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Flames of Vengeance by Athese reviews 6 weeks after being captured and tortured by the Shredder, Mikey is still healing. One night, when Mikey goes topside with his brothers, things go horribly wrong, and Mikey is captured again together with Raph. Will Mikey completely break down or can Raph keep his little brother sane until they are rescued? When everything comes crashing down by moogsthewriter reviews It was bad enough when Donnie was the one in danger of falling to the ocean; now it's his baby brother, and the thought of him falling is completely unacceptable.

What will they do when Mikey tries to change for them? Will they end up losing their little brother to darkness? In Sickness by moogsthewriter reviews Mikey lives with Doctor Donatello, Overly Anxious Leonardo, and Worrywart Raphael, and if he takes even so much as a single cough drop in their presence, they'll be bundling him up in blankets and forcing him to stay on the couch for days.

About the title, while I would like to pretend it has a deep meaning, it was the first word that popped into my head. Turtle against giant mutated werewolf. My brothers are somewhere inside the building, and they won't have my back this time. Not even when I plunge to my death. A Brother's Cry by secret. I always really liked the "age dynamic" between the boys, and I love brofeels.

Angsty-er than I had intended but it's working The Debt by Flynne reviews Donatello is trapped, Michelangelo can't free him, and the enemy is closing in. But unbeknownst to the turtles, someone has been watching out for them. Check this out! He had something clasped tightly in his right hand, but it was too small for him to figure out what it was. Probably just another prank. But for once his instincts were wrong. Unspoken by Athese reviews Another version of 'The Croaking'. Mikey gets upset after the events with the mom-thing and runs away.

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Can his brothers make up with him? Vulture by Taisi reviews Mikey makes a new friend, and starts coming home with bruises. Raph takes issue with that. How It Never Was Again by imjustpeachee reviews Donatello has been facing the nightmare of his brothers' deaths alone for so long. He has to do something to save them. Even if it means going back and facing his worst fear.

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Based off the 2k3 "Same as It Never Was" episode. How would Merlin react and would his friends be abble to help him? AU to 4x13 Character death obviously. Last chapter now online. Forgotten by Athese reviews After months of torture Mikey is finally back with his family.

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But he has no idea who he is or who those strange creatures that look like him are I do not own them. Rated it T due to language. Warning, the F bomb is used but only once. Heart of the Family by jadefirefly3D reviews After the season one finale, Mikey has a sobering nightmare that fills him with self-doubt. Unable to sleep, he discovers Master Splinter is still awake, and clearly deeply saddened by something. Wanting to cheer him up somehow, he joins him and the two have a rare heart to heart that proves cathartic for them both. Downward Spiral by jadefirefly3D reviews It's a well-known fact that Raphael has a short fuse, but lately his temper is out of control.

In a fit of rage he accidentally does the unthinkable and the aftermath tests them all. The bonds of brotherhood are broken and nothing will ever be the same. Thank you so much guys! TMNT Oneshot - Going, Going, Gone by DoodleDumble reviews While on a mission to intercept a large container of mutagen, an accident occurs among the brothers during a fight in the subway. When the moment is right, the youngest can display a bravery that stands unrivaled, but many times it's at his own expense. Never any OC's or romance.

Rated K plus for detailed injury. Expense by Theoretician reviews "The infection will kill him if we wait any longer. It's been three days since they all returned home, but he hasn't let it go. It's tearing him apart, but someone others might consider unexpected comes to Don trying to find out what's wrong. T for cursing. Walking Behind Shadows by wizardfantasy reviews Merlin is a slave under Cenred's control. When Cenred sends Merlin in his place to discuss peace talks with Camelot, Arthur is less than thrilled with the presence of a powerful sorcerer in his Kingdom.

Accompanied by loyal friends Merlin must find a way to break Cenreds chains before he is forced to attack the man he is slowly becoming to love. M for reason. Bellamy Blake is a guard in training assigned to Clarke Griffin's cell. They aren't supposed to fall in love, but things never go as planned. What happens when Clarke is sent to Earth as part of the ? What will Bellamy do after his sister is confined as well? Karai, lost and pondering her position, her mistakes and her future, wonders who in all the world might want to save her. Leo is determined…to not see what lies on the edge of his consciousness.

One Shot. Any Cost by Flynne reviews When the Hamato clan loses a brother, there are no barriers of space and time they will not cross to find him. There is no price too high to pay to get him back. My version of how Mikey loses his arm. Raphael is put through the ultimate test of loyalty and love. Rated T for swearing and mentions of blood and some gore. One word could send you spiralling out of control, and you're thrown to the back seat, forced to watch as you drown in your own obsessions. Warning: Contains eating disorders and self harm - may be triggering.

Kingsland High by ILikeToSneeze reviews Sent to a creepy boarding school by their parents, the four brothers are left to uncover the mysteries and secrets of the old mansion, but they soon realise that what they find will be nothing like anything they've ever encountered. Silence by LukoTaika reviews "People will tell you that silence is golden. Don't listen to them. It's not golden. It's not a treasure. It's a noose that hangs you too close to the ground, strangling and killing much slower than it should. What it Takes by SilverKovu reviews Waking up in a building with a bomb set to go off was not my idea of fun.

Digging a piece of glass into my arm was even less so. It all works out in the end though, right? The Shadows by Pistachio lover reviews They say the shadows are supposed to be a ninjas best friend I'm finding a hard time believing that anymore. My bros think I'm crazy but I know what I saw, I'm in for the fight of my life it seems Forewarned, Forearmed by Flynne reviews Donatello had told his brothers about the bleak future he saw after Draco's attack.

They had absorbed the tragedy as best as they could. They had been grateful — in spite of their sorrow — that it had been a different future than their own. They were wrong. Or were they? Sunrise, Let The Rays Light Up Your Soul by trinity reviews As Natsu is haunted by nightmares of losing Lisanna again, Lucy fights the emotional turmoil of losing her best friend who she believes was never hers to own. A terrifying accident occurs as Team Natsu and Lisanna are on a mission. What will happen as Lucy's heart stops? Is it the end? And what does Carla's vision mean? What does Mavis know?

Do fairies have tails? You'll enjoy it. To Correct A Wrong by Kurinoone reviews A mini-fic to expand on the storyline of the same titled oneshot. Harry comes back to his parents at the age of ten, but can he really forget his past and live his life? Will his 'Father' let him? Based on my Dark Prince Trilogy. Glimpse by Flynne reviews After thirty years, Leonardo needs to see Donatello's face again. A missing scene from "Same as it Never Was.

