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seems to be sunk in an inner world of his own; the instrument sobs and moans in his hands, and is pressed tighter against his breast, as though it had grown and taken root there. This is the true moment of inspiration, to which he rarely gives way, and then only in the privacy of an intimate circle -never before a numerous and unsympathetic audience. Spellbound himself by the power of the tones he evokes, his head gradually sinking lower and lower over the instrument, his body bent forward in an attitude of rapt attention, his ear seeming to be listening to far-off ghostly strains, audible to himself alone, the untaught Tzigane achieves a perfection of expression unattainable by mere professional training.

This power of identification with his music is the real secret of the Tzigane's influence on his audience. Inspired and carried away by his own strains, he must perforce carry his hearers with him as well; and the Hungarian listener throws himself heart and soul into this species of musical intoxication, which is to him the greatest delight on earth. There is a proverb which says, "The Hungarian only requires a glass of water and a gipsy fiddler in order to make him quite drunk ;" and indeed intoxication is the only word fittingly to describe the state of exhaltation into which I have seen a Hungarian audience thrown by a gipsy band.

Sometimes, under the combined influence of music and wine, the Tziganes become like creatures possessed; the wild cries and stamps of the equally excited audience only stimulate them to greater exertions; the whole atmosphere seems tossed by billows of passionate harmony; you seem to see the electric spark of inspiration flying

through the air. At such moments the Tzigane gives forth everything that is secretly lurking within him

fierce anger, childish wailings, presumptuous exultation, brooding melancholy, and passionate despair; and at such moments one could readily believe in his power of drawing angels down from heaven into hell!

Listen how another Hungarian writer has described the effect of their music :—

"How it rushes through the veins like electric fire! How it penetrates straight to the soul! In soft plaintive minor tones the adagio opens with a sighing and a longing of unsatisfied slow, rhythmical movement: it is a aspirations; a craving for undiscovered happiness; the lover's yearning for the object of his affection; the expression of mourning for lost joys, for happy days gone for ever: then abruptly changing to a major key, the and from the whirlpool of harmony tones get faster and more agitated, the melody detaches itself, alternately seeming to be drowned in the foam of over-breaking waves, to reappear floating on the surface with undulating motion, collecting, as it were, fury. But quickly as the storm came fresh power for a renewed burst of it is gone again, and the music relapses into the melancholy yearnings of before."

These two extremes of fiercest passion and plaintive wailing characterise the nature of the Hungar ian, of whom it is said that "weeping, the Hungarian makes merry."

When under the influence of music he is capable of flinging his money about with the most reckless extravagance. Fifty, a hundred, a thousand florins and more, have been often given for the performance of a single air. Sometimes a Hungarian will stick a large bank-note behind his ear, while the Tzigane proceeds to play the

favourite tune, drawing nearer and nearer till he is almost touching; pouring the melody straight into the upturned ear of the enraptured auditor; dropping out the notes as though the music were some exquisitely flavoured liquid flattering the palate of a super-refined gourmet, who, with half-closed eyes expressive of perfect beatitude, entirely abandons himself to the delightful sensation.

In Hungary the words Tzigane and musician are synonymous, and to say "I shall call in the Tziganes," is to mean "I shall send for the music."

Not only the people, at their rustic gatherings, dance to the strains of these brown Bohemians, but in no real Hungarian ball-room would other music be tolerated; and the Austrian military bands, so much prized elsewhere, are here at a discount, and considered of

no use.

Of course the gipsy bands in the large towns are not composed of the ragged, unkempt individuals which haunt the village pot-houses, or the lovely csardas on the puszta. Their constant intercourse with higher circles has given them a certain degree of polish, and they even consent to appear in Hungarian costume; but they are intrinsically the same as their more vagabond brethren, and their eye never loses the semi-savage glitter marking half-tamed animals.

