The Pools of Silence

ertained at déjeuner by the Cerele Milita

nt to speed the man who after Schillings was reckoned on the

erselius; the man seemed so far from and unconscious of the little things of the world, so destitute of pe

orget his companion, but introduced him with painstaking care to the chief men present, included him in his speech of thank

an shaved as an actor and smug as a butler, one of those men who make the great American nation so small in the eyes of the world-the world that cannot see beyond the servants' hall antics of New York society t

manner that Adams one morning lifted him from his bed by the sl

alm, so courtly, so absolutely destitute of mannerism, so incontestably

e secretary, were to acco

bridges and clicking point, more swiftly still, breaking from the fog-banked Seine valley, through snarling tunnel and chattering cutting, faster now and freer, by long lines of poplar trees, mist-strewn, and moonlit ponds and fields, spec

t we snore through between a day in Paris and a day in Marseilles. A poem, swiftly moving, musical with speed, a song built up of songs, telling of Paris, its chill and winter fog, of the winter fields, the poplar trees and mist; vineyards of t

e Messagerie wharf, and after déjeuner at the Ho

d the black shadows, the variegated crowd of the Canabier Prolongue had for him

eir girding cables against the wharves of the old Phocée; the sunshine of a thousand years has l

ad discovered his treasure, and here Caderouse after the infamy at "La Reservée" watched old Dantès starving to death. Multitudes of ships, fabled and real, have passe

g of the sea, the wharves of Marseilles lay before the travellers, a great counter eternally vibrating to the thunder of trade; bales of carpets from the Levant, tons of cheeses from Holland, wood from Norway, copra, rice, tobacco, corn,

ing the quays, each lending a perfume, a voice, or a scrap of colour to the air vibrating with light, vibrating with sound, shot through with voices; hammer blows from the copper sheathers in the dry docks, the rolling of drums from Port St. Nicholas, the roar

e a Messagerie boat which th

d tons' burden, built somewhat on the lines of Dre

all the luggage had arrived, steam was up, the port arrangeme

him, then she

voy

ye," sa

raction of a second afte

e boat, waving good-bye across the lane of blue wa

could still see her, a microscopic speck in the great picture of terraced Marseil

akes an infant and rocks it on her knee, and France and civiliza

RT