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I was at Phnom Penh, the capital of modern Kambodia, the which is a Protectorate of France, ruled by a French Resident, in the name of its aged king. I had just quitted Angkor, after many days passed among its temples, and the spell of its magic was still upon me. Yonder, up the dismal river which flows from the Great Lake, behind the thick curtain of almost deserted forest, I had dwelt in a solitude, hardly broken, amid things ancient and wonderful. Here, in a place one half of which is a modern French town, I was jarred by the incongruity which results from grafting on to the gnarled trunk of Asia, the rank products of latter-day Europe. I sought loneliness and peace. I wanted to think, to meditate upon all that I had seen at Angkor, and upon all that I had learned of its tragic history. I wanted to get once more into tune with the Asia of olden days, away from the noise inseparable from its