And to-day they are alt dead—­the Takeefim with big hearts and bigger purses, and the humorous Schnorrers, who accepted their gold, and the cheerful pious peddlers who rose from one extreme to the other, building up fabulous fortunes in marvellous ways.  The young mothers, who suckled their babes in the sun, have passed out of the sunshine; yea, and the babes, too, have gone down with gray heads to the dust.  Dead are the fair fat women, with tender hearts, who waddled benignantly through life, ever ready to shed the sympathetic tear, best of wives, and cooks, and mothers; dead are the bald, ruddy old men, who ambled about in faded carpet slippers, and passed the snuff-box of peace:  dead are the stout-hearted youths who sailed away to Tom Tiddler’s ground; and dead are the buxom maidens they led under the wedding canopy when they returned.  Even the great Dr. Sequira, pompous in white stockings, physician extraordinary to the Prince Regent of Portugal, lies vanquished by his life-long adversary and the Baal Shem himself, King of Cabalists, could command no countervailing miracle.

Where are the little girls in white pinafores with pink sashes who brightened the Ghetto on high days and holidays?  Where is the beauteous Betsy of the Victoria Ballet? and where the jocund synagogue dignitary who led off the cotillon with her at the annual Rejoicing of the Law?  Worms have long since picked the great financier’s brain, the embroidered waistcoats of the bucks have passed even beyond the stage of adorning sweeps on May Day, and Dutch Sam’s fist is bonier than ever.  The same mould covers them all—­those who donated guineas and those who donated “gifts,” the rogues and the hypocrites, and the wedding-drolls, the observant and the lax, the purse-proud and the lowly, the coarse and the genteel, the wonderful chapmen and the luckless Schlemihls, Rabbi and Dayan and Shochet, the scribes who wrote the sacred scroll and the cantors who trolled it off mellifluous tongues, and the betting-men who never listened to it; the grimy Russians of the capotes and the earlocks, and the blue-blooded Dons, “the gentlemen of the Mahamad,” who ruffled it with swords and knee-breeches in the best Christian society.  Those who kneaded the toothsome “bolas” lie with those who ate them; and the marriage-brokers repose with those they mated.  The olives and the cucumbers grow green and fat as of yore, but their lovers are mixed with a soil that is barren of them.  The restless, bustling crowds that jostled laughingly in Rag Fair are at rest in the “House of Life;” the pageant of their strenuous generation is vanished as a dream.  They died with the declaration of God’s unity on their stiffening lips, and the certainty of resurrection in their pulseless hearts, and a faded Hebrew inscription on a tomb, or an unread entry on a synagogue brass is their only record.  And yet, perhaps, their generation is not all dust.  Perchance, here and there, some decrepit centenarian rubs his purblind eyes with the ointment of memory, and sees these pictures of the past, hallowed by the consecration of time, and finds his shrivelled cheek wet with the pathos sanctifying the joys that have been.