ugh the
body when he saw such a scarecrow walking out with her, I left Cassel."

And that was all I learned with regard to Cassel, Hedwige, (save from
two other notes) or his learning the German tongue.

The following note is the only one he thought worth while to make of a
journey through Russia.

"Novotorshakaya is a beastly hole (_un trou infect_). The bugs are the
most companionable creatures in it, and they are the cleanest."

"At Prague," he scribbles on a sheet of paper stained with coffee-cup
rings, "I made the acquaintance of a polite burglar, who introduced me
to his lady wife, and to other courteous criminals, their spouses and
families. My slight knowledge of Czech, which I had by this time
acquired, enabled me to take vast pleasure in their society. Granted
their sociological premises, based on Proudhon, they are too logical.
The lack of imaginative power to break away from convention, _their
convention_, is a serious defect in their character. They take their
gospel of _tuum est meum_ too seriously. I do not inordinately
sympathise with people who get themselves hanged for a principle. And
that is what my friend Mysdrizin did. An old lady of Prague, obstinate
as the old sometimes are, on whom he called professionally, disputed his
theories; whereupon, instead of smiling with the indulgence of one who
knows the art of living, and letting her have her own way, he convinced
her with a life-preserver. His widow, like her predecessor of Ephesus,
desiring speedy consolation, I fled the city. My Epicureanism and her
iron-bound individualism would have clashed. I had played the Battle of
Prague _a quatre mains_ sufficiently in my tender childhood. I had no
wild yearning to recommence."

Here is another:

"Verona----"

There is no date. None of these jottings bear a date, and when I last
saw Paragot he had not the patience to arrange these far off memories.
Verona! To me the word recalls immemorable associations--vistas of
narrow old streets redolent of the Renaissance, echoing still with brawl
and clash of arms, and haunted by the general stock in trade of the
artist's historical fancy. But did Verona appeal to Paragot's romantic
sense? Not a bit of it.

"At Verona," runs the jotting, "I lodged with the cheeriest little
undertaker in the world, who had a capital low-class practice. His wife,
four children, and whoever happened to be the lodger, were all pressed
into the merry service. We sang _Funiculi f