ow
of good things to come' has ceased to exist, and to whom, if I may
imagine by his portly presence and unctuous face, the good things have
already come. We may look long ere we see in his countenance

'the settled gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore,
That dared not look beyond the tomb,
That might not hope for peace before.'

On the contrary, all seems peace within and without, so far as Dr. Wolff
is concerned. Had he any inward sorrow, had he been borne down by its
agony, had the accents of despair been ever on his lip, and its terror
ever glancing from his eye, he would have been a very different man.
Nevertheless, the Dr. is the Wandering Jew, but in reality, and not in
romance; he becomes a Christian, marries a lady of title, and becomes a
clergyman of the English Church. Nominally, he is not of the London
Pulpit. He has a local habitation and a name, but he is of no place. He
is of an unsettled race. I have no doubt but that he preaches as much
out of his own church as in it, and that he has as much right to be
included in the London Pulpit as in any other. At this time his voice is
often heard in London. It really is surprising that the Bishop, or some
admiring friend, such as Mr. Henry Drummond, has never given him a
metropolitan charge, or built him a chapel somewhere in the vicinity of
the Clapham sect. One would have thought he would have done as well, at
any rate, as Mr. Ridley Herschell, than whom he is a great deal more
interesting, and not half so heavy. What is the Society for Promoting
Christianity among the Jews about? What is Exeter Hall thinking of? Is
Dr. Wolff too fat for sentiment? Must female youthful piety lavish its
tenderness on a younger man? Does a converted Jew cease to be
interesting, the same as common Evangelical curates, when their hair gets
grey or their heads bald? Must a converted Jew, too, lose his charms as
he gains flesh, as any ordinary Adonis of pious tea-tables? Alas! alas!
I fear these questions are to be answered in the affirmative. Woman is
woman everywhere,

'As fickle as the shade,
By the light quivering aspen made'--

in cave Adullam, or in the select Christian Society of Camberwell--as in
the theatre or the ball-room, or, as Mr. Bunn would say, in halls of
dazzling light. I stop not to moralize over the bitter fact. I merely
lament it; and if I deduce a moral, it shall soon be told. It would be
but to bid t