by.

Of such hotels I number that gaudy and polysyllabic hostelry the Grand
Hôtel du Louvre et de la Paix at Marseilles. I am indifferent to the
facts that it is situated on that fine thoroughfare, the Rue de
Cannebière, which the proud and untravelled native devoutly believes to
be the finest street in the world; that it possesses a dining-room of
gilded and painted _repoussé_ work so elaborate and wonderful that it
surely must be intended to represent a tinsmith's dream of heaven; that
its concierge is the most impressive human being on earth except Ludwig
von Kampf (whom I have never seen); that its head waiter is sadder and
more elderly and forgiving than any other head waiter; and that its
hushed and cathedral atmosphere has been undisturbed through immemorial
years. That is to be expected; and elsewhere to be duplicated in
greater or lesser degree. Nor in the lofty courtyard, or the equally
lofty halls and reading-rooms, is there ever much bustle and movement.
People sit quietly, or move with circumspection. Servants glide. The
fall of a book or teaspoon, the sudden closing of a door, are events to
be remarked. Once a day, however, a huge gong sounds, the glass doors of
the inner courtyard are thrown open with a flourish, and enters the huge
bus fairly among those peacefully sitting at the tables, horses' hoofs
striking fire, long lash-cracking volleys, wheels roaring amid hollow
reverberations. From the interior of this bus emerge people; and from
the top, by means of a strangely-constructed hooked ladder, are decanted
boxes, trunks, and appurtenances of various sorts. In these people, and
in these boxes, trunks, and appurtenances, are the real interest of the
Grand Hôtel du Louvre et de la Paix of the marvellous Rue Cannebière of
Marseilles.

For at Marseilles land ships, many ships, from all the scattered ends of