gs of which Her Imperial Majesty can be accused--she loves
the Hungarians and she is too fond of horses. Nothing delights the
citizens of Pesth so much as to find that the Slavs are annoyed, for
there is no love lost between Slav and Magyar. A natural antipathy has
been terribly increased by the fear on the part of Hungary that she may
lose her influence in the composite empire one day, owing to the Slavic
regeneration.

[Illustration: MUSEUM AND SEAT OF THE DIET AT PESTH.]

At Pesth they do not speak of the "beautiful blue Danube," because there
the river ceases to be of that color, which Johann Strauss has so
enthusiastically celebrated. But between Vienna and Pesth the blue is
clearly perceptible, and the current is lovely even a few miles from the
islands in the stream near the Hungarian capital. The Margarethen-Insel,
which is but a short distance above Pesth, is a little paradise. It has
been transformed by private munificence into a rich garden full of
charming shaded nooks and rare plants and flowers. In the middle of this
pleasure-ground are extensive bath-houses and mineral springs. Morning,
noon and night gypsy bands make seductive music, and the notes of their
melodies recall the strange lands far away down the stream--Roumania,
the hills and valleys of the Banat and the savage Servian mountains.
Along the river-side there are other resorts in which, in these days,
when business has not yet entirely recovered from the _Krach_, there are
multitudes of loungers. In midsummer no Hungarian need go farther than
these baths of Pesth to secure rest and restore health. The Romans were
so pleased with the baths in the neighborhood that they founded a colony
on the site of Buda-Pesth, although they had no particular strategic
reasons for doing so. As you sit in the pleasant shade you will probably
hear the inspiring notes of the _Rakoczy_, the march of which the
Hungarians are so passionately fond, which recalls the souvenirs of
their revolutions and awakens a kind of holy exaltation in their hearts.
The _Rakoczy_ has been often enough fantastically described: some hear
in it the gallop of horsemen, the clashing of arms, the songs of women
and the cries of wounded men. A clever Frenchman has even written two
columns of analysis of the march, and he found in it nearly as much as
there is in Goethe's _Faust_. These harmless fancies are of little use
in aiding to a veritable understanding of the wonderful march. It
suff