Mikey's Saving Grace by jadefirefly3D reviews Still reeling from the Chris Bradford fiasco, Mikey tries not to let it get him down, instead choosing to distract himself in whatever way he can. A series of events send Mikey on an emotional rollercoaster, and when everything goes horribly wrong, it's up to his brothers to help pick up the pieces.

Rating for mild language and violence. When Raphael and Donatello leave the lair to search for their missing father and brothers, danger follows close behind. Who Are You? Wait, Who Am I? Even though he gets most of his memories back, Mikey doesn't remember who Raph is. How do you get someone to remember you when all they can recall are the bad memories? Alright, Fine, and Other Words of Wellness by ErinNovelist reviews "He's taken a heavy blow to the head… He should be fine, sire, but there's no telling when he'll regain consciousness. In the end, the prophecy will be fulfilled, one way or another.

It never said by whom. They are two sides of the same coin, after all. AU ending to 5x04 Another's Sorrow. Living in an old water treatment plant means being there when the doorway opens. Takes place during the last season of the NT in their new lair. No pairings, for you who've commented your fears otherwise.

Just pure ghost story.

Curse of the Black Dragon by hallyu1 reviews Sequel. After awakening his new magic, things start changing. Natsu's temper worsens, his thirst for violence increases. Though he fights these desires, they just keep growing. It's as if he is turning into a dragon, like Acnologia. He should be happy, now that Lucy is with him. But he can't help the growing hunger for violence After Dai Matou Enbu. When it burns, it scorches by chimingofthebells reviews Arthur keeps seeing Merlin die, only to turn around and find him very much alive. The constant slaughter of his best friend haunts him.

Warnings for violence. Lost Cause by SleepingSeeker reviews Going out on a cold winter's night to fetch some pizza for his brothers, Michelangelo stumbles upon something in a dark alley that brings back unsettling memories. A life that mirrored his in only the timeline of chance meetings. Set in the universe, some years later. The Time Experiment by Heart of Diamond reviews Rose wakes up strapped to a table with no knowledge of how she got there. Someone is forcing the vortex back into her mind, but why?

Unbreakable by eight 0f hearts reviews "Arthur hit Merlin. Arthur, brotherliness, vaguely whumpish. My Demons Lay in Wait by EchoRose reviews When Merlin becomes the victim of an addictive, deadly drug, it's up to Arthur, him, and the Knights to stop the drug-dealer, whilst also dealing with Merlin's horrible withdrawal symptoms.

Will they be able to keep their friend alive? Much Merlin! Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, unfortunately. Reviews are so greatly appreciated you can hardly imagine. Silent Witness by bluespiritgal reviews Prequel. Young Cartwrights, multip chap fic. Little Joe was supposed to have spent the day at a neighboring ranch while his father was out of town and his older brothers had to work. Something terrible happens and the family needs to band together to protect one of their own.

Rated T for violent theme and some language. Ch 14 is now up. Dragon's Plight by hallyu1 reviews He always thought romance was a stupid emotion—"love" would not happen to him. It wasn't something Natsu imagined. Everyone in Fairy Tail were nakama—a family—and that's all there was to it. But when a dark mage with connections to Zeref appears, everything is thrown into chaos.

With Lucy as their target, Natsu might never get the chance to admit his growing feelings. Well, Michelangelo is about to find out. Hilarity and Brotherly Fluff await all those who read this. It's my first TMNT fic so please read and review, but be gentle. But mainly review Merlin and Arthur continue to protect Camelot from the various threats that face it, how will Merlin keep his magic and how will Arthur keep his love for Gwen from Uther?

Viand by hummerhouse reviews Something has wandered too close to the lair and the brothers investigate. It doesn't take long for them to wish they'd stayed home. Rated for language and violence. An Agonizing Secret by multicoloredmango reviews Mikey tries to hide an injury from his brothers, but soon discovers that it wasn't as harmless as he thought it was Father's Guilt by Ulura reviews When Uther killed Balinor he never imagined he would orphan his infant son.

The king adopts young Merlin into his family until he realises the child has magic. When merlin returns years later will Uther be able to adopt his son back into his family? Being a Veela's mate by Chereche reviews Draco comes into his veela nature early when his mate's life is in danger. Will their unique bond be enough to finally bring peace to the wizarding world? Consequences are far-reachings.

Second of my BF-serie. Can be read alone. And somehow, days later, Hitsugaya found his way to her - that small, infuriating girl who defied all of his cold logic. Hitsugaya, Rukia K. The Lost by Ultra-Geek reviews In the blink of an eye, Merlin goes from laughing in the halls of Camelot to lying on the ground, hurt and alone, in an unfamiliar, ruined castle. Now all he has to do is figure out what's happened. Will Merlin be able to avoid the misery that comes with looking in the crystals and keep his secret at the same time? Bring Him Home by bulmablue-eyes reviews When Merlin is forced to leave Camelot after revealing himself as a sorcerer, the devastating effects on Arthur force Uther to realise how wrong he was.

Warnings inside. The Power of Friendship by saoirse09 reviews Merlin's been hurt, Arthur's fed up, and secrets don't stay secrets very long when the prince has something to say about it. Not Merthur. Don't like, don't read. They must solve riddles to keep the other alive. How long can they last before they break? Will their brothers be able to save them in time? Experiment by ChiakiAngel reviews Mikey is captured and it's up to his brothers to save him.

But can they do it before it's too late? He only felt himself falling — and the venom spreading through his veins. Please tell me what you think? Healing Spells by BeyondTheStorm reviews After revealing his magic to Arthur due to life-threatening circumstances, Merlin decides it's time he learned to heal. With Gaius off dealing with an illness in the outer villages, Merlin is left to his own methods, bearing some rather costly outcomes. When Arthur's big brother Leon died, he didn't even have the common decency to cross over. And while Arthur resentfully tries to figure out why the ghost keeps retracing his last moments, he stumbles upon Merlin Emrys, Leon's old friend.

The last thing he ever expected was to wake up as one, let alone be thrown into a society and lifestyle that was so foreign to his own. And then, there was Sasuke. Until the End of Days by Willowfly reviews One by one he watched them die, just fade away like sleeping. Now forty years has come and passed, and still he waits to keep the promise he'd always planned on keeping.

The Tracy brothers don't exactly care.

Introduction to Michelangelo and Raphael

Will Jeff be able to find them in time, or will the forces of mother nature claim another Tracy life? Harry turns five, much to the distress of the I don't want to be a Death Eater brigade. Secret No Longer by Stormdragon6 reviews Hitsugaya had finally made the move to claim his love. Rukia was his; all in Soul Society was perfect. Then one average autumn night Rukia was kidnapped, or so she wants everyone to think, and Hitsugaya will not stand for it. HitsuRuki, two-shot, OOC. Alan is alive and is living in a town near where the flood was, though he has no memory of his past.

