That was a moment when nature had her sleeves tucked up.  I think our Kara Georg must also have been born about that time.”

Natch.  “Is Gospody Wellington still in service?”

Author.  “Yes; he is commander-in-chief.”

Natch.  “Well, God grant that his sons, and his sons’ sons, may render as great services to the nation.”

Our conversation was prolonged to a late hour in the evening, in which a variety of anecdotes were related of the ingenious methods employed by Milosh to fill his coffers as rapidly as possible.