whither men of one family may resort. Over the
entire world spreads a vast brotherhood, suffering, silent, scattered,
sympathizing, WAITING--an immense Free-Masonry. Once this world-spread
band was an Arabian clan--a little nation alone and outlying amongst the
mighty monarchies of ancient time, the Megatheria of history. The sails
of their rare ships might be seen in the Egyptian waters; the camels of
their caravans might thread the sands of Baalbec, or wind through the
date-groves of Damascus; their flag was raised, not ingloriously, in
many wars, against mighty odds; but 'twas a small people, and on one
dark night the Lion of Judah went down before Vespasian's Eagles, and in
flame, and death, and struggle, Jerusalem agonized and died. . . . Yes,
the Jewish city is lost to Jewish men; but have they not taken the world
in exchange?"

Mused thus Godfrey de Bouillon, Marquis of Codlingsby, as he debouched
from Wych Street into the Strand. He had been to take a box for Armida
at Madame Vestris's theatre. That little Armida was folle of Madame
Vestris's theatre; and her little brougham, and her little self, and
her enormous eyes, and her prodigious opera-glass, and her miraculous
bouquet, which cost Lord Codlingsby twenty guineas every evening at
Nathan's in Covent Garden (the children of the gardeners of Sharon have
still no rival for flowers), might be seen, three nights in the week at
least, in the narrow, charming, comfortable little theatre. Godfrey had
the box. He was strolling, listlessly, eastward; and the above thoughts
passed through the young noble's mind as he came in sight of Holywell
Street.

The occupants of the London Ghetto sat at their porches basking in
the evening sunshine. Children were playing on the steps. Fathers were
smoking at the lintel. Smiling faces looked out from the various and
darkling draperies with which the warehouses were hung. Ringlets glossy,
and curly, and jetty--eyes black as night--midsummer night--when it
lightens; haughty noses bending like beaks of eagles--eager quivering
nostrils--lips curved like the bow of Love--every man or maiden, every
babe or matron in that English Jewry bore in his countenance one or more
of these characteristics of his peerless Arab race.

"How beautiful they are!" mused Codlingsby, as he surveyed these placid
groups calmly taking their pleasure in the sunset.

"D'you vant to look at a nishe coat?" a voice said, which made him
start; and then some