The picture on the other hand was very beautiful to eyes weary of the changeless sea, and by-and-by the ship's company grew wonderfully cheerful. But while we stood admiring the cloud-capped peaks and the lowlands robed in misty gloom, a finer picture burst upon us and chained every eye like a magnet-a stately ship, with canvas piled on canvas till she was one towering mass of bellying sail! She came speeding over the sea like a great bird. Africa and Spain. All homage was for the beautiful stranger.

While everybody gazed, she swept superbly by and flung the Stars and Stripes to the breeze! She was beautiful before-she was radiant now. To see it is to see a vision of home itself and all its idols, and feel a thrill that would stir a very river of sluggish blood! We were approaching the famed Pillars of Hercules, and already the African one, "Ape's Hill," a grand old mountain with summit streaked with granite ledges, was in sight. The other, the great. Rock of Gibraltar, was yet to corne.

The information the ancients didn't have was very voluminous. Even the prophets wrote book after book and epistle after epistle, yet never once hinted at the existence of a great continent on our side of the water; yet they must have known it was there, I should think. In a few moments a lonely and enormous mass of rock, standing seemingly in the centre of the wide strait and apparently washed on all sides by the sea, swung magnificently into view, and we needed no tedious travelled parrot to tell us it was Gibraltar.

There could not be two rocks like that in one kingdom. One side and one. At the foot of this slant is the walled town of Gibraltar-or rather the town occupies part of tbe slant. Everywhere-on hillside, in the precipice, by the sea, on the heights,—everywhere you choose to look, Gibraltar is clad with masonry and bristling with guns. It makes a striking and lively picture, from whatsoever point you contemplate it.

A few hundred yards of this flat ground at its base belongs to the English, and then, extending across the strip from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, a distance of a quarter of a mile, comes the "Neutral Ground," a space two or three hundred yards wide, which is free to both parties. But behold how annoyances repeat themselves. We had no sooner gotten rid of the Spain distres: than "Gob"! If the English hadn't been gallant enough to lower the flag for a few hours one day, she'd have had to break her oath or die up there.

We rode on asses and mules up the steep, narrow streets and entered the subterranean galleries the English have blasted out in the rock. These galeries are like spacious railway tunnels, and at short intervals in them great guns frown out upon sea and town through port-holes five or six hundred feet above the ocean.

There is a mile or so of this subterranean work, and it must have cost a vast deal of money and labour. The gallery guns command the peninsula and the harbours of both oceans, but they might as well not Le there, 1 should think, for an army could hardly climb the perpendicular wall of the rock, anyhow.

Those lofty port-holes afford superb views of the sea, though. At one place, where a jutting crag was hoUowed out into a great chamber whose fumiture was huge cannon and whose windows were port-holes, a glimpse was caught of a hill not far away, and a soldier said"That high hiit yonder is called the Queen's Chair; it is because a Queen of Spain placed her chair there, once, when the French and Spanish troops were besieging Gibraltar, and said she would never move from the spot till the English flag was lowered from the fortresses.

If the English hadn't been gallant enough to lower the flag for a few hours, one day, she'd have had to break her oath or die up there. On the topmost pinnacle of Gibraltar we halted a good while, and no doubt the mules were tired. They had a right to be. The military road was good, but rather steep, and there was a good deal of it.

The view from the narrow ledge was magnificent; from it vessels seeming like the tiniest little toy boats, were tumed into noble ships by the telescopes; and other vessels that were fifty miles away, and even sixty, they said, and invisible to the naked eye, could be clearly distinguished through those same telescopes. Below, on one side, we looked down upon an endless mass of batteries, and on the other straight down to the sea.

While 1 was resting ever so comfortably on a rampart, and cooling my baking head in the delicious breeze, an officious guide belonging to another party came up and said Have pity on me. If you had been bored so, when you had the noble panorama of Spain and Africa and the blue Mediterranean spread abroad at your feet, and wanted to gaze, and enjoy, and surfeit yourself with its beauty in silence, you might have even burst into stronger language than I did.

Gibraltar has stood several protracted sieges, one of them of nearly four years' duration it failed , and the English only captured it by stratagem. The wonder is that anybody should ever dream of trying so impossible a project as the taking it by assault-and yet it has been tried more than once. The Moors held the place twelve hundred years ago, and a staunch old castle of theirs of that date still frowns from the middle of the town, with moss-grown battlements and sides well scarred by shots fired in battles and sieges that are forgotten now.

A secret chamber, in the rock behind it, was discovered some time ago, which contained a sword of exquisite workmanship, and some quaint old armour of a fashion that antiquaries are not acquainted with, though it is supposed to be Roman. Roman armour and Roman relies, of various kinds, have been found in a cave in the sea extremity of Gibraltar; history says Rome held this part of the country about the Christian era, and these things seem to confirm the statement. In that cave, also, are found human bones, crusted with a very tbick, stony coating, and wise men have ventured to say that those men not only lived before the flood, but as much as ten thousand years before it.

It may be true-it looks reasonable enough-but as long as those parties can't vote any more, the matter can be of no great public interest. In this cave, likewise, are found skeletons and fossils of animals that exist in every part of Africa, yet within memory and tradition have never existed in any portion of Spain save this lone peak of Gibraltar! So the theory is that the channel between Gibraltar and Africa was once dry land, and that the low, neutral neck between Gib-. The subject is an interesting one. Of course those apes could travel around in Spain if they wanted to, and no doubt they do want to; and so, how sweet it is of them, and how setf-denying, to stick to that dull rock, through thick and thin, just to back up a scientific theory.

Commend me to a Gibraltar ape for pure unmitigated unselfishness and fidelity to Christian principle. There is an English garrison at Gibraltar of 6, or 7, men, and so uniforms of flaming red are plenty; and red and blue; and undress costumes of snowy white; and also the queer uniform of the barekneed Highlander; and one sees soft-eyed Spanish girls from San Roque, and veiled Moorish beauties I suppose they are beauties from Tarifa, and turbaned, sashed, and trowsered Moorish merchants from Fez, and long-robed, bare-legged, ragged Mohammedan vagabonds from Tetouan and Tangier, some brown, some yellow, and some as black as virgin ink-and Jews from all around, in gaberdine skull cap, and slippers, just as they are in pictures and theatres, and just as they were three thousand years ago, no doubt.

