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.Jokai 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.Jokai's simple wants with abundant leisure to spare.
While in Budapest Dr.Jokai 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.