ballad are no fiction of the minstrel's brain, as we learn from the work called the Turkish Spy, where an account is given of the impression made on the Parisian savans by the appearance among them of another Wandering Jew. Though the plan of this work is fictitious, like that of the Citizen of the World, for example, yet the incidents narrated in it are in most instances real, and such is the case with the following story of the Wandering Jew, who figured in Paris about the year 1643:-'Here is a man come to this city, if he may be called a man, who pretends to have lived about these sixteen hundred years. He says of himself, that he was usher of the divan (the Jews call it the Court of Judgment) in Jerusalem at the time when Jesus, the Christian Messias, was condemned by Pontius Pilate, the Roman president; that his name was Michob- Ader; and that, for thrusting Jesus out of the hall, with these words: "Go, why tarriest thou?" the Messias answered him again: "I go, but tarry thou till I come;" thereby condemning him to live till the day of judgment. Such was the account given by this personage of himself. He affected to heal diseases by a touch, and was deeply venerated both by the common people and others. One day,' says the Turkish Spy, 'I had the curiosity to discourse with him in several languages, and I found him master of all those that I could speak. He told me that there was scarce a true history to be found. He was in Rome, he said, when Nero set fire to the city, and saw him stand triumphing on the top of a hill to behold its flames. He saw Saladin's return from his conquest in the East, when he caused his shirt to be carried on the top of a spear with this proclamation: "Saladin, lord of many rich countries, shall have no memorial left of all his glories when he dies, but only this poor shirt!" He knew Tamerlane the Scythian, and told me that he was so called because he was lame. He seemed to pity the insupportable calamity of Bajazet, whom he had seen carried about in a cage by Tamerlane's order. He knew Mohammed's father very well, and had been often in his company at Ormus. He had heard the emperor Vespasian say, when he understood the temple of Solomon was burnt to ashes, "he had rather all Rome had been set on fire." Here the old man fell a-weeping himself, lamenting the ruin of that noble structure, which he described to me as familiarly as if he had seen it but yesterday.' This was, the reader will admit, a goodly range of experience for any one to lay claim to. The appearance of this personator of the Wandering Jew corresponded with his assumptions. By his looks, one would take him for a relic of the old world, or one of the long-lived fathers before the flood. To speak modestly, he may pass for the younger brother of Time.' Another Wandering Jew, and one of equal learning, seems to have excited the wonder of the people of Venice, in the year 1687. This new one was more remarkable than the others, in as far as he is said to have made no boast of his antiquity, but to have felt hurt, on the contrary, when it was accidentally discovered. 'This personage,' says the author of Hermippus Redivivus, went by the name of Signor Gualdi. He remained at Venice some months, and three things were remarked in his conduct. The first was, that he had a small collection of fine pictures, which he readily shewed to anybody that desired it; the next, that he was perfectly versed in all arts and sciences, and spoke on every subject with such readiness and sagacity, as astonished all who heard him; and it was, in the third place, observed that he never wrote or received any letter; never desired any credit, or made use of bills of exchange, but paid for everything in ready money, and lived decently, though not in splendour.' The story then goes on to tell, that a Venetian nobleman, an admirable judge of paintings, was admitted to see Gualdi's collection, and admired them excessively. At the close of the visit, the nobleman cast his eye by chance over the chamber-door, where hung a picture of this stranger (Gualdi.) The Venetian looked upon it, and then upon him. "This picture was drawn for you, sir," says he to Signor Gualdi, to which the other made no answer but by a low bow. "You look," continued the Venetian," like a man of fifty, and yet I know this picture to be of the hand of Titian, who has been dead one hundred and thirty years. How is this possible?" "It is not easy," said Signor Gualdi gravely, "to know all things that are possible; but there is certainly no crime in my being like a picture drawn by Titian." The Venetian easily perceived, by his manner of speaking, that he had given the stranger offence, and therefore took his leave."' The issue of the affair was, that the Venetian told the matter to all his friends. Curiosity was aroused, and various parties went to call upon Gualdi. They were disappointed, however; the stranger had left the city, and was never seen again. Of course, the world of Venice came to the conclusion, that this personage could be none else but the Wandering Jew, or a philosopher who had been fortunate enough to discover the elixir of life. The matter is certainly capable of a much easier solution, however, and Gualdi's own words afford a ready clue to it. It was on this story, Godwin tells us, that he founded his novel of St Leon, a work of great power and beauty. We have already mentioned the existence of numerous works of fiction which have a similar basis. Of all these, the most interesting, perhaps, is the Rev. George Croly's tale of Salathiel. Mrs Norton's poem of the Undying One deserves especial mention also among the compositions which this legend has suggested. Those readers who are not wearied by this subject, will find other impostors who have personated this imaginary Wanderer, pointed out in Calmet's Dictionary of the Bible. In the meantime, we shall conclude by quoting a little piece upon this subject from the French poet Béranger, using a version which appears in the Minor Morals of Dr Bowring: VOL. V. : 'One glass of water, Christian true! To him that's weary-gracious Heaven By years not worn, but sore opprest, Earth revolves, I rest me never- And eighteen centuries now have sped Of thousand shifting dynasties: Earth revolves-I rest me never. The ceaseless change is Heaven's decree- Ere the wild whirlwind cries: "Depart The poor man asks relief-my hand Is stretched the debt of love to pay But ere sweet Charity's demand On the soft grass, in flow'rets drest, Near the fresh stream beneath the tree, If from my misery I would rest, The whirlwind howls and summons me. O why should angry Heaven, deny One moment-one of sweet repose? For were the grave eternity, It would not rest me from my woes- Those laughing girls, those sporting boys, My heart would revel in their joys- Ye old, who die, O envy not My miserable fate forlorn; For I must tread upon the spot Where yet shall sleep the child unbornEver, ever. I seek the venerable walls Which in my early youth I knew- Onwards! Exist while all around A cruel smile of scorn and hate Ye pitiless, O tremble when Ye think of me-the wretched me! God in my fate avenges men, But not his own divinity- Earth revolves, I rest me never- REMARKABLE CONDUCT OF A LITTLE GIRL. THE following extraordinary act was performed by a child in Lyon not long ago, according to a continental paper. An unfortunate artisan, the father of a family, was deprived of work by the depressed state of his trade during a whole winter. It was with great difficulty that he could get a morsel of food now and then for his famished wife and children. Things grew worse and worse with him, and at length, on attempting to rise one morning, for the purpose of going out, as usual, in quest of employment, he fell back in a fainting condition, beside his wife, who had already been confined to her bed by illness for two months. The poor man felt himself ill, and his strength utterly gone. He had two boys, yet in mere childhood, and one girl, about twelve or thirteen years old. For a long time, the whole charge of the household had fallen on this girl. She had tended the sick-bed of her mother, and had watched over her little |