You can easily understand that a tribe like ours somehow our pilgrims suggest that expression, because they march in a straggling procession through these foreign places with such an Indian-like air of complacency and bland ignorance about them, made up from. Speaking of our pilgrims reminds me that we have one or two people among us who are sometimes an annoyance. However, 1 do not count the Oracle in that list. I will explain that the Oracle is an innocent old ass who eats for four and looks wiser than the whole Academy of France would have any right to look, and never uses a one-syllable word when he can think of a longer one, and never by any possible chance knows the meaning of any long word he uses, or ever gets it in the right place: yet he will serenely venture an opinion on the most abstruse subject, and back it up complacently with quotations from authors who never existed, and finally when comered will slide to the other side of the question, say he has been there all the time, and come back at you with your own spoken arguments, only with the big words all tangled, and play them in your very teeth as original with himself.

He reads a chapter in the guide-books, mixes the facts all up, with his bad memory, and then goes off to inflict the whole mess on somebody as wisdom which has been festering in his brain for years, and which he gathered in college from erudite authors who are dead, now, and out of print. This moming at breakfast he pointed out of the window, and said:. Pillars are not both on the same side of the strait. Some authors states it that way, and sorne states it different. Old Gibbons don't say nothing about it,—just shirks it complete-Gibbons always done that when he got stuck-but there is Rolampton, what does he say?

Why, he says that they was both on the same side, and Trinculian, and Sobaster, and Syraccus, and Langomarganbl-". If you have got your hand in for inventing authors and testimony, 1 have nothing more to say-let them be on the same side. We don't mind the Oracle. We rather like him. We can toleratc the Oracle very easily; but we have a poet and a good-natured enterprising idiot on board, and they do distress the company.

His poetry is all very well on shipboard, notwithstanding when he wrote an "Ode to the Ocean in a Storm" in one half-hour, an "Apostrophe to the Rooster in the! The other personage 1 have mentioned is young and green, and not bright, not leamed and not wise. He will be, though, some day, if he recollects the answers ta ai! He is known about the ship as the "Interrogation Point," and this by constant use has become shortened to "Interrogation.

In Fayal they pointed out a bill and told him it was eight hundred feet high and eleven hundred feet long. And they told him there was a tunnel two thousand feet long and one thousand feet high running through the hill, from end to end. He believed :t. He repeated it to everybody, discussed it, and read it from his notes. Finally, he took a useful hint from this remark which a thoughtful old pilgrim made:. Here in Gibraltar he corners these educated British officers and badgers them with braggadocio about America and the wonders she can perform.

He told one of them a couple of our gunboats could come here and knock Gibraltar into the Mediterranean Sea! At this present moment, balf a dozen of us are taking a private pleasure excursion of our own devising. We form rather more than half the list of white passengers on board a small steamer bound for the venerable Moorish town of Tangier, Africa.

Nothing could be more absolutely certain than that we are enjoying ourselves. One cannot do otherwise who speeds over these sparkling waters, and breathes the sort atmosphere of this sunny land. Care cannot assail us here. We are out of its jurisdiction. We even steamed recklessly by the frowning fortress of Malabat a stronghold of the Emperor of Morocco , without a twinge of fear.

The whole garrison turned out under arms, and assumed a threatening attitude-yet still we did not fear.

British Poetry Since the Sixteenth Century

The entire garrison marched and countermarched, within the rampart, in full view-yet notwithstanding even this, we never flinched. I inquired the name of the garrison of the fortress of Malabat, and they said it was Mehemet Ali Ben Sancom. That was evidence which one could not well refute. There is nothing like reputation. Every now and then, my glove purchase in Gibraltar last night intrudes itself upon me. Dan and the ship's surgeon and 1 had been up to the great square, listening to the music of the fine military bands, and contemplating English and Spanish female loveliness and fashion, and, at 9 o'clock, were on our way to the theatre, when we met the General, the Judge, the Commodore, the Colonel, and the Commissioner of the United States of America to Europe, Asia, and Africa, who had been to the Club House, to register their several titles and impoverish the bill of fare; and they told us to go over to the little variety store, near the Hall of Justice, and buy some kid gloves.

They said they were elegant, and very moderate in price. It seemed a stylish thing to go to the theatre in kid gloves, and we acted upon the hint. A very hand-. The remark touched me tenderly. Manifestly the size was too small for me. But 1 felt gratified when she said:.

It was the last compliment 1 had expected. I only understand putting on the buckskin article perfectly. She kept up her compliments, and 1 kept up my determination to deserve them or die:. There is a grace about it that only comes with long practice. I was hot, vexed, confused, but still happy; but 1 hated the other boys for taking such an absorbing interest m the proceedings. No, never mind, ma'am, never mind; l'U put the other on m the street. It is warm here. It was warm. It was the warmest place 1 ever was in.

You think you are very smart, 1 suppose, but I don't. And if you go and tell any of those old gossips in the ship about this thing, I'll never forgive you for it; that's aU. We always made it a point to let each other alone in time to prevent ill feeling from spoiling a joke. But they had bought gloves, too. We threw all the purchases away together this morning. They were coarse, unsubstantial, freckled ail over with broad yellow splotches, and could neither stand wear nor public exhibition.

We had entertained an angel unawares, but we did not take her in. She did that for us. A tribe of stalwart Moors are wading into the sea to carry us ashore on their backs from the small boats. Tms is royal! We have had enough of Spain at Gibraltar for the present. Tangier is the spot we have been longing for ail the time. Elsewhere we have found foreign-looking things and foreign-looking people, but always with things and people intermixed that we were familiar with before, and so the novelty of the situation lost a deal of its force.

We wanted something thoroughly and uncompromisingly foreign-foreign from top to bottom-foreign from centre to circumference-foreign inside and outside and ail around-nothing anywhere about it to dilute its foreignness-nothing to remind. And io! Here is not the slightest thing that ever we have seen save in pictures-and we always mistrusted the pictures before.

We cannot any more. The pictures used to seem exaggerations-they seemed too weird and fanciful for reality. But behold, they were not wild enough-they were not fanciful enough-they have not told half the story. Here are no white men visible, yet swarms of humanity are all about us. Here is a packed and jammed city inclosed in a massive stone wall which is more than a thousand years old.

All the houses nearly are one and two-story; made of thick walls of stone; plastered outside; square as a dry-goods box; flat as a floor on top; no cornices; whitewashed all over-a crowded city of snowy tombs! And the streets are oriental-some of them three feet wide, some six, but only two that are over a dozen; a man can blockade the most of them by extending his body across them. Isn't it an oriental picture? There are stalwart Bedouins of the desert here, and stately Moors, proud of a history that goes back. And their dresses are strange beyond all description. Here is a bronzed Moor in a prodigious white turban, curiously embroidered jacket, gold and crimson sash, of many folds, wrapped round and round his waist, trowsers that only corne a little below his knee, and yet have twenty yards of stuff in them, ornamented scimitar, bare shins, stockingless feet, yellow slippers, and gun of preposterous length-a mere soldier!

