Some of these names are still extant--most have become obsolete. It would be a commendable idea should some scholar publish a work containing the Names of all Nations! * * * * * Doubtless the reader has heard much of the Wandering Jew and of his trials, but we venture to say that he has probably not encountered a more affecting state of the case than is set forth in the following lyric, translated from the German, in which language it is entitled 'Ahasver,' and beginneth as follows: 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 Ahasuer; 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 Ahasuer. 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 Ahasuer. 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 Ahasuer. 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? Curacoa is A fine _liqueur_. 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 Ahasuer. Now I know nothing, Nothing mair. Truly a hard case, and one far surpassing the paltry picturing of Eugene 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.'