only delight and practice can give, the Russian
national anthem: "God defend the Czar"—
the most martial and passionate of national
anthems; and far superior, in my humble opinion,
to our "God save the Queen." Every hat
went off, and five times running, as the tune
ended, a band of students and officers advanced
to the orchestra, and shouted for a re-performance,
uttering barbaric yells, such as might have
better become wild horsemen of the Don than
modern Russian gentlemen.

And now the open-air service closed, the
congregation thawed away, and melted into the
surrounding walks. The leader of the orchestra
regarded us, as we remained almost the last on
the benches, with a look of careless pity, as
he slipped his violin into its baize bag, and
turned to leave the stage. We joined the stream
of people eager for the next phase of amusement,
and found ourselves at a small toll-gate, where
some officers were buying concert tickets. As
we were buying ours, half a dozen dark-eyed,
untamed-looking men, in red shirts and blue
caftans, passed; one of them was mounted, and, as
he approached us, gave a shout, and dashed off
at a canter down a side-walk, like an aide-de-
camp on a special errand.

"Wunderschön!" exclaimed Herr Grabe;
"those are some of the gipsies."

We showed our ticket, and passed into the
enclosure. It was a large area, facing a covered
stage, with no roof, but long strings of artificial
green leaves that, running parallel to each other,
formed a sort of flat tent above our heads,
suitable for summer, but as inadequate covering
for a chilly October evening as a gauze dressing-
gown would be for the Arctic Ocean.

Herr Grabe grew oracular,

"You will see something typical," he said,
"my English travelled friend; not the Spanish
gipsy dances, old as the Phœnicians, not all
wriggle and oscillation, like the Nautch girls in
India, mere shuffle of the feet—toe and heel
scarcely lifted from the ground. No, this will
be truly a Walpurgis-night, enchanted, frenzied
dance, quite original; deducible only from
principles of Arabic æsthetics, no more like your
tame European dances, than an ostrich of the
desert is like a farm-yard goose. Thunder and
storm! How long the Egyptians are raising
the curtain!"

As if his reproof had been heard, the curtain
instantly rose, and disclosed a stage with an
amphitheatre of chairs. To them rapidly
entered in careless procession—the EGYPTIANS.

Their leader was a tall handsome woman of,
say, two-and-twenty, evidently the queen and
beauty of the tribe; her large dark eyes were
full of a mischievous triumph, as she sailed in,
not ungracefully, in her ermine robe, and took
the central seat placed for her. Her manner
was not retiring or timid, yet there was just
enough of deference and wild shyness about
her bearing to make one assist in applauding
her on her arrival. She was perfectly at her
ease, and yet not enough so not to be glad to
turn and laugh and whisper to the women next
her. She did not look like a lady, and yet you
scarcely seemed to wish to judge her by the
civilised standard. There was an indisputable
look of command about her, and a confidence of
success that showed the practised actress.

Next her, on the left, sat a fat pleasant-looking
woman, quiet and lady-like in manner, and
with the air of a retired prima donna. She was
dressed less richly, but in better taste. This
was the dowager-queen, I felt sure. Next her
came a middle-aged woman, with rather flaccid
cheeks, but with a humorous expression about
her large dark eyes, that augured well for
comedy. The other four women were coarsely
pretty, their eyes, however, darkly luminous, and
large as Cleopatra's. The dress of all of them
was peculiar, and rather bizarre and Asiatic in
character.

Then the men came in, tall rough fellows,
with tumbled black hair, who ranged themselves,
with sullen shyness and half-rebellious
discipline, in a semicircle behind the chairs.

Last of all, in came the chief, the leader, the
husband, I presume, of the queen, for he placed
himself near her, and beat time for the whole
of the performers. He carried a small species
of guitar, peculiar to the Russian gipsy, in his
right hand. He was a tall, supple young man,
with a pointed, crafty, Spanish sort of face, and
was dressed in rather a theatrical short tunic
of red linen, that made his legs appear almost
awkwardly long, though their pliancy and the
smallness of his feet still served to prove their
capacity for swift and practised movement.

The concert began with a solo by the dowager-
queen, a wild song but of no special character,
sung with a good but a veiled voice—a voice
that had lost its purity and resonance.

Now a cry arose of "Marscha! Marscha!" a
delighted expectant cry.

"Who is Marscha?" I asked.

"Marscha is their prima donna, the one in
ermine," replied Herr Grabe.

Marscha the majestic, queenly in her ermine,
leaned forward and bowed, not disdainfully, but
with a sort of serene complacency, as one
accustomed to such homage.

"Oulitza! Oulitza!" shouted the well-dressed
mob.

Marscha turned and smiled on her companions,
as much as to say, "The old cry. See how I
lead them and rule them. I am their true queen
to-night; the czar may have them to-morrow."
So looked the saucy beauty, as she bowed to
the well-dressed mob that shouted and jostled
with delight; and all those lesser stars, her
companions, smiled and whispered.

I have seen more beautiful singers, loftier and
whiter brows, eyes more dove-like, more saint-
like, more full of sunshine or of fairy glamouring
power, but I never saw anywhere so much of
the grace and archness of expression as Marscha
bent forward, seized the guitar, and began.

What a voice! How mellow, soft, and yet
powerful, gushing forth without an effort, and
full of endless rises and falls of semitones! With
what a sensibility and expression she gave the