He went away, and I have never seen him since.  Where he is now, I know not.  I trust I may meet him on Mount Sion, with the harpers harping with their harps, and singing, as it were, a new song before the throne.

Postscript.—­Since this Sketch was penciled, the Rev. C. Y. Rankin, in a note dated Santa Rosa, California, August 3, 1880, says:  “Mrs. White asked me to send you word of the peaceful death of Jack White (Indian).  He died trusting in Jesus.”

The Rabbi.

Seated in his library, enveloped in a faded figured gown, a black velvet cap on his massive head, there was an Oriental look about him that arrested your attention at once.  Power and gentleness, childlike simplicity, and scholarliness, were curiously mingled in this man.  His library was a reflex of its owner.  In it were books that the great public libraries of the world could not match—­black-letter folios that were almost as old as the printing art, illuminated volumes that were once the pride and joy of men who had been in their graves many generations, rabbinical lore, theology, magic, and great volumes of Hebrew literature that looked, when placed beside a modern book, like an old ducal palace alongside a gingerbread cottage of today.  I do not think he ever felt at home amid the hurry and rush of San Francisco.  He could not adjust himself to the people.  He was devout, and they were intensely worldly.  He thundered this sentence from the teacher’s desk in the synagogue one morning:  “O ye Jews of San Francisco, you have so fully given yourselves up to material things that you are losing the very instinct of immortality.  Your only idea of religion is to acquire the Hebrew language, and you don’t know that!” His port and voice were like those of one of the old Hebrew prophets.  Elijah himself was not more fearless.  Yet, how deep was his love for his race!  Jeremiah was not more tender when he wept for the slain of the daughter of his people.  His reproofs were resented, and he had a taste of persecution; but the Jews of San Francisco understood him at last.  The poor and the little children knew him from the start.  He lived mostly among his books, and in his school for poor children, whom he taught without charge.  His habits were so simple and his bodily wants so few that it cost him but a trifle to live.  When the synagogue frowned on him, he was as independent as Elijah at the brook Cherith.  It is hard to starve a man to whom crackers and water are a royal feast.

His belief in God and in the supernatural was startlingly vivid.  The Voice that spoke from Sinai was still audible to him, and the Arm that delivered Israel he saw still stretched out over the nations.  The miracles of the Old Testament were as real to him as the premiership of Disraeli, or the financiering of the Rothschilds.  There was, at the same time, a vein of rationalism that ran through his thought and speech.  We were speaking one day on the subject of miracles, and, with his usual energy of manner, he said: