yle, not unworthy of Maupassant or Kjelland. Henceforth Mikszath was
sure of an audience. In 1883 he removed to Pest, and in the following
year a fresh series of sketches, "A tisztelt hazbol," appeared in the
columns of the leading Hungarian newspaper, the "Pesti Hirlap," which
established his reputation once for all. During the last twelve years
Mikszath has published at least a dozen volumes, and, so far, his
productivity shows no sign of exhaustion. The chief literary societies
of his native land, including the Hungarian Academy, have all opened
their doors to him, and since 1882 he has been twice, unanimously,
elected a member of the Hungarian Parliament, in the latter case, oddly
enough, representing a constituency vacated by his illustrious compeer
and fellow-humorist, Maurus Jokai. Fortunately for literature, he has
shown no very remarkable aptitude for politics. When I add that in 1873
Mikszath married Miss Ilona Mauks, and has two children living, who have
frequently figured in his tales, I have said all that need be said of
the life-story of this charming and interesting author.

As already implied, the _forte_ of Mikszath is the _conte_, and as a
_conteur_ he has few equals in modern literature. "A jo paloczok," in
particular, has won a world-wide celebrity, and been translated into
nearly every European language except English, the greater part of the
Swedish version being by the accomplished and versatile pen of King
Oscar. But Mikszath has also essayed the romance with eminent success,
and it is one of his best romances that is now presented to the reader.
"Szent Peter esernyoeje," to give it its Magyar title, is a quaintly
delightful narrative in a romantic environment of out-of-the-world
Slovak villages, with a ragged red Umbrella and a brand-new brass
Caldron as the good and evil geniuses of the piece respectively. The
Umbrella, which is worth a king's ransom, is sold for a couple of
florins to the "white Jew" of the district, becomes the tutelary
deity--or shall I say the fetish?--of half a dozen parishes, and is only
recovered, after the lapse of years, by its lawful owner, when, by a
singular irony of fate, it has become absolutely valueless--from a
pecuniary point of view. The Caldron, on the other hand, which is
erroneously supposed to contain countless treasures, and is the outcome
of a grimly practical joke, proves a regular box of Pandora, and
originates a famous lawsuit which lasts ten years and