Through the narrow gas-lighted lanes of Florence the faces pass, and out of sight again.

The old Campanile towers overhead into the yet lingering after-glow of sunset, the stars twinkle faintly already round its head—the memory of 500 years of Florentine life encircles it.

The tower of Galileo stands away off on the hills; but he from it watches the stars no more—his restless brain grinds no more at the problems of rest and motion;

The pilgrims of the Haj land in thousands at Jeddah, the route to Mecca is thronged with comers from all parts of the old world;

The children of the Roman Carnival pelt each other with confetti; the stream of worshipers into St. Peter’s wait each in turn to kiss the toe of the statue which fell down from heaven; the sacred and bejeweled bambino is taken out of its altar-cradle and carried in procession through the streets;

By the mouth of the Kolima in the long arctic night while the moon circles round the sky the Russian exile stands and hungers without hope for the dear faces of wife and children; the features of the wild Siberyaks are hateful to his sight;

The Chinese woman—her baby slung on her back—rows and rows the ferry boat across the river: it is her home and she leaves it neither night nor day;

The furtive little Londoner with the bottle in her pocket slips back home from the public house—to drink while her husband is working; the carefully brushed and buttoned young man walks down Piccadilly;

The bulky red bus-driver shouts cheerily to his mates as they pass; he cries “Cuckoo” in the warm April morning and looks innocently up into the empty sky;

Carriages with high-stepping horses crowd Regent Street; the policeman stops them and pilots—carries almost—a poor old woman across, very fragile, light as a little child;

The lame pinched old finder with grizzled hair and prowling eyes wanders the pavements all day, picking up oddments; he sees neither the houses nor the sky, neither men nor women; his eyes roll from side to side like one reading a book;

The lone mother sits in her dreary little shop, eyeing between the prints in the window the stupid gaping faces of the passers-by as they pause; in the chamber upstairs her boy lies ill; at long intervals a customer comes in and throws down a penny—which she puts duly in a teacup;

The country road-mender surveys his length of road with practised eye; he places marks on gate-posts and trees at intervals to indicate where the road-metal is to be shot;

The slip-shod old blacksmith prattles away as he rakes the cokes over his work and blows the bellows with his left hand; every now and then he stops to light his pipe with a few hot ashes;

On the hearth-side in the fitful glare sits the good-natured great farm-lad by the hour, enjoying his talk, obscene or otherwise.