comparison with the man in France, who is “_bon causeur_,” and with the man in London, who has “remarkable conversational powers,” will show any unprejudiced observer the truth of the above characterization of the Magyar talker. Just as Mark Twain’s humour is only the improved and, by print, fixed humour noticeable in many an American, even so Jókai’s narrative genius is the highest form of that genius for improvisation which in Hungary may be met with frequently in lesser perfection. This explains Jókai’s permanent hold on the Hungarian nation. He has carried one great gift of his nation to the heights of real greatness. We repeat it: he is the greatest of all improvisatori in prose. Nothing can approach his miraculous facility in building up a fascinating scene; in irradiating the heaviest and most cumbrous subject with light and humour; and in wafting over the whole tale the Fata Morganas of an exuberant imagination. Young and old; Hungarian, Englishman or German; man or woman; they must all stand still and listen to the charmer. That Jókai is the best exponent of the Hungarian genius for improvisation in words will be readily believed and accepted, when we point out his startling similarity, almost identity, with another famous Hungarian, who excelled in works of the same quality but written in tones instead of in words. We mean Liszt. Jókai is the Liszt of Hungarian Literature; we might almost say, of European literature. The marvellous musician, who, both as a pianist and as a composer, held the civilized world under his spell for far over seventy years—(Liszt was born in 1811 and died in 1887)—was the king of all musical improvisatori. When he played Beethoven or Chopin, Bach or Schumann, he impressed the most cool-headed hearers as if he had just improvised the pieces he played; that one circumstance being at the same time the secret of his unrivalled powers as a pianist. When he composed—and many, very many of his compositions are works of lasting merit—the result was almost invariably an improvisation. It has that indefinable charm of rapturous glow kindled at the fire of the moment, which endows improvisations with a character unique and exceptional. It excels in major keys far more than minor moods; it has much unity of character and _Stimmung_ rather than unity of form; it always borders on the _Fantasia_, and never crystallizes into a sonata proper; it cultivates side-issues, such as flourishes and _fioriture_ with startling skill and vast effect, while the bass, or the underlying element of thought, is not laboured nor significant; it appeals to happy people rather than to such as bear heavy burdens; and it works for brilliancy more than for reticent beauty. Liszt’s E flat major concerto, for instance, is an absolutely faithful replica of some of Jókai’s best novels. Both authors excel in brilliancy, technical routine, wealth of imagination, sparkling rhythms and rapturous descriptiveness. There is