Page:Letters from England.djvu/167

 trains, smoke, chaos, yelling, clanging, clattering, panting, rent bellies of ships, smell of horses, of sweat, of foul water and garbage from all parts of the earth; and if I were to go on heaping up words for another half hour I should not prove a match for that sum-total of quantity, confusion and extent which is called Liverpool. Beautiful is the steamer when with a screech it scatters the water with its broad breast, hurling smoke from its stout funnels; it is beautiful when it vanishes beyond the arched shoulder of the waters, dragging a veil of smoke behind it. Beautiful is the distance and the goal, O man, you who stand on the bow as you depart. Beautiful is the sailing-boat which glides over the waves, beautiful is departure and arrival. My sealess country, is not your horizon somewhat narrow, and do you not lack the murmur of distant places? Yes, yes, but there can be the bustle of expanses around our heads; even if we cannot navigate, we can at least indulge in thought, furrow on wings of the spirit the broad and