Burlesques William Makepeace Thackeray

12
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 one
behind him began handling a masterpiece of Stultz's with a familiarity which would have
made the baron tremble.
"Rafael Mendoza!" exclaimed Godfrey.
"The same, Lord Codlingsby," the individual so apostrophized replied. "I told you we
should meet again where you would little expect me. Will it please you to enter? this is
Friday, and we close at sunset. It rejoices my heart to welcome you home." So saying
Rafael laid his hand on his breast, and bowed, an oriental reverence. All traces of the accent
with which he first addressed Lord Codlingsby had vanished: it was disguise; half the
Hebrew's life is a disguise. He shields himself in craft, since the Norman boors persecuted
him.
They passed under an awning of old clothes, tawdry fripperies, greasy spangles, and
battered masks, into a shop as black and hideous as the entrance was foul. "THIS your
home, Rafael?" said Lord Codlingsby.
"Why not?" Rafael answered. "I am tired of Schloss Schinkenstein; the Rhine bores me
after a while. It is too hot for Florence; besides they have not completed the picture-gallery,
and my place smells of putty. You wouldn't have a man, mon cher, bury himself in his