Ir was the eve of the first day of the Passover, in the year 1559. Crowds of Jews were hastening home from the afternoon service. The streets of their part of the city of Prague were thronged with people. Gradually they became empty, but from the windows came a friendly light, and the voices of worshippers offering prayer and praise. One house was especially conspicuous for its brilliant light. It was the house of Reb. Mordecai Cohen Zemach. Mordecai was the only son of Reb. Gerson, a wealthy goldsmith, had given early indica tions of extraordinary talent, and had received an excellent education. Reverses in trade led Reb. Gerson to commercial difficulties, under the pressure of which he sank and died. Mordecai's mother had already been dead some years; and now, at seventeen, he was left an orphan. After the first stupor of his grief was over, he vowed that he would devote himself to restore the honoured name of his father. In five years all Reb. Gerson's creditors had been paid, Mordecai had married a Jewish maiden, herself an orphan, and both, with the rest of their race, had been suddenly banished by a royal edict from Bohemia.

Eight years afterwards Ferdinand 1st recalled the Jews home, and Mordecai and his wife returned from Poland, (whither they had found a refuge in their exile,) and once more settled in Prague. Mordecai's vast knowledge won him the highest esteem; his kindly heart, the love of his neighbours. Whilst in Poland he had acquired considerable property; but, about a year after his return to Prague, knowing full well what he was doing, he had sacrificed all his wealth a second time-not now for the honour of a revered father, but for the preservation of a person entirely unknown and of whose very name he was ignorant. That person had now become the private secretary of the emperor, who placed in him unbounded confidence.

DELIVERER.

We return to the night of the Passover. Reb. Mordecai, and his family, were celebrating the festival. The evening meal was ended, and all were uniting in a hymn of praise, when a sudden knock at the door was heard, and a stranger muffled in his cloak, craved an instant interview with the son of Reb. Gerson. As soon as the stranger was alone with the master of the house, he threw off his disguise, and flung himself into the arms of Mordecai. It was the young man whose honour and life he had once saved. He had come to warn his friend of a calamity impending over the Jews. The Emperor Ferdinand had, in a dream, vowed that he would expel the Jews from Bohemia, and was resolved to perform what he had vowed. As yet none knew of this resolution-except his secretary. The utmost secresy was therefore necessary as to the means by which information had been obtained, and as to the mode in which the threatened cruelty was to be countermined. Mordecai accompanied him to the gate of the Jews' quarter. A hearty grasp of the hand, a few words of counsel, and the friends parted.

Mordecai lifted his glowing face to the heavens. Lord of the world,' he cried, "Thou art All-merciful, All-knowing, Almighty. Why, then, should we despair? Can it be Thy pleasure that Thy children should be driven into adversity? They wish to banish-to expel us. Why? By what right? They say we are strangers in this land, in this beautiful Bohemia. Has not God made the whole earth, and are not we too his children? We are strangers, and yet the graves of our fathers lie in this land. We are strangers, and yet we have already for centuries suffered and endured in this country. We are strangers, and yet we dwell as long in the land as its other inhabitants. We are strangers; where, then, is our fatherland? Can men exist without a father

land? No, no; and yet the Jew has nothing, nothing on this vast spacious earth that he can call his own--not the clod on which he rests his head, weary of this life. He cannot bequeath his grave to his son, for he does not even know whether the weeping orphan will be driven from his grave, as himself had been chased away from the grave of his father.'

Mordecai might have remained standing still longer in the street, lost in these thoughts; but the atmosphere was suddenly agitated by a sharp gust of wind. Then a warm breeze of spring came gently whispering through the air. The fragrant breath of the wind fanned Mordecai's hot face and roused him from his dreams. It seemed to him as though it were a morning salutation from the Father of all men to His sons, which proclaimed, 'Peace, peace, to far and near-to all my children, peace!' Mordecai at once proceeded to the house of the chief Rabbi, told his secret, and explained the secretary's plan for averting the coming woe, in the filling out of which it would be necessary that he should leave at daybreak for Vienna. The chief Rabbi approved the plan, and Mordecai hastened home to prepare for his journey and to bid his family a hasty farewell. As the morning dawned on the first day of the Passover, Mordecai passed through the Wischerheder gate, mounted a horse that stood ready saddled, pressed spurs into its flanks, and sped swift as the wind toward Vienna.

