In 1896 Hungary celebrated the completion of his fifty years of literary
labor by issuing a beautiful jubilee edition of his works, for which the
people of all grades of society subscribed $100,000. Every county in the
country sent him memorials in the form of albums wrought in gold and
precious stones, two hundred of these souvenirs filling one side of the
author's large library and reception-room. Low bookcases running around
the walls are filled only with his own publications, the various
editions of his three hundred and fifty books making a large library in
themselves. The cabinets hold sketches and paintings sent by the artists
of Hungary as a jubilee gift; there are cases containing carvings,
embroidery, lace, and natural-history specimens sent him by the
peasants, and orders in gold and silver, studded with jewels, with
autograph letters from the kings and queens of Europe. In the midst of
all this inspiring display of loving appreciation, Dr. Jókai has his
desk; a pile of neatly written, even manuscript ever before him, for in
his seventy-fourth year he still feels the old-time passion for work
calling him to it early in the morning and holding him in its spell all
the day long. A small room adjoining his library contains the books of
reference he consults, a narrow bed like a soldier's, and a few window
plants. It might be the room of a monk, so bare is it of what the world
calls comforts. One devoted man-servant attends to Dr. Jókai's simple
wants with abundant leisure to spare.

While in Budapest Dr. Jókai is seldom seen away from home, except in
Parliament, where he has a seat in the Upper House, or at the theatre
where his plays are regularly performed, or at the table of a few dear
relatives and old-time friends. His life is exceedingly simple and well
ordered.

Just a little way back on the hills that rise beyond Buda, across the