The Alte Friedhof—A Stride into the Past—The Old Tombs—Vegetation and Death—Haunted Graves—Ancient Epitaph—Rabbi LÖw—His Scholars—Symbols of the Tribes—The Infant's Coffin—The Playground—From Death to Life.

The old synagogue and old Jewish burial-ground (Alte Friedhof) are but a few yards apart. On my way from one to the other I passed sundry groups, chiefly women, talking with animation about the interesting event signalized from the Hradschin. And more than one expressed a wish that a prince and not a princess had been born to the House of Hapsburg.

The angle of a wall, overtopped within by foliage, marks the site of the burial-ground. The doorkeeper unlocked the gate, and, passing in, I felt as if, instead of merely stepping across a threshold, a long stride had been taken back into the Past. The living world is all shut out, and you are alone with the dead—the dead of long ago.

Beth Chaim, or the House of Life, is the name in Hebrew; but there is no life save that of gnarly elder-trees, gooseberry-bushes, and creeping weeds that struggle up into a wild maze from among the overcrowded tombs and gravestones. The stones, thick and massive, are so incredibly numerous, that they are wedged and jammed together in most extraordinary confusion. Some lean on one side; some forwards, some backwards, and many would fall outright were they not propped up by others standing near. Hence all sorts of curious holes and corners, in which grow choking weeds and coarse grass, hiding the inscriptions, and producing a strange impression of neglect and decay.

With this impression comes a sense of the mysterious, heightened by the nature of the ground, which, irregular in outline and very uneven, confines your view to but a small portion at once. Though the enclosure takes up about one-twelfth of the Judenstadt, your idea becomes one of a succession of patches of tangled foliage drooping over mouldering tombs. Now the path mounts a broken slope; now dips into a narrow way between the walls of encroaching streets and houses; now enters a widening area, where the fragrant blossoms and branches of the elders droop gracefully over the ancient memorials—or comes to an end in some out-of-the-way nook. Thus you are led on pace by pace, always wondering what will appear at the next turn.

And there is something mysterious in the associations of the place. Tales are told of ghosts that haunt the tombs; unhappy spirits bringing terror and doom to the living, or goblins playing gruesome tricks. And again in its antiquity: anticipating by a hundred years the building of Prague, as proved by a date on a tombstone. No wonder that the ground is heaped high, and full of ups and downs! Thousands of Jews have turned to dust beneath the surface.

Something, however, must be deducted from its antiquity. If, as careful investigation gives reason to believe, the old synagogue was built in the thirteenth century, we may suppose the opening of the burial-ground to have taken place within the same period. The notion arose from misreading the stone, whereby one thousand was subtracted from the date. The inscriptions are in the Hebrew character, and, for the most part, deeply cut. The stone in question is inscribed:

In Elul (August) the 22nd day: lamentation ... was the ornament of our head snatched away. Sara, whose memory stands in high praise, wife of Joseph Katz, died. She was modest; and reached out her hand to the poor. Her speech was mild and agreeable, without shame or vice. Her desire was after the house of the Creator. She gave herself up to whatsoever is holy, and continued steadfast. She trained up her children according to the law of God.

One of the most remarkable tombs is that of Rabbi LÖw (or Lyon)—a handsome temple-formed sarcophagus, distinguished by a sculptured lion, and the beauty of its workmanship. The rabbi himself was a remarkable man in his day; eminent for nobleness of mind and great learning; and it is recorded of him that he was honoured by a visit from the Emperor Rudolf II. in his own house. He lies here in good company; for on both sides of his tomb extends a row of gravestones, thirty-three in number, marking the resting-place of thirty-three of his favourite scholars; and not far off a taller stone shows the grave of his son-in-law.

On many of the slabs you will see curious devices deeply cut, and figures resembling a coat-of-arms. These indicate the tribe, or family or name of the deceased. There lies one of the house of Aaron, as shown by the two hands; a pitcher denotes the tribe of Levi; and Israel is signified by a bunch of grapes. The name Fischeles or Karpeles is symbolised by a fish; Lyon by the royal quadruped; and Hahn by a domestic fowl; and so forth.

All these and many other noteworthy objects will you see while wandering about this mortal wilderness; and the doorkeeper, if in the mood, will tell you many a legend, and point out the tombs of Simeon the Just, and Anna Schmiedes, concerning whom something might be said should the humour serve. No burials have been permitted since the reign of Joseph II.; and from that date, except that the path is clean, the whole place appears to have been abandoned to the influence of the seasons. Many of the stones are broken; here and there the slabs of the tombs are crumbled away, leaving large holes through which you may look and see green stains and patches of dark mould. In a dry spot at the foot of a wall I saw a bundle nailed up within rough staves of fir; it was a still-born infant in its coffin; and perhaps for such a little hole may still be dug in the ancient ground.

Notwithstanding that the backs of a few old houses look down on the graves, they fit in with the scene, and your impression of deep loneliness remains undisturbed, except in one corner, where the surface is clear and level. It is used at times as a playground for the children, whose voices you hear from the open windows of the schoolroom that encloses one side. Painter and poet might alike make a picture of childhood, full of mirth and happiness, playing in the sunshine; and in the background, all too near, the haunted tombs of their forefathers.

A few years ago the Jews, finding their quarter much too small for commodious or decent habitation, petitioned the authorities for leave to widen their boundaries, and in answer were recommended to destroy their venerable Friedhof, and build houses upon the ground. No willingness has yet been manifested to adopt the recommendation.

As on entering, so on departing, are you aware of a strange impression; from the field of death, from silence and solitude, you pass at once to the noisy life of the streets, and the spell wrought upon you by the brief saunter where sits

"The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,"