After the morning service on that day, the chief Rabbi invited the leading members of the community to a secret meeting, and explained all that it was prudent to tell. He urged, as not improbable, that Mordecai must be favoured by some person in high rank, since he alone had been put in possession of so important a secret; that this fact, coupled with his rare talent and various learning, made him their fittest representative; and that

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| it would be well to wait-and on no account allow the unwelcome news thus secretly conveyed to be noised abroad.

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Nearly six months had passed before any rumours began to spread. The leading Jews and the Rabbi kept their own counsel; but several pedlars who carried their wares from house to house in other quarters of the city, were recommended to sell at a moderate price, as they were soon to be sent into banishment, and would then be unable to sell anything. At first the poor Jews paid little heed to this Gentile hint, and thought it a mere taunt to be patiently endured; but by degrees the fearful truth leaked out. imperial decree had arrived from Vienna, commanding all Jews to leave Bohemia. Presently nothing else was talked about among the Jews. Mordecai's absence had been noticed, but it was not yet known by his brethren that the journey had been undertaken for the common weal. The chief Rabbi and his friends could keep their secret no longer. They explained to the people the cause of Mordecai's absence, and soothed by the information the troubled hearts of the people. The relief was only temporary. No letter came from Mordecai. They learnt, moreover, that their friend had left Vienna— but where he had gone, and for what purpose, they could not divine. At a full meeting of the Jewish community it was proposed to send a deputation to Vienna, and lay their cause before the Emperor. majority voted in favour of this proposition, but the chief Rabbi opposed. 'If salvation,' he said,

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is possible-if any human being is able to induce the Emperor to recede from his resolution-it is Reb. Mordecai Cohen. I was perfectly satisfied by Reb. Mordecai, that there was but one way of salvation, and that he will try. If he fails

all is lost."

The chief Rabbi at Prague had ever exercised the greatest influence over his community. Besides, the

assembly perceived from his allusions, that he had a deeper insight into the matter than themselves. Nothing, therefore, remained for them but to confide in his wisdom and experience, to let him have his way, and to wait the end in sorrow. It was a painful situation. In order to appreciate its full significance, a little more light must be thrown upon it. The idea of banishment, has, in recent times, owing to the large number of German emigrants who send themselves, so to say, into voluntary exile, lost so much of its original horror that we are very likely to be misled in our conception of it. Yet how different was the situation of a banished Jew in the Middle Ages from that of an emigrant in these days! The latter voluntarily forsakes his home after he has realized his immoveable property. He is protected by the Government, and hopes to better his condition. He has found a new country, where he is hospitably received. And if he feels a longing for his fatherland, grows rich and prosperous in the distant country, and would return back; again if he would die at home, be buried in the grave of his forefathers; then the ship carries him back, he is again welcomed home, again becomes his country's child: he has two homes. The Jew on the contrary, was compelled to tear himself with bleeding heart from a spot which he had perhaps for centuries called home. The Jew was cast forth poor and wretched, for even the wealthiest was impoverished by exile. His houses became worthless; for who would purchase a property that was from the necessity of the case to become shortly without an owner? The stored-up wares also, which could not be carried with them in their wanderings in search of a place of refuge, became valueless to the proprietors, especially as so large a number of Jewish merchants could not dispose of their effects at one and the same time. The debts due to them in the country could not be levied. The banished Jew

of the Middle Ages was without protection, could not but fear that his grey-haired parents, his wife, and his tender children, would perish under the unwonted fatigues of the journey; for how could he tell how long that might be? The banished Jew of the Middle Ages was constrained to tear himself from the arms of his weeping betrothed when their roads separated, and knew not whether he should ever see her again in this life. The banished Jew of the Middle Ages might die in a remote foreign land pining for the graves of his loved ones-might die, but not return.

