of man,
and morbid, egoistic pessimism to take its place? Are over-culture,
excessive sentiment, constant self-criticism, and all the brood of
nervous curses to monopolize and inspire art? A fine alliance this they
are making, the ascetic monk and the atheistic pessimist, to kill Nature!
They will never effect it. It may die in many forms. It may lose its
charm, as the singing of Sarsha and of Liubasha was lost among the
rustling and noise of thousands of Parisian _badauds_ in the Orangerie.
But there will be stronger forms of art, which will make themselves
heard, as the Hungarian Romanys heeded no din, and bore all away with
their music.

"_Latcho divvus miri pralia_!--_miduvel atch pa tumende_!" (Good-day, my
brothers. God rest on you) I said, and they rose and bowed, and I went
forth into the Exhibition. It was a brave show, that of all the fine
things from all parts of the world which man can make, but to me the most
interesting of all were the men themselves. Will not the managers of the
next world show give us a living ethnological department?

Of these Hungarian gypsies who played in Paris during the Exhibition much
was said in the newspapers, and from the following, which appeared in an
American journal, written by some one to me unknown, the reader may learn
that there were many others to whom their music was deeply thrilling or
wildly exciting:--

"The Hungarian Tziganes (Zigeuner) are the rage just now at Paris.
The story is that Liszt picked out the individuals composing the band
one by one from among the gypsy performers in Hungary and Bohemia.
Half-civilized in appearance, dressed in an unbecoming half-military
costume, they are nothing while playing Strauss' waltzes or their
own; but when they play the Radetsky Defile, the Racoksky March, or
their marvelous czardas, one sees and hears the battle, and it is
easy to understand the influence of their music in fomenting
Hungarian revolutions; why for so long it was made treasonable to
play or listen to these czardas; and why, as they heard them, men
rose to their feet, gathered together, and with tears rolling down
their faces, and throats swelling with emotion, departed to do or
die."

And when I remember that they played for me as they said they had played
for no other man in Paris, "into the ear,"--and when I think of the gleam
in their eyes, I verily believe they _told_ the truth,--I feel gla