  On its head was the
_kauk_ or furred cap of Jerusalem; depending from its shoulders, and
almost trailing on the ground, was a broad blue mantle, whilst _kandrisa_
or Turkish trousers enveloped its nether limbs.  I gazed on the figure as
wistfully as it gazed upon me.  At first the features appeared perfectly
strange, and I was about to exclaim, “I know you not,” when one or two
lineaments struck me, and I cried, though somewhat hesitatingly, “Surely
this is Judah Lib.”

I was in a steamer in the Baltic in the year ’34, if I mistake not.
There was a drizzling rain and a high sea, when I observed a young man of
about two and twenty leaning in a melancholy attitude against the side of
the vessel.  By his countenance I knew him to be one of the Hebrew race,
nevertheless there was something very singular in his appearance,
something which is rarely found amongst that people, a certain air of
nobleness which highly interested me.  I approached him, and in a few
minutes we were in earnest conversation.  He spoke Polish and Jewish
German indiscriminately.  The story which he related to me was highly
extraordinary, yet I yielded implicit credit to all his words, which came
from his mouth with an air of sincerity which precluded doubt; and,
moreover, he could have no motive for deceiving me.  One idea, one
object, engrossed him entirely: “My father,” said he, in language which
strongly marked his race, “was a native of Galatia, a Jew of high caste,
a learned man, for he knew Zohar, {318} and he was likewise skilled in
medicine.  When I was a child of some eight years, he left Galatia, and
taking his wife, who was my mother, and myself with him, he bent his way
unto the East, even to Jerusalem; there he established himself as a
merchant, for he was acquainted with trade and the arts of getting money.
He was much respected by the Rabbins of Jerusalem, for he was a Polish
man, and he knew more Zohar and more secrets than the wisest of them.  He
made frequent journeys, and was absent for weeks and for months,