.

We embark at Gibraltar for Tangier in a small coasting steamer, crossing
the straits which separate Europe from Africa, a distance of less than a
hundred miles. As we draw away from the Spanish shore, the long range of
Andalusian mountains stands out compact and clear, the snow-white
summits sparkling in the sunshine. On the lowlands, sloping to the
water's edge, the fields are robed in a soft green attire, dotted with
herds of goats and cattle. Old stone watch-towers line the shore at
regular intervals, and coast-guard houses sheltering squads of soldiers,
for this region is famous as the resort of smugglers and lawless bands
of rovers. On the opposite coast of Africa, the Ceuta range grows every
moment more distinct, the loftiest peaks mantled with snow, like the
bleached, flowing drapery of the Bedouins. Still further on, dazzling
white hamlets enliven the Morocco shore, with deep green, tropical
verdure in the background. Ceuta attracts our interest, being a Spanish
penal colony, which is surrounded by jealous, warlike Moors,
slave-traders, and smugglers.

Tangier stands on the western shore of a shallow bay, upon a sloping
hillside, but it is not at all impressive as one approaches it. The
windowless houses rise like cubical blocks of masonry one above another,
dominated by a few square towers which crown the several mosques; while
here and there a consular flag floats lazily upon the air from a lofty
pole. The rude, irregular wall which surrounds the city is seen
stretching about it, pierced with arched Moorish gates.

Oriental as Cairo is, Tangier strikes us as even more so. In coming from
Gibraltar, one seems, by a single step as it were, to have passed from
civilization to barbarism. There is no European quarter here. Every
evidence of the proximity of the opposite continent disappears: the
distance might be immeasurable. The city has narrow, dirty, twisted
streets, through which no vehicle can pass, and which are scarcely
accessible for donkeys, camels, and foot-passengers. There is not a
straight or level street in all Tangier. Veiled women, clad in white,
move about the lanes like uneasy spirits; men in scarlet turbans and
striped robes lounge carelessly about, with their bare heels sticking
out of yellow slippers. Now we meet a tawny Arab, a straggling son of
the desert, his striped abba or white bournous (robe-like garments)
hanging in graceful folds about his tall, straight figure; and now a
Nubia