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Updated: May 18, 2025
Upon it was written, in plain but unsteadily formed characters, the name "Michob Ader." "I am glad you called, Mr. Ader," I said. "As one of our older citizens, you must view with pride the recent growth and enterprise of Montopolis. Among other improvements, I think I can promise that the town will now be provided with a live, enterprising newspa "
He claimed to be the Wandering Jew, and that But here I fell asleep, for my editorial duties had not been light that day. Judge Hoover was the Bugle's candidate for congress. Having to confer with him, I sought his home early the next morning; and we walked together down town through a little street with which I was unfamiliar. "Did you ever hear of Michob Ader?" I asked him, smiling.
That night I was foolish enough to take down some dust-covered volumes from my modest shelves. I searched "Hermippus Redivvus" and "Salathiel" and the "Pepys Collection" in vain. And then in a book called "The Citizen of the World," and in one two centuries old, I came upon what I desired. Michob Ader had indeed come to Paris in the year 1643, and related to the Turkish Spy an extraordinary story.
"'And for what, says I, 'do ye smoke be night in dark places widout even a cinturion in plain clothes to attend ye? "'Have ye ever heard, Michob, says the Imperor, 'of predestinarianism? "'I've had the cousin of it, says I. 'I've been on the trot with pedestrianism for many a year, and more to come, as ye well know.
He says of himself that he was a shoemaker in Jerusalem at the time of the Crucifixion; that his name is Michob Ader; and that when Jesus, the Christian Messias, was condemned by Pontius Pilate, the Roman president, he paused to rest while bearing his cross to the place of crucifixion before the door of Michob Ader.
'Twas that night the fire started that burnt the city. 'Tis my opinion that it began from a stump of segar that he threw down among the boxes. And 'tis a lie that he fiddled. He did all he could for six days to stop it, sir." And now I detected a new flavour to Mr. Michob Ader. It had not been myrrh or balm or hyssop that I had smelled.
Still, fragments of the impossible "personal" began to flit through my conventionalized brain. "Uncle Michob is as spry on his legs as a young chap of only a thousand or so." "Our venerable caller relates with pride that George Wash no, Ptolemy the Great once dandled him on his knee at his father's house."
"'None of the weeds for me, says I 'nayther pipe nor segar. What's the use, says I, 'of smokin' when ye've not got the ghost of a chance of killin' yeself by doin' it? "'True for ye, Michob Ader, my perpetual Jew, says the Imperor; 'ye're not always wandering. Sure, 'tis danger gives the spice of our pleasures next to their bein' forbidden.
He lives forever, but at the end of every hundred years he falls into a fit or trance, on recovering from which he finds himself in the same state of youth in which he was when Jesus suffered, being then about thirty years of age. "Such is the story of the Wandering Jew, as told by Michob Ader, who relates " Here the printing ended.
Michob Ader as an impostor, claiming nineteen hundred years, and playing his part with the decency of respectable lunacy, I could endure; but as a tedious wag, cheapening his egregious story with song-book levity, his importance as an entertainer grew less. And then, as if he suspected my thoughts, he suddenly shifted his key.
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