Ere we returned on board, we drove to the garden of the Austrian dragoman, whence you are said to command the finest view in the neighbourhood of Semlin; and although the river-vapours effectually prevented us, on this occasion, from seeing a hundred yards beyond the spot where we stood, we were amply repaid for the détour that we had been induced to make, by the opportunity which it afforded to us of spending half an hour in one of the most charming and well-kept gardens imaginable; a great treat at all times, but doubly agreeable to individuals like ourselves, who had been so long wanderers on the waters. The walks ran through avenues of vines, whose purple clusters did not invite our touch in vain; and so neatly trained as to form the greenest and most level hedges that can be imagined; while not a weed nor an unsightly object was to be seen from one end of the enclosure to the other. The Sclavonians are, indeed, considered such proficient gardeners, that forty-five out of fifty of those employed in Constantinople are of that nation; and we had consequently been curious to see a gentleman’s grounds in their own land, and laid out entirely in their own manner. We were about to re-enter the carriage, in order to return to the vessel, when a flight of rockets ran shimmering along the sky; and immediately afterwards we were overtaken by a procession of peasants, celebrating the last day of the vintage. It was one of the prettiest sights that I ever remember to have seen. The train was headed by about thirty youths dressed in white garments, and wearing large flapping hats of black felt, nearly similar to the _sombreros_ of Spain, into whose narrow bands they had wreathed bunches of wild-flowers; each carrying across his shoulder a long pliant pole, with a basket piled with grapes at each extremity. These were followed by as many young girls, in the usual picturesque costume of the country, with a profusion of marigolds fastened among their dark tresses; walking two and two, and bearing baskets of grapes between them. And the procession terminated with a crowd of children waving in their little hands long branches of the vine; and lending their clear and joyous voices to the wild chorus of the vintage-song that their elders were pealing out; and which ran, as nearly as I can render it from the hurried and imperfect translation given to me as we journeyed on, somewhat in the following manner:— THE SCLAVONIAN VINTAGE-SONG. Around the oak the wild-vine weaves Its glittering wreath of blood-red leaves; But it pays not back the peasant’s cares; No gold it wins, and no fruit it bears. It may flaunt its glories on the breeze, We have no time to waste on these; Our’s is the Vine near whose goodly root We seek, and find the jewelled fruit!