by a non-diplomatic ambassador. The choice fell on an aristocrat held to be exceptionally cunning and clever, who before this was supposed to have displayed his sagacity in various ways; but of Oriental affairs he had not the faintest notion, and through ignorance and simplicity he committed some gross mistakes. The fact that my many years' personal intercourse with the Porte, my familiarity with the national customs, languages, and conditions, and my personal acquaintance with the Sultan, might have served the country far better, never entered anybody's mind; not even my own countryman, Count Andrássy, who was then at the head of foreign affairs, thought of me. Ridiculous! The very idea of it would have been preposterous in the eyes of Austria. A Jew, a plebeian by birth, how could he be admitted into the diplomatic service? Knowledge and experience are of second or third-rate importance; and as for literary proclivities, these had always been looked upon rather as a crime than a virtue in Austria. Birth, position, rank, and the art of dissimulation and cringing are worth more than all knowledge, and the proverbial stupidity of Austria's diplomacy best illustrates how strongly this mediæval spirit has asserted itself there. In these circumstances it would have been only reasonable if, after settling down in Austro-Hungary as a writer, I devoted myself henceforth solely to literary pursuits. Quietly seated at my writing-table I learned to appreciate the sweet fruits of liberty and independence. Here I was safe against the chicaneries and whims of superior persons and the constraint of social forms; the moral reward which honest work never withholds was worth more to me than all the vain glamour of rank and position coveted by all the world round me. Without wishing it, perhaps against my own will, the force of circumstances finally landed me on the right track, and I found a vocation more in keeping with my past career. An active participation in Asiatic affairs might possibly have made me richer and more noted, but certainly not happier or more contented, for although I am not blind to the fact that literary fame can never, either with the public at large or in the higher circles, boast of the same recognition which birth and position claim as their due, I have nevertheless noticed with satisfaction that the fruit of intellectual labour is more real and lasting, more worth fighting for than all the pomp and vanity people are so fond of displaying. Whatever may be said in disparagement of writing, it remains true that the pen is a power, and its victories greater, more durable, and nobler than the advantages which other careers, be they ever so brilliant, have to offer. The pen needs not the gracious nod of high personages; it depends on none save on the hand that wields it; and if, in the face of the amount of general and light literature produced in our days, some might incline to think that the pen has lost its power, that its influence is