and my _début_ in England and the rest of Europe. One may well say, "Surely such varied and unexpected results made you pause for a moment, surely you stopped to reflect and to ask yourself the question, 'What will all this lead to?'" No, I never stopped to think. One by one the different phases of my almost romantic career were left behind; the poor Jew boy became a European celebrity; but I cared not. Forward, ever forward, for ambition is insatiable; it leaves one no time for reflection, nor is retrospection one of its favourite pastimes; it is not the past, but the future, which occupies all our thoughts. With such ideas in my mind, my sojourn on the shores of the beautiful Danube was of necessity only in appearance a _buen retiro_, but certainly no _otium cum dignitate_. Apart from my studies, which occupied several hours a day, my active pen, often against my will, brought me in contact with the most distant regions of the globe. I kept up a lively correspondence with people of various rank and degree in Turkey, Persia, Central Asia, India, China, Japan, America, and Australia; and were I to mention the different occasions which called forth this interchange of letters, it would give a true and amusing picture of the joys and the sufferings of a literary worker. Sometimes it was a Japanese politician who urged me on to have a dig at Russia, pointing out the common danger which threatened both Hungary and Japan if Russia's power were allowed free growth. Then, again, a malcontent Hindustani blamed me for having taken the British tyrant under my wing; while another Hindustani praised me for duly acknowledging the spirit of liberty and justice which animated the Raj, _i.e._, the English Government. A Persian who has read in the diary of his sovereign about my personal relations with the king, asks me for my recommendation and protection, and while one Turk showers praise upon me for my Turcophile writings, another Turk insults me for having accepted the hospitality of the hated Sultan Abdul Hamid. A Tartar from Yalta, who addresses me as the opponent of Russia and the student of Moslem dithyrambs, begs for a copy of my _Sheibaniade_, as he has not the means to buy one. So it goes on day after day, but worst of all the poor international writer fares at the hands of the Americans. The number of autograph collectors is astonishing, and many are kind enough to enclose an American stamp or a few cents for the reply postage. And then the questions I am asked! Could I inform them of the hour of my birth, in order to account for my adventurous career? And I do not even know what year I was born! An American surgeon asks me to send him a photograph of my tongue, that from its formation he may draw his conclusions as to my linguistic talent, and so on, and so on. As most of these letters have to be answered, one may readily imagine the amount of time and patience this often awkward correspondence absorbs,