When a man's house is "left unto him desolate" by the loss of one who filled it with sunshine—when there is no light in the window and no fire on the hearth—it is a natural impulse to leave his darkened home, and become a wanderer on the face of the earth. Such was the beginning of the journey recorded here. Thus driven from his home, the writer crossed the seas, and passed from land to land, going on and on, till he had compassed the round globe. The story of all this is much too long to be comprised in one volume. The present, therefore, does not pass beyond Europe, but stops on the shores of the Bosphorus, in sight of Asia. Another will take us to the Nile and the Ganges, to Egypt and India, to Burmah and Java, to China and Japan.
It should be added, to explain an occasional personal allusion, that the writer was accompanied by his niece (who had lived so long in his family as to be like his own child), whose gentle presence cheered his lonely hours, and cast a soft and quiet light amid the shadows.