Among mankind's erroneous beliefs, which explanations do not cure, or refutations kill, are two pertaining to Bohemia. The first is that Bohemians are Germans. The second is that they are gipsies. Both are extraordinary illustrations of mistaken identity. As to the first, the true Bohemian is by birth and choice an ardent, patriotic Slav, and nothing could offend him more than to consider him a German. The second supposition is still more misleading. Gipsies are found in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, -probably even in Australia. They are of Oriental origin. They have their own peculiar language. There is as little race affinity between them and the Czechs as between Scandinavians and Hindus. No land in Europe is without them; but, as a matter of fact, Bohemia has comparatively few of them. They play no part in her development or history. In the latter part of the fifteenth century the people of France supposed that bands of gipsies, which had crossed their frontier, were exiles from Bohemia. They called them, therefore, by that nation's name. No one who knew enough to recognize the blunder cared to rectify it till too late. Hence, by a natural association of ideas, much that pertains to those romantic, irresponsible vagabonds called gipsies, has come to be regarded as "Bohemian." The name suggests to-day an indefinable medley of "Trilby" models in the Latin Quarter; adventurous hours in "Little Hungary"; rooms hazy with tobacco smoke; small, slippered feet on wine - smeared tables; soubrettes with lightly fingered cigarettes; and artists with long hair, low collars, and plush smoking-jackets. That this so-called "Bohemia" has anything essential to do with the real country of that name is a mistake not only ludicrous, but libellous. Yet it is hardly probable that this nomenclature will ever be corrected. Its roots reach down too deeply into literature and language. The use of it by Thackeray has well-nigh sanctioned it. Even in music it has gained a foothold; for, though the heroine of Balfe's delightful opera is a gipsy, the work is known in English as "The Bohemian Girl," and in French as "La Bohemienne." It is not to a gipsy realm, however,-still less to a fictitious world of unconventual revelers, - that this brief sketch is dedicated; but rather to an old, heroic nation and a noble land. In the heart of Europe lies Bohemia. In the heart of Bohemia lies Prague. In all Bohemian hearts the two are held enshrined. Both state and city are unique and wonderful. Both love a literature honored with the laurels of a thousand years.

For many centuries Bohemia was an independent kingdom. Who can reproach her for remembering this, and for regretting her absorption by the house of Hapsburg? She is still loyal to the Austrian Empire, but dissatisfied. She is "resigned, because she has to be." Proud of her past, exultant in her present, hopeful of her future, Bohemia aspires to hold in reference to Austria the same political position won by Hungary, - that of a federated monarchy. Around her Fate has drawn a cordon of aggressive states, - Bavaria, Prussia, Saxony, and Austria. Before her rises ever, grim and threatening, the spectre of the German Empire. The thought of being dominated by the Prussian hegemony is to her detestable. She still holds firmly to her own political identity, as one who struggles in a stormy sea clings to the plank that separates him from destruction. She will not abdicate her individuality. Hence, since direct appeal to arms would now at least be hopeless, she has erected round her threatened nationality the one defensive rampart which she can legitimately raise, - the barrier of language. No strangers are allowed to think that she is merely Austrian. Still less must they suppose her German. She will not even let herself be loosely labeled "Slav." Slav certainly she is; and Russians, Poles, Moravians, and Servians are her kindred. But first, and last, and always is she Czech. In fact, lest we should possibly forget it, she shows us at the very frontier a chevaux de frise composed of countless consonants. Our eyes are challenged by unwonted words. Our ears hear unintelligible sounds. Our tongues trip lamentably over monstrous combinations of familiar letters. There was a time when tourists here could treat the language as a negligible quantity. That is no longer possible. The man who crosses the Bohemian border equipped with English, German, French, and Italian, suddenly perceives that these are not sufficient. He, who an hour before was confident of having no linguistic troubles, blushes to find himself incapable of reading any of the signs around him. Their letters seem to have been shaken up like dice, and separated into sections by caprice. No previous acquaintance with the Anglo-Saxon or the Latin tongues prepares him for the fact that Znrzlina is the Czech equivalent for ice-cream, and Trh for market, or that the seemingly unpronounceable Ccskobratrska. ulice is really an address to be given to a cab-driver.