The Judge, a sedate, elderly, and slightly corpulent man, asked me what route I had pursued, and intended to pursue.  I informed him of the particulars of my journey, and added that I intended to follow the valley of the Morava to its confluence with the Danube.  “The good folks of Belgrade do not travel for their pleasure, and could give me little information; therefore, I have chalked out my route from the study of the map.”

“You have gone out of your way to see Sokol,” said he; “you may as well extend your tour to Novibazaar, and the Kopaunik.  You are fond of maps:  go to the peak of the Kopaunik, and you will see all Servia rolled out before you from Bosnia to Bulgaria, and from the Balkan to the Danube; not a map, or a copy, but the original.”

“The temptation is irresistible.—­My mind is made up to follow your advice.”

We now went in a body, and paid our visit to the Bishop of Csatsak, who lives in the finest house in the place; a large well-built villa, on a slight eminence within a grassy inclosure.  The Bishop received us in an open kiosk, on the first floor, fitted all round with cushions, and commanding a fine view of the hills which inclose the plain of the Morava.  The thick woods and the precipitous rocks, which impart rugged beauty to the valley of the Drina, are here unknown; the eye wanders over a rich yellow champaign, to hills which were too distant to present distinct details, but vaguely grey and beautiful in the transparent atmosphere of a Servian early autumn.

The Bishop was a fine specimen of the Church militant,—­a stout fiery man of sixty, in full-furred robes, and a black velvet cap.  His energetic denunciations of the lawless appropriations of Milosh, had for many years procured him the enmity of that remarkable individual; but he was now in the full tide of popularity.

His questions referred principally to the state of parties in England, and I could not help thinking that his philosophy must have been something like that of the American parson in the quarantine at Smyrna, who thought that fierce combats and contests were as necessary to clear the moral atmosphere, as thunder and lightning to purify the visible heavens.  We now took leave of the Bishop, and went homewards, for there had been several candidates for entertaining me; but I decided for the jovial doctor, who lived in the house that was formerly occupied by Jovan Obrenovitch, the youngest and favourite brother of Milosh.

Next morning, as early as six o’clock, I was aroused by the announcement that the Natchalnik had returned from the country, and was waiting to see me.  On rising, I found him to be a plain, simple Servian of the old school; he informed me that this being a saint’s day, the Bishop would not commence mass until I was arrived.  “What?” thought I to myself, “does the Bishop think that these obstreperous Britons are all of the Greek religion.”  The doctor thought that I should not go; “for,” said he, “whoever wishes to exercise the virtue of patience may do so in a Greek mass or a Hungarian law-suit!” But the Natchalnik decided for going; and I, always ready to conform to the custom of the country, accompanied him.