CURIOUS RELIC FOR SALE
“For sale, for the benefit of the Fund for the Relief of the Widows
and Orphans of Deceased Firemen, a Curious Ancient Bedouin Pipe,
procured at the city of Endor in Palestine, and believed to have
once belonged to the justly-renowned Witch of Endor. Parties
desiring to examine this singular relic with a view to purchasing,
can do so by calling upon Daniel S.. 119 and 121 William street, New
York”
As per advertisement in the “Herald.” A curious old relic indeed, as I
had a good personal right to know. In a single instant of time, a long
drawn panorama of sights and scenes in the Holy Land flashed through my
memory–town and grove, desert, camp, and caravan clattering after each
other and disappearing, leaping me with a little of the surprised and
dizzy feeling which I have experienced at sundry times when a long
express train has overtaken me at some quiet curve and gone whizzing, car
by car, around the corner and out of sight. In that prolific instant I
saw again all the country from the Sea of Galilee and Nazareth clear to
Jerusalem, and thence over the hills of Judea and through the Vale of
Sharon to Joppa, down by the ocean. Leaving out unimportant stretches of
country and details of incident, I saw and experienced the following-
described matters and things. Immediately three years fell away from my
age, and a vanished time was restored to me September, 1867. It was a
flaming Oriental day–this one that had come up out of the past and
brought along its actors, its stage-properties, and scenic effects–and
our party had just ridden through the squalid hive of human vermin which
still holds the ancient Biblical name of Endor; I was bringing up the
rear on my grave four-dollar steed, who was about beginning to compose
himself for his usual noon nap. My! only fifteen minutes before how the
black, mangy, nine-tenths naked, ten-tenths filthy, ignorant, bigoted,
besotted, hungry, lazy, malignant, screeching, crowding, struggling,
wailing, begging, cursing, hateful spawn of the original Witch had
swarmed out of the caves in the rocks and the holes and crevices in the
earth, and blocked our horses’ way, besieged us, threw themselves in the
animals’ path, clung to their manes, saddle-furniture, and tails, asking,
beseeching, demanding “bucksheesh! bucksheesh! BUCKSHEESH!” We had
rained small copper Turkish coins among them, as fugitives fling coats
and hats to pursuing wolves, and then had spurred our way through as they
stopped to scramble for the largess. I was fervently thankful when we
had gotten well up on the desolate hillside and outstripped them and left
them jawing and gesticulating in the rear. What a tempest had seemingly
gone roaring and crashing by me and left its dull thunders pulsing in my
ears!
I was in the rear, as I was saying. Our pack-mules and Arabs were far
ahead, and Dan, Jack, Moult, Davis, Denny, Church, and Birch (these names
will do as well as any to represent the boys) were following close after
them. As my horse nodded to rest, I heard a sort of panting behind me,
and turned and saw that a tawny youth from the village had overtaken me
–a true remnant and representative of his ancestress the Witch–a
galvanised scurvy, wrought into the human shape and garnished with
ophthalmia and leprous scars–an airy creature with an invisible shirt-
front that reached below the pit of his stomach, and no other clothing to
speak of except a tobacco-pouch, an ammunition-pocket, and a venerable
gun, which was long enough to club any game with that came within
shooting distance, but far from efficient as an article of dress.
I thought to myself, “Now this disease with a human heart in it is going
to shoot me.” I smiled in derision at the idea of a Bedouin daring to
touch off his great-grandfather’s rusty gun and getting his head blown
off for his pains. But then it occurred to me, in simple school-boy
language, “Suppose he should take deliberate aim and ‘haul off’ and fetch
me with the butt-end of it?” There was wisdom in that view of it, and I