The Jews at Prague were soon to be relieved from their tormenting state of uncertainty, but only to obtain the most entire assurance of their misfortune. Some days after Pentecost, the Imperial edict reached Prague, and was proclaimed on the same day in the Jews' town by the royal governor. Thus it ran. Jews must leave Prague in eight days: the country, in four weeks.'

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At dawn on the day fixed, morning service was celebrated in all the synagogues. In the head synagogue the chief Rabbi officiated. As soon

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the sun's first rays pierced through the narrow windows of this place, the service was commenced. The temple was overflowing with worshippers. Many of the pious devotees had sunk on their knees, and lifted their clasped hands to heaven. The profound touching agony awakened by the thought that they must soon quit the holy spot for ever, had mastered the whole assembly, and had driven for a short time all care for the future out of their hearts. The prayers abounded in wonderfully striking passages, and soon nothing was heard in the entire building but the heart-rending sobs of the congregation. service ended. The chief Rabbi stood before the holy tabernacle to take leave of that consecrated place, which he had so often trodden, to take leave of his beloved congrega tion, and to strengthen and refresh them with the words of Holy

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Scripture for the dark uncertain future which was approaching. Friends and brethren,' he began. The words died away on his trembling lips-a boundless emotion took possession of him. In vain he endeavoured to recover himself, his | quivering lips refused to utter a word. A pause of profoundest silence for some minutes ensued. The Rabbi kissed the veil of the holy tabernacle, opened the sacred ark of the covenant, and took a roll of the law out of it. The head overseers and the warders of the synagogue followed him unbidden. Then came the principal Talmudists, until all the rolls of the Law had been removed. The Rabbi muttered a few words of prayer in a low voice, then all left the synagogue in tears. The chief Rabbi was the last but one; the head overseer of the community the last to retire from it. As the latter came out of the synagogue he locked the gates, and handed the keys to the Rabbi. Both of them desired to speak, as might be seen from the nervous twitching of their lips; but both were silent. The last priest cannot have quitted the temple on Sion's hill with a heart more penetrated with grief. Once more, as though he could not tear himself away, the Rabbi kissed the lintels of the temple; then the procession betook itself to his residence, there to deposit the rolls of the Law till the moment of departure arrived. After that, the Rabbi went to the burying ground. The whole company, impelled by one and the same noble feeling, had here assembled to take leave of those who had gone to their long home before them, of the graves of their dead. No sound of sorrow disturbed the sacred quiet of the spot. Nought could be seen but a kneeling multitude, pale faces, and graves bedewed with tears. Bela, Mordecai's wife, was kneeling on the grave of her father, while hot tears trickled down her face. A two-fold grief divided her heart. Where was Mordecai, her husband, the prop of her life?

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Gradually the vast burial ground was deserted. Each one had still preparation to make for a long, wearisome journey. At eleven o'clock in the forenoon a gate of the Jews' town was thrown open, through which they were all to defile. On the square facing the Jews' town two regiments of infantry and some troops of cavalry were drawn up. A vast multitude had assembled to assist at the strange spectacle. The viceroy had commissioned a superior officer to see to the execution of the decree. Each family on its departure was ordered to give satisfactory proof that it had satisfied all claims of the royal treasury, and to declare by which of the city gates they wished to leave. The confused stir in the Jews' town offered a melancholy sight. Before many doors stood a small cart drawn by a lean hack. They were intended to convey out of the country the old and sick who could not travel on foot. A group was standing before every door: men with a wanderer's staff in their hands, a bundle which contained all their transportable wealth on their backs; women with children at their breasts. At halfpast eleven the officer in command ordered a trumpeter to ride through the streets and proclaim that they had only half an hour more, and that every one must make ready to depart. Friends and relatives now bade one another farewell in the open street. A warm pressure of the hand, a brotherly kiss, and then they would set out. The chief Rabbi had stationed himself at the gate of exit to comfort and bless the departing. At length the word of command rung out. Swords clashed as they were drawn from the sheath. The infantry arranged itself in line. The clock in the old Rathhaus began to strike twelve. The Rabbi whispered words of encouragement and resignation in the ears of those who were to be the first to leave the Jews' town. Not a breath was audible; a funeral silence prevailed. The clock struck one-two-threefour-five-up to twelve.