However the Count became greatly attached to Lord Nelville:  his resignation and his simplicity, his modesty and his pride, inspired him with an involuntary respect for his character.  He was concerned at the calm exterior of Oswald; he ransacked his head to bring to recollection all the most grave sayings which, in his childhood, he had heard from his aged parents, in order to try their effect upon Lord Nelville; and, quite astonished at not overcoming his apparent coldness, he said to himself:  “Do I not possess courage, goodness, and openness of disposition?  Am I not beloved in society?  What is it then that I want to make an impression upon this man?  There surely must be some misunderstanding between us which probably arises from his not understanding French sufficiently well.”

Chapter iv.

An unforeseen circumstance greatly increased the sentiment of respect which the Count d’Erfeuil experienced already, almost without knowing it, for his travelling companion.  The health of Lord Nelville had obliged him to stop some days at Ancona.  The mountains and the sea render the situation of this city very fine, and the crowd of Greeks who work in front of their shops seated in the oriental manner, the diversity of costume of the inhabitants of the Levant, whom one meets in the streets, give it an original and interesting appearance.  The art of civilization has a continual tendency to render all men alike in appearance and almost in reality; but the mind and the imagination take pleasure in the characteristic differences of nations:  it is only by affectation and by calculation that men resemble each other; all that is natural is varied.  The eyes then, at least, derive some little pleasure from diversity of costume; it seems to promise a new manner of feeling and of judging.

The Greek, the Catholic, and the Jewish worships exist simultaneously and peaceably in the city of Ancona.  The ceremonies of these several religions differ widely from each other; but in those various forms of worship, the same sentiment lifts the soul to heaven—­the same cry of grief, the same need of support.

The catholic church is on the top of a mountain, which dominates the sea:  the roaring of the waves is often mingled with the song of the priests.  The interior of the church is overladen with a crowd of rather tawdry ornaments; but if one stop beneath the portico of the temple, the soul is filled with the purest sentiments of religion, heightened by that sublime spectacle the sea, on whose bosom man has never been able to imprint the smallest trace.  The earth is tilled by him, the mountains are cut through by his roads, and rivers shut up into canals to transport his merchandise; but if the waves are furrowed for a moment by his vessels the billows immediately efface this slight mark of servitude, and the sea appears again as it was the first day of the creation.