Deronda meanwhile took to a less fashionable form of exercise than riding in Rotten Row. He went often rambling in those parts of London which are most inhabited by common Jews. He walked to the synagogues at times of service, he looked into shops, he observed faces:--a process not very promising of particular discovery. Why did he not address himself to an influential Rabbi or other member of a Jewish community, to consult on the chances of finding a mother named Cohen, with a son named Ezra, and a lost daughter named Mirah? He thought of doing so--after Christmas. The fact was, notwithstanding all his sense of poetry in common things, Deronda, where a keen personal interest was aroused, could not, more than the rest of us, continuously escape suffering from the pressure of that hard unaccommodating Actual, which has never consulted our taste and is entirely unselect. Enthusiasm, we know, dwells at ease among ideas, tolerates garlic breathed in the middle ages, and sees no shabbiness in the official trappings of classic processions: it gets squeamish when ideals press upon it as something warmly incarnate, and can hardly face them without fainting. Lying dreamily in a boat, imagining one's self in quest of a beautiful maiden's relatives in Cordova elbowed by Jews in the time of Ibn-Gebirol, all the physical incidents can be borne without shock. Or if the scenery of St. Mary Axe and Whitechapel were imaginatively transported to the borders of the Rhine at the end of the eleventh century, when in the ears listening for the signals of the Messiah, the Hep! Hep! 
Deronda, meanwhile, often went rambling in those parts of London which are most inhabited by ordinary Jews. He walked to synagogues, he looked into shops, he observed faces: a process not very promising of discovery. Why did he not consult a Rabbi on the chances of finding a mother named Cohen, with a son named Ezra, and a lost daughter named Mirah? He thought of doing so - after Christmas.
The fact was that Deronda, for all his sense of the poetic, could not escape the pressure of that hard unaccommodating Actual, which does not consult our taste. Enthusiasm dwells at ease among ideas; but it gets squeamish when faced with bodily reality. Dreamily imagining oneself in quest of a beautiful maiden's relatives in Cordova, elbowed by Jews in the time of Ibn Gebirol, the incidents can be borne without shock. Or suppose the Crusaders of the eleventh century were transported to Whitechapel