The Argosy — page 126: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

En Voyage. III There is a rich afternoon light over the whole landscape, in which all colour seems to glow and deepen. Bright tints shine out in the faded grasses, on field and bank ; the brown and sere leaves still clinging to wintry boughs gleam like burnished bronze ; the low, dis- tant hills are painted in tender tones of blue and rose and purple. Picturesque groups float past us of long, low carts, drawn by yoked oxen; dark-eyed peasant boys, with peaked, broad-brimmed hats, and women, young and old, with white head-dresses flapping over their brown faces. But we gaze at it all, in a half-inattentive, half-impatient mood, as if we were reading the last pages of a novel, of which the end is the chief good. Rome itself is our goal, and we are restless till we reach it. Ecca. Mabel is disappointed, of course. She complains that it is smaller and less imposing than she expected. Why does nearly everyone expect to find this mistress of hearts a tall, brilliant beauty? Of such, men quickly weary. It is the low, soft loveliness, hardly noticed at first, that creeps into human hearts, and makes there a steadfast throne. Look at the soft, warm hue of her stones. Now you know what ivory palaces look lke. That enamel is from Time’s own workshop. It takes him centuries of southern winters and summers to produce. Oh, queen of the seven hills, you look right royal this evening, with a canopy of orange clouds be- hind you, and over you acrown of golden mist. ‘To think I shall tread once more your uneven but beloved streets. But why does San Isidore clang so noisily? It is not yet the Angelus hour, and all the other belfries are silent. I know the bell, well; it is harsh and unmusical as the notes of a raven. It gets louder and louder ; it drowns all other sounds; it deadens even my sight. The railway-carriage, Mabel’s face, the shining city, all fade and vanish ! Alas; it was only a dream, then, scattered not by San Isidore’s iron tongue, but by the even less melodious voice of the dressing-bell. COnniclo@Oolkks (-) (C(O)