THE EVERLASTING OLD JEW.
'Ich bin der alte
Ahasver,
Ich wand're hin,
Ich wand're her.
Mein Ruh ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde sie nimmer,
Und nimmermehr.'
I am the old
Ahasuér;
I wander here,
I wander there.
My rest is gone,
My heart is sair;
I find it never,
And nevermair.
Loud roars the storm,
The milldams tear;
I cannot perish,
O malheur!
My heart is void,
My head is bare;
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Belloweth ox
And danceth bear,
I find them never,
Never mair.
I'm the old Hebrew
On a tare;
I order arms:
My heart is sair.
I'm goaded round,
I know not where:
I wander here,
I wander there.
I'd like to sleep,
But must forbear:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
I meet folks alway
Unaware:
My rest is gone,
I'm in despair.
I cross all lands,
The sea I dare:
I travel here,
I wander there.
I feel each pain,
I sometimes swear:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Criss-cross I wander
Anywhere;
I find it never,
Never mair.
Against the wale
I lean my spear;
I find no quiet,
I declare.
My peace is lost,
My heart is sair:
I swing like pendulum in air.
I'm hard of hearing,
You're aware?
Curaçoa is
A fine liquéur.
I 'listed once
En militaire:
I find no comfort
Anywhere.
But what's to stop it?
Pray declare!
My peace is gone.
My heart is sair:
I am the old
Ahasuér.
Now I know nothing,
Nothing mair.
Truly a hard case, and one far surpassing the paltry picturing of Eugène Sue. There is a vagueness of mind and a senile bewilderment manifested in this poem, which is indeed remarkable.
One fine day, some time ago, Savin and Pidgeon were walking down Fifth avenue to their offices.
A funeral was starting from No. —. On the door plate was the word Irving.
'Such is life,' said Savin. 'All that is mortal of the great essayist is being borne to the grave: in fact, the cold and silent tomb.'
A tear came to Pidgeon's eye. Pidgeon has an enthusiastic veneration for genius. He adores literary talent.
'Savin,' said he, 'there is a seat vacant in this carriage. I will enter it, and pay my last tribute of respect to the illustrious departed. But I thought he had a place up the river.'
'This was his town house,' said Savin. 'How I should like to join with you in your thoughtful remembrance, and in your somewhat unceleritous journey to the churchyard! But, no, the case of Blackbridge vs. Bridgeblack will be called at twelve, and I have no time to lose.'
Pidgeon entered the carriage. There was a large man on the seat, but Pigeon found room beside him. The carriage slowly moved off. Pidgeon put his handkerchief to his eyes; the large man coughed and took a chew of tobacco.
Presently said Pidgeon:
'We are following to the grave the remains of a splendid writer.'
'Uncommon,' said the large man. 'Sech a man with a pen I never see—ekalled by few, and excelled by none; copperplate wasn't nowhere.'
'Indeed,' replied Pidgeon, 'I wasn't aware his chirography was so unusually elegant; but his books were magnificent, weren't they? So equable, too, and without that bold speculation that we too often meet with, nowadays.'
'Ah, you may well say so,' returned the large man. 'He always kept them himself; had 'em sent up to his house whenever he was sick, likeways; but he wasn't without his bold speculations neither. Look at that there operation of his into figs, last year.'
'Figs!'
'Figs, yes; and there was dates into the same cargo.'
'Dates! figs! My good friend, do you mean to say that the great Washington Irving speculated in groceries?'
'Lord, no, not that I know of. This here is Josh Irving, whose remains'—
Pidgeon opened the carriage door, and, being agile, got out without stopping the procession. Arriving at his office, where the boy was diligently occupied in sticking red wafers over the velvet of his desk lid, he took down 'Sugden on Vendors,' to ascertain if there was any legal remedy for the manner in which he had been sold, and at the latest dates had unsuccessfully travelled nearly half through that very entertaining volume.
There is no time to be lost. Either the Union is to be made stronger, or it is to perish; and the sooner every man's position is defined, the better. If you are opposed to the war, say so, and step over to Secession, but do not falter and equivocate, croak and grumble, and play the bat of the fable. The manly, good, old-fashioned Democrats, at least, are above this, and are rapidly dividing from the copperheads. The Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, a staunch patriotic journal, says:
'The sooner that the fact is made clear that the mass of the Democrats, as well as of all other parties, are loyal and opposed to the infamous teachings of Vallandigham, Biddle, Reed, Ingersoll, Wood, and their compeers, the sooner will the war be brought to an end and the Union be restored.'
Show your colors. Let us know at once who and what everybody is, in this great struggle.