bulwarks are driven in from the open sea in search of a breathing-place.
In a small town of this kind all is still; everything noisy is banished to the wharves, where are moored the peasants’ boats, and where ships load and unload. Along the wharves runs the one street of our little town; the white and red one and two-story houses are on the opposite side; but they are not built wall to wall, they have neat gardens around them; and so there is a long, broad street which, when the wind blows landward, is filled with the odor of whatever may be on the wharves. It is quiet here—not from fear of the police, for as a rule there is none,—but from dread of gossip, since all the inhabitants know one another. When you walk down the street you must bow at each window, where usually sits an old lady who is ready to return your greeting. Moreover, you must salute every one you meet; for all these people, as they move so noiselessly about, are continually reflecting on what is proper in general and for themselves in particular. He who oversteps the standard prescribed for his rank or social position, forfeits his good name; for not only is he known to his neighbors, but so are his father and his grandfather, and inquiries are