And here are aged Moors with flowing white beards, and long white robes with vast cowls; and Bedouins with long, cowled, striped cloaks; and negroes and Riffians with heads clean-shaven, except a kinky scalp-lock back of the ear, or rather up on the after corner of the skull; and all sorts of barbarians in all sorts of weird costumes, and all more or less ragged. And here are Moorish women who are enveloped from head to foot in coarse white robes and whose sex can on! Here are five thousand Jews in blue gaberdines, sashes about their waists, slippers upon their feet, little skull-caps upon the backs of their heads, hair combed down on the forehead, and eut straight across the middle of h from side to side-the self-same fashion their Tangi.

Their feet and ankles are bare. Their noses are all hooked, and hooked alike. They all resemble each other so much that one could almost believe they were of one family. Their women are plump and pretty, and do smile upon a Christian in a way which is in the last degree comforting. What a funny old town it is!

It seems like profanation to laugh, and jest, and bandy the frivolous chat of our day amid its hoary relics. Only the stately phraseology and the measured speech of the sons of the Prophet are suited to a venerable antiquity like this. Here is a crumbling wall that was old when Columbus discovered America; was old when Peter the Hermit roused the knightly men of the Middle Ages to arm for the first Crusade; was old when Charlemagne and his paladins beleaguered enchanted castles and battled with giants and genii in the fabied days of the olden time; was old when Christ and his disciples walked the earth; stood where it stands to-day when the lips of Memnon were vocal, and men bought and sold in the streets of vanished Babylon!

The Phcenicians, the Carthaginians, the English, Moors, Romans, ail have battled for Tangier-all have won it and lost it. Here is a ragged, oriental-looking negro from some desert place in interior Africa, filling his goat-skin with water from a stained and battered fountain built by the Romans twelve hundred years ago. Yonder is a ruined arch of a bridge built by Julius Csesar nineteen hundred years ago.

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Men who had seen the infant Saviour in the Virgin's arms, have stood upon it, may be. My eyes are resting upon a spot where stood a monument which was seen and described by Roman historians less than two thousand years ago, whereon was inscribed. Joshua drove them out, and they came here. Not many leagues from here is a tribe of Jews whose ancestors fled thither after an unsuccessful revoh against King David, and these their descendants are still under a ban and keep to themselves.

Tangier has been mentioned in history for three thousand years. And it was a town, though a queer one, when Hercules, clad in his lion-skin, landed here, four thousand years ago. In these streets he met Anitus, the king of the country, and brained him with his club, which was the fashion among gentlemen in those days. The people of Tangier called Tingis, then, lived in the rudest possible huts, and dressed in skins and carried clubs, and were as savage as the wild beasts they were constantly obliged to war with. But they were a gentlemanly race, and did no work. They lived on the natural products of the land.

Their king's country residence was at the famous Garden of Hesperides, seventy miles down the coast from here. The garden, with its golden apples, oranges, is gone now—no vestige of it remains. Antiquarians concede. Down here at Cape Spartel is the celebrated cave of Hercules, where that hero took refuge when he was vanquished and driven out of the Tangier country. It is full of inscriptions in the dead languages, which fact makes me think Hercules could not have travelled much, else he would not have kept a journal. Five days' journey from here-say two hundred miles-are the ruins of an ancient city, of whose history there is neither record nor tradition.

And yet its arches, its columns, and its statues, proclaim it to have been built by an enlightened race. The general size of a store in Tangier is about that of an ordinary shower-bath in a civilized land. The Mohammedan merchant, tinman, shoemaker, or vendor of trifles, sits cross-legged on the floor, and reaches after any article you may want to buy.

You can rent a whole block of these pigeon-holes for fifty dollars a month. The market people crowd the marketplace with their baskets of figs, dates, melons, apricots, etc. The scene is lively, is picturesque, and smells like a police court. The Jewish money-changers have their dens close at hand; and ail day long are counting bronze coins and transferring them from one bushel basket to another. They don't coin much money now-a-days, 1 think. These coins are not very valuable. Jack went out to. I care nothing for wealth. The Moors have some small silver coins, and also some silver slugs worth a dollar each.

The latter are exceedingly scarce-so much so that when poor ragged Arabs see one they beg to be allowed to kiss it. They have also a small gold coin worth two dollars. And that reminds me of something. When Morocco is in a state of war, Arab couriers carry letters through the country, and charge a liberal postage. Every now and then they fall into the hands of marauding bands and get robbed. Therefore, warned by experience, as soon as they have collected two dollars' worth of money they exchange it for one of those little gold pieces, and when robbers come upon them, swallow it.

The stratagem was good while it was unsuspected, but after that the marauders simply gave the sagacious United States mail an emetic and sat down to wait. The Emperor of Morocco is a soulless despot, and the great officers under him are despots on a smaller scale. There is no regular system of taxation, but when the Emperor or the Bashaw want money, they levy on some rich man, and he has to fumish the cash or go to prison.

Therefore, few men in Morocco dare to be rich. It is too dangerous a luxury. Vanity occasionally leads a man to display wealth, but sooner or. Of course, there are many rich men in the empire, but their money is buried, and they dress in rags and counterfeit poverty. Every now and then the Emperor imprisons a man who is suspected of the crime of being rich, and makes things so uncomfortable for him that he is forced to discover where he has hidden his money.

Moors and Jews sometimes place themselves under the protection of the foreign consuls, and then they can flout their riches in the Emperor's face with impunity. ABOUT the first adventure we had yesterday afternoon, after landing here, came near finishing that needless Blucher. We had just mounted some mules and asses, and started out under the guardianship of the stately, the princely, the magnificent Hadji Mohammed Lamarty, may his tribe increase! A startling "Hi-hi! Had Blucher succeeded in entering the place, he would no doubt have been chased through the town and stoned; and the time bas been, and not many years ago either, when a Christian would have been ruthlessly slaughtered, if captured in a mosque.

We caught a glimpse of the handsome tesselated pavements within, and of the devotees performing their ablutions at the fountains but even that we took that glimpse was a thing not relished by the Moorish bystanders. Some years ago the dock in the tower of the mosque got out of order. The great men of the city met in solemn conclave to consider how the difficulty was to be met. They discussed the matter thoroughly but arrived at no solution. Finally, a patriarch arose and said:. Ye know, also, that when mosques are builded, asses bear the stones and the cement, and cross the sacred threshold.

