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