The calling of musicians has often become hereditary in certain families, who thus feel themselves to be interwoven with all the pleasures and pains, the fates and fortunes, of the nobility for whom they play; and vice versâ, for the youth of both sexes in Hungary, the recollection of every pleasure they have enjoyed, the dawn of first love, and every alternation of hope, triumph,

or despair, are inextricably interwoven with the image of the Tzigane player.

When the dancers are limp and uninterested, the Tzigane loses interest as well, and plays carelessly and without spirit; but if he sees dancing con amore, and especially if his playing be praised, he knows neither hunger nor fatigue. His eyes being free, nothing escapes his observation; and he is far better au fait of every flirtation, mistake, coolness, or quarrel, than the most vigilant ball-room chaperon.

A pair of lovers dancing are his greatest delight; and for them he exerts himself to the utmost, throwing his whole soul into the music, breathing the softest sighs and the most passionate rhapsodies of which his instrument is capable.

It is said that he often performs the office of a page d'amour in taking letters backwards and forwards between young people who have no other means of communication, his peculiar code of honour forbidding him to take any pecuniary remuneration in return. Many of these Tzigane musicians can show dainty pieces of handiwork and presents of valuable studs or pipes, received from highborn patrons in token of gratitude for delicate services rendered.

The position of these Tzigane musicians is in every way a peculiar one, the intimacy with the upper classes brought about by their calling involving no sort of equality whatsoever. The Tzigane remains a gipsy fiddler, while the Hungarian is a nobleman; and the barrier between the two classes is almost as absolute as that between Jew and gentleman is in Poland. Although it is no uncommon sight in the streets of any Hungarian town, towards the small hours of

the morning, to see distinguished couple who are still in the delightmembers of the jeunesse doré ful trance of an unacknowledged (their spirits no doubt slightly attachment; and at this one pair raised by wine), going home affec- he directs his music-aiming it at tionately linked arm in arm with them, if one may thus express it— the brown fiddlers; yet no Hun- following their every movement, garian gentleman could fall into and identifying his play with their the amusing mistake of an English every gesture. nobleman, who, making a point of lionising all celebrities within his reach, invited to dinner the first violin of a Tzigane band starring in London some years ago. The flattering invitation occasioned the most intense surprise to the distinguished artist himself, who, though used to various forms of enthusiasm called forth by his genius, was certainly not accustomed to be seriously taken in the sense of a civilised human being. It is said, however, that the gipsy's quickness of perception, doing duty for education on this occasion, enabled him to go through the formidable ordeal of a London dinner-party without further breaches of our rigid etiquette than are quite permissible on the part of a barbarous grandee.

The Tzigane plays every sort of dance-music with spirit; but he loves to play the csardas best, and it is the principal feature at every Hungarian bali.

It is curious to watch how, at the first notes of this dance, the dancers all precipitate themselves to the end of the room where the musicians are placed, crowding together and jostling each other in their anxiety each to get nearest to the music.

The bandmaster is fond of mentally selecting a couple from among the dancers-perhaps the handsomest best-grown pair, or a lover

To an uninitiated stranger it looks at first very odd to see this knot of dancers all pressed together like herrings in a barrel, in one small corner, while two-thirds of a spacious ball-room are standing empty; but the Hungarians declare that the gipsies only play the csardas with spirit, when they see the dancers close to them, treading on their very toes, and brushing up against their violins. Sometimes the band director, unable to control his excitement, breaks loose from the place assigned to the musicians, and advancing into the room, becomes the centre of the whirling knot of dancers.

In all these dances the bandmaster changes the melody as fancy prompts him, only giving warning to his colleagues by two sharp taps of the bow that a change is impending. Of course the other musicians do not know beforehand what air is coming, but a note or two suffice to put them on the scent, and they fall in so smoothly that nothing rough or uneven can be detected.