Now, therefore, send the Christian dog on all fours, and barefoot, into the holy place to mend the dock, and let him go as an ass! And in that way it was done. Therefore, if Blucher ever sees the inside of a mosque, he will have to cast aside his humanity and go in his natural character. We visited the jail, and found Moorish prisoners making mats and baskets. This thing of utilizing crime savours of civilization. Murder is.

A short time ago, three murderers were taken beyond the city walls and shot. Moorish guns are not good, and neither are Moorish marksmen. In this instance, they set up the poor criminais at long range, like so many targets, and practised on them kept them hopping about and dodging bullets for half an hour before they managed to drive the centre.

When a man steals cattle, they cut off his right hand and left leg, and nail them up in the marketplace, as a warning to everybody. Their surgery is not artistic. They slice around the bone a little; then break off the limb. Sometimes the patient gets well; but, as a general thing, he dies.

However, the Moorish heart is stout. The Moors were always brave. These criminals undergo the fearful operation without a wince, withort a tremor of any kind, without a groan! No amount of suffering can bring down the pride of a Moor, or make him shame his dignity with a cry.

Here, marriage is contracted by the parents of the parties to it. There are no valentines, no stolen interviews, no riding out, no courting in dim partours, no lovers' quarrels and reconciliations no nothing that is proper to impending matrimony. Mohammedans here, who can afford it, keep a good many wives on hand. They are called wives, though 1 believe the Koran only allows four genuine wives the rest are concubines.

The Emperor of Morocco don't know how many wives he has, but thinks he has five hundred. However, that is near enough-a dozen or so, one way or the other, don't matter. Many of the negroes are held in slavery by the Moors. But the moment a female slave becomes her master's concubine her bonds are broken, and as soon as a male slave can read the first chapter of the Koran which contains the creed , he can no longer be held in bondage. They have three Sundays a week in Tangier. The Jews are the most radical.

The Moor goes to his mosque about noon on his Sabbath, as on any other day, removes his shoes at the door, performs his ablutions, makes his salaams, pressing his forehead. But the Jew shuts up shop; will not touch copper or bronze money at all; soils his fingers with nothing meaner than silver and gold; attends the synagogue devoutly; wiU not cook or have anything to do with fire; and religiously refrains from embarking on any enterprise.

The Moor who has made a pilgrimage to Mecca is entitled to high distinction. Men call him Hadji, and he is thenceforward a great personage. Hundreds of Moors come to Tangier every year, and embark for Mecca. They go part of the way in English steamers; and the ten or twelve dollars they pay for passage is about ail the trip costs. They take with them a quantity of food, and when the commissary department fails they "skirmish," as Jack terms it in his sinfui, slangy way.

They are usually gone from five to seven months, and as they do not change their clothes during all that time, they are totally unfit for the drawing-room when they get back. Many of them have to rake and scrape a long t! Few Moors can ever build up their fortunes again in one short lifetime, after so reckless an outlay.

In order to confine the dignity of Hadji to gentlemen of patrician blood and possessions, the Emperor decreed that no man should make the pilgrimage save bloated aristocrats who were worth a hundred dollars in specie. But behold how iniquity. For a consideration, the Jewish money-changer lends the pilgrim one hundred dollars long enough for him to swear himself through, and then receives it back before the ship sails out of the harbour! Spain is the only nation the Moors fear. The reason is, that Spain sends her heaviest ships of war and her loudest guns to astonish these Moslems; while America, and other nations, send only a little contemptible tub of a gun-boat occasionally.

The Moors, like other savages, leam by what they see; not what they hear or read. The Moors have a small opinion of England, France, and America, and put their representatives to a deal of red tape circumlocution before they grant them their common rights, let alone a iavour. But the moment the Spanish minister makes a demand, it is acceded to at once, whether it be just or not. Spain chastised the Moors five or six years ago, about a disputed piece of property opposite Gibraltar, and captured the city of Tetouan.

She compromised on an augmentation of her territory; twenty million dollars indemnity in money; and peace. And then she gave up the city. But she never gave it up until the Spanish soldiers had eaten up all the cats. They would not compromise as long as the cats held out. Spaniards are very fond of cats. On the contrary, the Moors reverence cats as something sacred. So the Spaniards touched them on a tender point that time. Their unfeline conduct in eating up all the Tetouan cats aroused a hatred towards them in the breasts of the Moors, to which even the driving them out of.

Spain was tame and passionless. Moors sud Spaniards are foes for ever now. France had a minister here once who embittered the nation against him in the most innocent way. He killed a couple of battalions of cats Tangier is full of them , and made a parlour carpet out of their hides. He made his carpet in circles-first a circle of old gray tom-cats, with their tails all pointing towards the centre; then a circle of yellow cats; next a circle of black cats and a circle of white ones; then a cirde of all sorts of cats; and, finally, a centre-piece of assorted kittens.

It was very beautiful; but the Moors curse his memory to this day. When we went to cati on our American ConsulGeneral to-day, I noticed that all possible games for parlour amusement seemed to be represented on his centre-tables. The idea was correct. His is the only American family in Tangier. There are many foreign Consuls in this place; but much visiting is not iudutged in.

Tangier is clear out of the world; and what is the use of visiting when people have nothing on earth to ta!

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There is ndne. So each Consul's family stays at home chleny, and amuses itsetf as best it can. Tangier is full of interest for one day, but after that it is a weary prison. The Consul-General has been here five years, and has got enough of it to do him for a century, and is going home shortly. His family seize upon their letters and papers when the mail arrives, read them over and over again for two days or three, talk them over and over again for two or three more, till they wear them out, and after that, for days together, they eat and drink and sleep, and ride out over the same old road, and see the same old tiresome.

They have literally nothing whatever to talk about. The arrivai of an American man-of-war is a god-send to them. I am glad to have seen Tangier-the second oldest town in the world. But 1 am ready to bid it goodbye, 1 believe. It was in 'all respects a characteristic Mediterranean day-faultlessly beautiful. A cloudless sky; a refreshing summer wind; a radiant sunshine that glinted cheerily from dancing wavelets instead of crested mountains of water; a sea beneath us that was so wonderfully blue, so richly, brilliantly blue, that it overcame the dullest sensibilities with the spell of its fascination.

The evening we sailed away from Gibraltar, that hard-featured rock was swimming in a creamy. He said: "Well, that's gorgis, ain't it! They don't have none of them things in our parts, do they? What should you think? Dan don't never stand any chance in an argument with me. And he knows it, too. What should you say, Jack? Then you let me alone. Well, them fellows have a! May be the Poet Lariat ain't satisfied with them deductions?

