BACK IN ENGLAND
and hopeless like the ruins of the baths of Caracallus at Rome. And at midnight it enveloped itself in a Puritanic darkness to prevent me from finding my way to a wretched inn, which gave me a bed as damp and sour-smelling as a tub of cabbage—
well, as I say, I forgive Liverpool all this, for there was something worth seeing from Dingle to Bootle and still further to Birken head on the other side—yellow water, puffing steam ferries, tug-boats, like pot-bellied, black hogs rocking on the waves, white Atlantic liners, docks, basins, towers, cranes, silos, elevators, smoking factories, stevedores, barks, warehouses, wharves, casks, packing cases, tubs, bales, chimneys, masts, rigging,
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