eat, he frequently walked forty-five or fifty
miles a day, he had little time for letter-writing; but a small
paper-covered book, in which he each night jotted down in pencil his
impressions of what he had seen during the past day, has fortunately
been preserved. From this three brief extracts may be made, and may
serve as specimens of the whole, which is virtually reproduced entire
in Dr. MacEwen's Biography. The first contains a description of the
Jewish cemetery at Prague: "Through winding, filthy, pent-up, and
over-peopled lanes, in the part of the old town next the river, heaped
up with old clothes, trinket-ware, villainous-looking bread, and
horrid sausages, one attains to an open space irregularly and rudely
walled in and full of graves. The monuments date from the tenth
century. No language can give an idea of its first impression. At one
end one sees innumerable masses of grey weather-beaten stones in every
grotesque angle of incidence and coincidence, but all rude and mean,
covered with mystic Hebrew letters and half-buried amid long grass,
nettles, and weeds. The place looks exactly as if originally a
collection of dunghills or, perhaps, of excavated earth, left to its
natural course after the corpses had been thrown in and the rude
billets set over them. The economy of the race is visible in their
measure for the dead, and contrasts wonderfully with the roominess
and delicate adornment of German churchyards in general. The hoar
antiquity of the place is increased by a wilderness of alders which
grow up around the walls and amidst the stones, twisted, tangled,
stunted, desolately old and yet renewing their youth, a true type of
the scattered, bruised, and peeled, yet ineradicable Israel itself."

An incident at Novi, between Genoa and Milan, is thus described:
"I had strolled into a vineyard behind the town, quite lonely and
crowned with one cottage. On one of the secluded paths I found a little
girl lying on the grass, with her face turned up to the sun and fast
asleep. The breeze played beautifully with her hair, and her dress
fluttered and rustled, but there she lay, and nothing but the heaving
of her frame, which could hardly be distinguished from the agitation
of the wind, proved that she was only asleep. I stood gazing for a
long while, thinking of the Providence that watched alike over the
child in its slumberings and the pilgrim in his wanderings; and as
I saw her companions playing at no great distan