Well, I didn't expect nothing out of him. He'll go down, now. Pity but somebody'd take that poor old lunatic and dig all that poetry rubbage out of him. Why can't a man put bis intellect onto things thats some value? Gibbons, and Hippocratus, and Sarcophagus, and all them old ancient philosophers was down on poets-". That was the way to flatter the doctor. He considered it a sort of acknowledgment of a fear to argue with him. He was always persecuting the passengers with abstruse propositions framed in language that no man could understand, and they endured the exquisite torture a minute or two and then abandoned the field.

A triumph like this, over half a dozen antagonists, was sufficient for one day; from that time forward he would patrol the decks, beaming blandly upon all corners, and so tranquilly, blissfully happy! But I digress. The thunder of our brave cannon announced the Fourth of July, at daylight, to all who were awake. But many of us got our information at a later hour, from the almanac.

All the nags were sent aloft, except half a dozen that were needed to decorate portions of the ship below, and in a short time the vessel assumed a holiday appearance. During the morning, meetings were held and all manner of committees set to work on the celebration ceremonies. In the aftemoon the ship's company assembled aft, on deck, under the awnings; the flute, the asthmatic. Nobody mourned. We carried out the corpse on three cheers that joke was not intentional and 1 do not indorse it, and then the President, throned behind a cable-locker with a national flag spread over it, announced the "Reader," who rose up and read that same old Declaration of Independence which we have all listened to so often without paying any attention to what it said; and after that the President piped the Orator of the Day to quarters and he made that same old speech about our national greatness which we so religiously believe and so fervently applaud.

Now came the choir into court again, with the complaining instruments, and assaulted Hail Columbia; and when victory hung wavering in the scale, George returned with his dreadful wild-goose stop turned on and the choir won of course. The Fourth of July was safe, as far as the Mediterranean was concerned. At dinner in the evening, a well-written original poem was recited with spirit by one of the ship's captains, and thirteen regular toasts were washed down with several baskets of champagne.

The speeches were bad-execrable, almost without exception. In fact, without any exception, but one. Duncan made a good speech; he made the only good speech of the evening. Steward, bring up another basket of champagne. The festivities, so to speak, closed with another of those miraculous balls on the promenade deck. We were not used to dancing on an even keel, though, and it was only a questionable success. But take it altogether, it was a bright, cheerful, pleasant Fourth. Toward nightfall, the next evening, we steamed into the great artificial harbour of this noble city of Marseilles, and saw the dying sunlight gild its clustering spires and ramparts, and flood its leagues of environing verdure with a mellow radiance that touched with an added charm the white villas that flecked the landscape far and near.

There were no stages out, and we could not get on the pier from the ship. It was annoying. We were full of enthusiasm-we wanted to see France! Just at nightfall our party of three contracted with a waterman for the privilege of using his boat as a bridge-its stem was at our companion ladder and its bow touched the pier. We got in and the fellow backed out into the harbour. I told him in French that all we wanted was to walk over his thwarts and step ashore, and asked him what he went away out there for?

He said he could not understand me. Still, he could not understand. He appeared to be very ignorant of French. Dan said:. We reasoned calmly with Dan that it was useless to speak to this foreigner in English-that he had better let us conduct this business in the French language and not let the stranger see how uncultivated he was.

Only, if you go on telling him in your kind of French he never will find out where we want to go to. That is what 1 think about it. We rebuked him severely for this remark, and said we never knew an ignorant person yet but was prejudiced. The Frenchman spoke again, and the doctor said:. Oh, certainly, we don't know the French language. It silenced further criticism from the disaffected member. We coasted past the sharp bows of a navy of great steamships, and stopped at last at a government building on a stone pier.

It was easy to remember then, that the douazn was the custom-house, and not the hotel. We did not mention it, however. With winning French politeness, the officers merely opened and closed our satchels, dedined to examine our passports, and sent us on our way. An old woman seated us at a table and waited for orders. The doctor said:. The dame looked perplexed. The doctor said again, with elaborate distinctness of articulation: "Avez-vous du-vin! Let me try her. Madame, avez-vous du vin? It isn't any use, doctor-take the witness. The humiliating taunts of the disaffected member spoiled the supper, and we dispatched it in angry silence and got away as soon as we could.

It was exasperating. We set out to find the centre of the city, inquiring the direction every now and then. We never did succeed in making anybody understand just exactly what we wanted, and neither did we ever succeed in comprehending just exactly what they said in reply-but. He was restive under these victories and often asked:.

These are educated people-not like that absurd boatman. We said it was a low, disreputable falsehood, but we knew it was not. It was plain that it would not do to pass that drug store again, though-we might go on asking directions, but we must cease from following finger-pointings if we hoped to check the suspicions of the disaffected member. A long walk through smooth, asphaltum-paved streets bordered by blocks of vast new mercantile houses of cream-coloured stone, every house and every block precisely like all the other houses and all the other blocks for a mile, and ail brilliantly lighted, -brought us at last to the principal thoroughfare.

On every hand were bright colours, nashing constellations of gas-burners, gaily dressed men and women thronging the side-walks-hurry, life, activity, cheerfulness, conversation and laughter everywhere! We hired a guide and began the business of sight-seeing immediately. That first night on French soil was a stirring one. The spirit of the country was upon us. We sat down, finally, at a late hour, in the great Casino, and called for unstinted champagne.

Young, daintily dressed exquisites and young, stylishly dressed women, and also old gentlemen and old ladies, sat in couples and groups about innumerable marble-topped tables, and ate fancy suppers, drank wine and kept up a chattering din of conversation that was dazing to the senses. WE are getting foreignized rapidly, and with facility. We are getting reconciled to halls and bedchambers with unhomelike stone floors, and no carpets --floors that ring to the tread of one's heels with a sharpness that is death to sentimental musing.

We are getting used to tidy, noiseless waiters, who glide hither and thither, and hover about your back and your elbows like butterflies, quick to comprehend orders, quick to fill them; thankful for a gratuity without regard to the amount; and always polite-never otherwise than polite. That is the strangest curiosity yet-a really polite hotel waiter who isn't an idiot. We are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles-the only kind of ice they have here.

We are sufficiently civilized to carry our own combs and tooth-brushes; but this thing of having to ring for soap every time we wash is new to us, and not pleasant at all. We think of it just after we get our heads and faces thoroughly wet, or just when we think we have been in the bath-tub long enough, and then, of course, an annoying delay follows.

These Marseillaises make Marseillaise hymns, and Marseilles. We have leamed to go through the lingering routine of the table d'hote with patience, with serenity, with satisfaction. Wine with every course, of course, being in France. With such a cargo on board, digestion is a slow process, and we must sit long in the cool chambers and smoke-and read French newspapers, which have a strange fashion of telling a perfectly straight story till you get to the "nub" of it, and then a word drops in that no man can translate, and that story is ruined.

