Herein, in these subjective chatty confidences, is part of the spell he lays upon us: while we read we are _in_ the East: other books, as Warburton says, tell us _about_ the East, this is the East itself. And yet in his company we are always _Englishmen_ in the East: behind Servian, Egyptian, Syrian, desert realities, is a background of English scenery, faint and unobtrusive yet persistent and horizoning. In the Danubian forest we talk of past school-days. The Balkan plain suggests an English park, its trees planted as if to shut out “some infernal fellow creature in the shape of a new-made squire”; Jordan recalls the Thames; the Galilean Lake, Windermere; the Via Dolorosa, Bond Street; the fresh toast of the desert bivouac, an Eton breakfast; the hungry questing jackals are the place-hunters of Bridgewater and Taunton; the Damascus gardens, a neglected English manor from which the “family” has been long abroad; in the fierce, dry desert air are heard the “Marlen” bells of home, calling to morning prayer the prim congregation in far-off St. Mary’s parish. And a not less potent factor in the charm is the magician’s self who wields it, shown through each passing environment of the narrative; the shy, haughty, imperious Solitary, “a sort of Byron in the desert,” of cultured mind and eloquent speech, headstrong and not always amiable, hiding sentiment with cynicism, yet therefore irresistible all the more when he condescends to endear himself by his confidence. He meets the Plague and its terrors like a gentleman, but shows us, through the vicarious torments of the cowering Levantine that it was courage and coolness, not insensibility, which bore him through it. A foe to marriage, compassionating Carrigaholt as doomed to travel “Vetturini-wise,” pitying the Dead Sea goatherd for his ugly wife, revelling in the meek surrender of the three young men whom he sees “led to the altar” in Suez, he is still the frank, susceptible, gallant bachelor, observantly and critically studious of female charms: of the magnificent yet formidable Smyrniotes, eyes, brow, nostrils, throat, sweetly turned lips, alarming in their latent capacity for fierceness, pride, passion, power: of the Moslem women in Nablous, “so handsome that they could not keep up their yashmaks:” of Cypriote witchery in hair, shoulder-slope, tempestuous fold of robe. He opines as he contemplates the plain, clumsy Arab wives that the fine things we feel and say of women apply only to the good-looking and the graceful: his memory wanders off ever and again to the muslin sleeves and bodices and “sweet chemisettes” in distant England. In hands sensual and vulgar the allusions might have been coarse, the dilatings unseemly; but the “taste which is the feminine of genius,” the self-respecting gentleman-like instinct, innocent at once and playful, keeps the voluptuary out of sight, teaches, as Imogen taught Iachimo, “the wide difference ‘twixt