Almost every one of the dancers has his or her favourite air, their nota, as it is here called, and it is meant as a delicate attention whenever the gipsy bandmaster, smiling or winking at a passing dancer, strikes into his air of predilection. The Tzigane's memory

1 I call him bandmaster for convenience, though the Tziganes do not require any one to beat time for them; but their first violin is at the same time the one who directs the others.

in thus retaining (and never confusing) the favourite airs of each separate person is surprising; and not only this, but he will likewise remember to a nicety which air was your favourite one three or four years ago, and what were the circumstances to which the former melody used to play accompani

ment.

Thus whirling past, in the mazes of your favourite waltz or galop, with the girl you adore on your arm, you may catch the dark eye of the Tzigane player expressively fixed on you with sly allusion, and in the next minute the music has changed; it is a long-forgotten melody they are playing now; a melody once familiar at a bygone time, when you had other thoughts, other hopes, another partner on your arm; when wood-violet, not patchouly, was the scent you loved best, and fair ringlets had more charm than raven tresses.

For a moment the present scene has faded from your eyes, and in its place you see a tremulous smile

you had wellnigh forgotten, and hear a voice long stranger to your ears.

That waltz, once to you the most entrancing music on earth, now sounds like the gibings of some tormenting spirit, and you breathe an involuntary sigh of regret for a a time that is no

more !

Thus the Tzigane player, unlike hired musicians in other countries, has an intimate and artistic connection with his dancers. In England or Germany the musician is simply the machine which plays, no more to be regarded than a barrelorgan or a musical-box. In Hungary alone he is something more; his power of directing being here not limited to the feet alone, but may almost be said to extend to the feelings and fancies of his audience as well-feelings which it is his delight to share and sway, with actual power to stimulate love or jealousy, and reawaken remorse or sorrow merely by the touch of his magic wand!

A MAGNETIC MYSTERY.

[IT has for long been determined among his descendants that a surprising narrative, left behind him by the late Ewen Cameron, should be given to the world, in order that psychologists may have an opportunity of learning, and possibly of commenting on, his experiences. But until very lately, persons were living who would have been shocked and offended at the public revelation of events in which they themselves, or others to whom they were very nearly related, took important parts; and so the publication was delayed. Death has, however, been busy among the elder members of the house, and their contemporaries, during the last ten years. The latest remarks now to be printed were written by Mr Cameron in 1825, more than sixty years since, and there does not appear to be any good reason for longer withholding from the scientific world the following curious record. The epithet magnetic is used in the title because it is believed that phenomena as here described are, according to latest opinions, effects of magnetism.]

A fortunate thing it was for me that I possessed this small island in the Shetland group. I had often spoken with cruel contempt of this humble property, as if I did it the greatest honour by simply owning it; and yet, at the time when I left Edinburgh with something like precipitation, I should have been a houseless wanderer if I had not had this remote house, Quarda, and the surrounding region, to fall back upon. It was a sad reverse that I had experienced. I do not say but that it was principally the effect of my own imprudence; but, allowing that, all imprudent men are not punished, and I was punished severely, crushingly. I lost, largely by play, but in some degree also by an unhappy outfall of events, all my means excepting this little pied à terre, and through that loss I was obliged to forego also my dearest hope that for which chiefly I valued my worldly goodsmy pretension to the hand of my charming, my worshipped, Aline Macleod.

I was convinced that Aline's inmost heart was favourable to

my aspirations. I think that I could, with patience and fidelity, have overcome all the objections to me which her father so unreasonably entertained, and that he and his would in time have been convinced of the worthlessness of that Archibald Menzies whom they so perversely preferred to me. This might have been possible, I say, if I had been able to retain my position in the gay world; but as a beggar, or the next thing to it, I was compelled to strike my colours even before such a one as Captain Menzies. It was too miserably true: everything had gone against me, and I was fain to bury myself and to hide my chagrin in what I had been accustomed to call my artic wilds.

While I was effecting my retreat from the world, things were in such a whirl that the mere changes from one anxiety to another kept me from indulging any separate sorrow; but now in solitude, "out of humanity's reach," I could ponder without stint, and I distinguished the blows of fortune, and knew which was the sorest of them. 0 Aline Macleod, it was the thought

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