An embankment feu on some Frenchmen yesterday, and the papers are full of it to-day-but whether those sufferers were killed, or crippled, or bruised, or only scared, is more than 1 can possibly make out, and yet 1 would just give anything to know. We were troubled a little at dinner to-day, by the conduct of an American, who talked very loudly and coarsely, and laughed boisterously where all others were so quiet and well-behaved.

He ordered wine with a royal flourish, and said: "I never dine without wine, sir," which was a pitiful falsehood, and looked around upon the company to bask in the admiration he expected to find in their faces. All these airs in a. This fellow said: "I am a free-bom sovereign, sir, an American, sir, and 1 want everybody to kcow it! We have driven in the Prado-that superb avenue bordered with patrician mansions and noble shadetrees-and have visited the Chateau Boarely and its curious museum.

They showed us a miniature cemetery there-a copy of the first graveyard that was ever in Marseilles, no doubt. The delicate little skeletons were lying in broken vaults, and had their household gods and kitchen utensils with them. The original of this cemetery was dug up in the principal street of the city a few years ago. It had remained there, only twelve feet under ground, for a matter of twenty-five hundred years, or thereabouts.

Romulus was here before he built Rome, and thought something of founding a city on this spot, but gave up the idea. In the great Zoological Gardens, we found specimens of all the animals the world produces, 1 think, induding a dromedary, a monkey ornamented with tufts of brilliant blue and carmine hair-a very gorgeous monkey he was-a hippopotamus from the Nile, and a sort of tall, long-legged bird with a beak like a powder-horn, and close-fitting wings like the tails of a dress coat.

This fellow stood up with his eyes shut. Such tranquil stupidity, such supernatural gravity, such selfrighteousness, and such ineffable self-complacency as were in the countenance and attitude of that graybodied, dark-winged, bald-headed, and preposterously uncomely bird! He was so ungainly, so pimply about the head, so scaly about the legs; yet so serene, so unspeakably satisfied! He was the most comical looking creature that can be imagined. It was good to hear Dan and the doctor laugh-such natural and such enjoyable laughter had not been heard among our excursionists since our ship sailed away from America.

This bird was a god-send to us, and I should be an ingrate if 1 forgot to make honourable mention of him in these pages. Ours was a pleasure excursion; therefore we stayed with that bird an hour, and made the most of him. We stirred him up occasionally, but he only unclosed an eye and slowly closed it again, abating no jot of his stately piety of demeanour or his tremendous seriousness. This cat had a fashion of climbing np the elephant's hind legs, and roosting on his back.

It used to annoy the elephant at first, and he would reach up and take her down, but she would go aft and climb up again. She persisted until she finally. The cat plays about ber comrades' forefeet or his trunk often, until dogs approach, and then she goes aloft out of danger. We hired a sail-boat and a guide and made an excursion to one of the small islands in the harbour to visit the Castle d'If.

This ancient fortress has a melancholy history. It has been used as a prison for political offenders for two or three hundred years, and its dungeon walls are scarred with the rudely carved names of many and many a captive who fretted his life away here, and left no record of himself but these sad epitaphs wrought with his own hands.

How thick the names were! And their long-departed owners seemed to throng the gloomy cells and corridors with their phantom shapes. We loitered through dungeon after dungeon, away down into the living rock below the level of the sea, it seemed. Names every where!

They could suffer solitude, inactivity, and the horrors of a silence that no sound ever disturbed; but they could not bear the thought of being utterly forgotten by the world. Hence the carved names. In one cell, where a little light penetrated, a man had lived twenty-Seven years without seeing the face of a human being-lived in filth and wretchedness, with no companionship but his own thoughts, and they were sorrowful enough, and hopeless enough no doubt.

This man carved the walls of his prison house from floor to roof with all manner of figures of men and animals, grouped in intricate designs. He had toiled there year after year, at his self-appointed task, while infants grew to boyhood-to vigorous youth-idled through school and collegeacquired a profession-claimed man's mature estatc—married and looked back to infancy as to a thing of some vague, ancient time, almost. But who shall tell how many ages it seemed to this prisoner? With the one, time flew sometimes; with the other, never-it crawled always.

To the one, nights spent in dancing had seemed made of minutes instead of hours; to the other, those self-same nights had been like ail other nights of dungeon life, and seemed made of slow, dragging weeks, instead of hours and minutes. One prisoner of fifteen years had scratched verses upon his walls, and brief prose sentences-brief, but full of pathos. These spoke not of himself and his hard estate; but only of the shrine where his spirit fled the prison to worship-of home and the idols that were templed there.

He never lived to see them. The walls of these dungeons are as thick as some bed-chambers at home are wide-fifteen feet. We saw the damp, dismal eeils in which two of Dumas' heroes passed their confinement-heroes of "Monte Cristo. It was a pity that so many weeks of dreary labour should have come to naught at last.

The place had a far greater interest for us than it could have had if we had known beyond ail question who the Iron Mask was, and what his history had been, and why this most unusual punishment had been meted out to him. That speechless tongue, those prisoned features, that heart so freighted with unspoken troubles, and that breast so oppressed with its piteous secret, had been here. These dank walls had known the man whose dolorous story is a sealed book for ever! WE have come five hundred miles by rail through the heart of France.

What a bewitching land it is! Surely the leagues of bright green lawns are swept and brushed and watered every day and their grasses trimmed by the barber. Surely the hedges are shaped and measured and their symmetry preserved by the most architectural of gardeners. Surely the long straight rows of stately poplars that divide the beautiful landscape like the squares of a draught-board are set with line and plummet, and their uniform height determined with a spirit level.

Surely the straight, smooth, pure white turnpikes are. How else are these marvels of symmetry, cleanliness and order attained? It is wonderful. There are no unsightly stone walls, and never a fence of any kind. There is no dirt, no decay, no rubbish anywhere-nothing that even bints at untidiness-nothing that ever suggests neglect.

All is orderly and beautiful-everything is charming to the eye. We had such glimpses of the Rhone gliding along between its grassy banks; of cosy cottages buried in flowers and shrubbery; of quaint old red-tiled villages with mossy mediaeval cathedrals looming out of their midst; of wooded hills with ivy-grown towers and turrets of feudal castles projecting above the foliage; such glimpses of Paradise, it seemed to us, such visions of fabled fairy-land!

And it is a pleasant land. No word describes it so felicitously as that one. They say there is no word for "home" in the French language. Well, considering that they have the article itself in such an attractive aspect, they ought to manage to get along without the word.

Let us not waste too much pity on "homeless" France. I have observed that Frenchmen abroad seldom wholly give up the idea of going back to France some time or other.