Having gained the summit of the mountain saddle, we began to descend towards the Serajevsko Polje—the Plain of Serajevo—a level expanse shut in on every side by mountains, and looking like the former bed of a large lake. The Alpine amphitheatre was exquisite. One peak, loftier than the rest, had been girdled by a silvery sea of mist, above which loomed its limestone upper nakedness, draped in a Coan veil of aërial azure—the island of a mirage, or one of those barren-beautiful _Scoglie_ that start ever and anon from the slumbering bosom of the Adriatic! The heat was suffocating, and a sultry haze seemed to flood the whole surface of the plain and lower mountain-flanks, volatilizing every object in an atmosphere half dusty, half lurid; and, with the faint, languid tints of the surrounding heights, recalling to memory pictures of Eastern scenery—but nothing within our own experience. [Illustration: Bas-relief of Cupid.] Near the spot where this fine panorama first opened out we came to a small roadside Han, called Blazui, where we obtained welcome refreshments in the shape of coffee and boiled eggs; a little bread we had luckily brought with us. While waiting for these delicacies, we passed our time in closely examining some old stone blocks which formed the basement of the wooden buildings about, in hopes of finding perchance a Roman inscription or some other relic of antiquity. Our desires were presently gratified almost beyond expectation by the discovery of a Roman monument walled into an old stone cistern, which acted as sub-structure for a hen-roost. It was a bas-relief of Cupid, standing, apparently, on a foliated capital, cross-legged, and leaning on a torch, which he is thus extinguishing. It has suffered, as can be seen in the rough sketch opposite, from the iconoclasm of ages, Christian and Mahometan; yet a tutored eye could still trace the elegant outlines. A severe critic might condemn the art; but, though falling short of Hellenic purity, it was such as these benighted midlands of Illyria have not seen the like of since the days when this was sculptured. But the delicacy of the conception allows us to overlook the execution. The monument is sepulchral, of a kind not uncommon among the Romans, but chiefly raised to the memory of those who passed away in the youth and vigour of their days.[232] The thoughts are turned from the unknown and the ghastly to the memory of the beautiful and the known. _Vixit_—he has lived. The torch of festal trippings has become the staff for his repose: the light of love is put out: the great darkness is upon him: _nox est perpetua una dormienda_. It may foreshadow annihilation, but, at least, it calls up no bony phantoms of corruption. This mutilated, one-winged genius is indeed the emanation of ages of refinement, set forth by the most exquisite symbolism of ancient art. Here, truly, amidst dull and barbarous lands, was roadside refection, spiritually, not less refreshing than were the