By D. Shrewsberry, Esq.

I.

“The whole world is bound by one chain.  In every city in the globe there is one quarter that certain travellers know and recognize from its likeness to its brother district in all other places where are congregated the habitations of men.  In Tehran, or Pekin, or Stamboul, or New York, or Timbuctoo, or London, there is a certain district where a certain man is not a stranger.  Where the idols are fed with incense by the streams of Ching-wang-foo; where the minarets soar sparkling above the cypresses, their reflections quivering in the lucid waters of the Golden Horn; where the yellow Tiber flows under broken bridges and over imperial glories; where the huts are squatted by the Niger, under the palm-trees; where the Northern Babel lies, with its warehouses, and its bridges, its graceful factory-chimneys, and its clumsy fanes—­hidden in fog and smoke by the dirtiest river in the world—­in all the cities of mankind there is One Home 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.