tle-nosed whale
puffing and spewing its predatory course.

"What are those ruins upon the Spanish shore for?" asked the
accomplished lady.

When she was informed that they were the beacons raised in the days of
old, when the Moorish corsairs haunted that coast, and that the moment
the pirate sail was descried in the offing (I hope this is correctly
nautical) the warning fire blazed by night, or the warning plume of
smoke went up by day, to summon Spain's chivalry to the rescue, she was
enchanted, and recited a passage from Macaulay's "Armada."

We made the transit in a little over three hours, and, rounding the
Punta de Malabata, cut into the Bay of Tangier, and eased off steam at
some distance from the Atlantic-washed shore. There is no pier, but a
swell and discoloration, projecting in straight line seawards, marks
where a mole had once stood. That was a piece of British handiwork; but
the Moor, who is no more tormented by the demon of progress than the
Turk, had literally let it slide, until it sank under the waters.

The Sultana of Moorish cities Tangier is sometimes called, and truly she
does wear a regal, sultana-like air as seen from afar, cushioned in
state on the hillside, her white flat roofs rising one above another
like the steps of a marble staircase, the tall minarets of the mosques
piercing the air, and the multitudinous many-coloured flags of all
nations fluttering above the various consulates. But in this, as in so
many other instances, it is distance which lends enchantment to the
view.

We went as near to the shore as we could in small boats, and when we
grounded, a fellowship of clamouring, unkempt, half-naked Barbary Jews,
skull-capped, with their shirts tied at their waists and short cotton
drawers, rushed forward to meet us, and carry us pickaback to dry land.
The ladies were borne in chairs, slung over the shoulders of two of
these amphibious porters, or on an improvised seat made by their linked
hands, but to preserve their equilibrium the dear creatures had to clasp
their arms tightly round the necks of the natives. This would not look
well in a picture, above all if the lady were a professional beauty. But
there was nothing wrong in it, any more than in Amaryllis clinging to
the embrace of Strephon in the whirling of a waltz. Custom reconciles to
everything. On stepping into the small boat I had my first difficulty
with Albert. I trod on his tail. The dog looked reproachfully, but did
no