On leaving Ushitza, the Natchalnik accompanied me with a cavalcade of twenty or thirty Christians, a few miles out of the town.  The afternoon was beautiful; the road lay through hilly ground, and after two hours’ riding, we saw Poshega in the middle of a wide level plain; after descending to which, we crossed the Scrapesh by an elegant bridge of sixteen arches, and entering the village, put up at a miserable khan, although Poshega is the embryo of a town symmetrically and geometrically laid out.  Twelve years ago a Turk wounded a Servian in the streets of Ushitza, in a quarrel about some trifling matter.  The Servian pulled out a pistol, and shot the Turk dead on the spot.  Both nations seized their arms, and rushing out of the houses, a bloody affray took place, several being left dead on the spot.  The Servians, feeling their numerical inferiority, now transplanted themselves to the little hamlet of Poshega, which is in a finer plain than that of Ushitza; but the colony does not appear to prosper, for most of the Servians have since returned to Ushitza.

Poshega, from remnants of a nobler architecture, must have been a Roman colony.  At the new church a stone is built into the wall, having the fragment of an inscription:—­

     A V I A. G E N T
    I L F L A I I S P R

and various other stones are to be seen, one with a figure sculptured on it.

Continuing our way down the rich valley of the Morava, which is here several miles wide, and might contain ten times the present population, we arrived at Csatsak, which proved to be as symmetrically laid out as Poshega.  Csatsak is old and new, but the old Turkish town has disappeared, and the new Servian Csatsak is still a foetus.  The plan on which all these new places are constructed, is simple, and consists of a circular or square market place, with bazaar shops in the Turkish manner, and straight streets diverging from them.  I put up at the khan, and then went to the Natchalnik’s house to deliver my letter.  Going through green lanes, we at length stopped at a high wooden paling, over-topped with rose and other bushes.  Entering, we found ourselves on a smooth carpet of turf, and opposite a pretty rural cottage, somewhat in the style of a citizen’s villa in the environs of London.  The Natchalnik was not at home, but was gracefully represented by his young wife, a fair specimen of the beauty of Csatsak; and presently the Deputy and the Judge came to see us.  A dark complexioned, good-natured looking man, between thirty and forty, now entered, with an European air, German trowsers and waistcoat, but a Turkish riding cloak.  “There comes the doctor,” said the lady, and the figure with the Turkish riding cloak thus announced himself:—­

Doctor.  “I’ bin a’ Wiener.”

Author.  “Gratulire:  dass iss a’ lustige Stadt.”

Doctor.  “Glaub’ns mir, lust’ger als Csatsak.”

Author.  “I’ glaub’s.”