Tchelkache

The sky is clouded by the dark smoke rising from the harbor. The
ardent sun gazes at the green sea through a thin veil. It is unable to
see its reflection in the water so agitated is the latter by the oars,
the steamer screws and the sharp keels of the Turkish feluccas, or sail
boats, that plough the narrow harbor in every direction. The waves
imprisoned by stone walls, crushed under the enormous weights that they
carry, beat against the sides of the vessels and the quays; beat and
murmur, foaming and muddy.

The noise of chains, the rolling of wagons laden with merchandise, the
metallic groan of iron falling on the pavements, the creaking of
windlasses, the whistling of steamboats, now in piercing shrieks, now
in muffled roars, the cries of haulers, sailors and custom-house
officers--all these diverse sounds blend in a single tone, that of
work, and vibrate and linger in the air as though they feared to rise
and disappear. And still the earth continues to give forth new sounds;
heavy, rumbling, they set in motion everything about them, or,
piercing, rend the hot and smoky air.

Stone, iron, wood, vessels and men, all, breathe forth a furious and
passionate hymn to the god of Traffic. But the voices of the men,
scarcely distinguishable, appear feeble and ridiculous, as do also the
men, in the midst of all this tumult. Covered with grimy rags, bent
under their burdens, they move through clouds of dust in the hot and
noisy atmosphere, dwarfed to insignificance beside the colossal iron
structures, mountains of merchandise, noisy wagons and all the other
things that they have themselves created. Their own handiwork has
reduced them to subjection and robbed them of their personality.