m far away, came the chime of old romance, but very
thin, like the note of a warm silver bell, that could not hold its own
against this blatancy. Came ancient immortal names--Magellan, that hound
of the world, whining fiercely, nosing for openings that he might
encircle the globe, he had been up the silver river. Sebastian Cabot,
too, the grim marauder, seeking to plunder the slender Indians, he had
been here. It was he had christened the great stream--Rio de la Plata,
the river where silver is. And Pedro Gomez, who headed the greatest
expedition the Argentine ever saw, and founded and named the city. And
fighting Beresford, the British general who took it from Spain, and
Whitelock who lost it again.... Campbell could see his bluff grenadiers,
their faces blackened with powder, their backs to the wall, a strange
land, a strange enemy, and blessed England so far away.... And the last
of the Spanish viceroys, with a name like an organ peal, Baltazar
Hidalgo de Cisneros y Latorre--a great gentleman, he had been wounded
fighting Nelson off Cape Trafalgar. Campbell could almost see his white
Spanish face, his pointed fingers, his pointed beard, his pontifical
walk.... And of them nothing remained. Nothing of Magellan, nothing of
Cabot, nothing of Gomez, nothing of staunch Beresford, or bluff John
Whitlock, or of the great hidalgo.... _Stat magni nominis umbra?_ ...
No, not even that. The shadows of the great names had gone. The dim
chime of a silver bell drowned by the lowing of dying cattle, by the
screech of bullock-carts, by the haggling of merchants over the price of
hides....

But he could not remain on board ship in port. Ships, he had enough of
them! There was nothing to do but go ashore, landing at high tide at one
of the two lugubrious piers, and make his way toward the squares ...
past the blazing water-front where the prostitutes chanted like demented
savages, past the saloons where the sailors drank until they dropped, or
were knifed, or robbed, or crimped. Down the ill-lit streets, which must
be trodden carefully, lest one should stumble into a heap of refuse.
Down to the Plaza Victoria, with its dim arcades, or to the 25 de Mayo,
with its cathedral, its stunted paradise trees. And from the houses came
shafts of light, and the sound of voices, thump of guitars like little
drums, high arguments, shuffle of cards.... Dark shadows and lonely
immigrants, and the plea of some light woman's bully--"_cosa
occulta_...."