then he lifted his face and pronounced sentence. Without more ado, one of the men -the plaintiff, likely enough-was hauled into the court-yard, just outside, and preparations were making to give him a dozen lashes with a cat-o'-nine-tails, when we hastened our departure. I expected nothing but to see his head snipped off before we could get out of the place. A vision of that splash of blood on the white | back to Gibraltar, immediately after an marble stairs in Regnault's picture danced in front of my eyes. The Hadji laughingly remarked that the fellow had met with no more than his deserts. The laws of Morocco are extremely severe; it is seldom that either the guilty or the innocent escape. The penalty for petty larceny is so rigorous that the offense is comparatively unknown, except in the interior, where robbery and murder are recognized professions. The nomads and the people of the duars live by plundering caravans and straggling travellers. But at Tangier, under the flags of the legations, a stranger's life and property are more secure than in one of our American cities. In a community where a man loses his right hand if he helps himself to somebody else's hen, the love of poultry, for example, becomes discreet and chastened. The door of my bedroom at the hotel had no fastening on it, and needed none. It was now three o'clock, and time for me to return to the inn. My twenty-four hours of Africa were drawing to a close. The little steamer that was to take me FOUNTAIN AND MONEY-CHANGERS. early dinner, was already spreading some coquettish sooty curls over her smokestack. Before descending to level ground, and plunging once more into the intricacies of the lower town, I lingered a few minutes on the heights of the Kasba to take a farewell look. It is a very ancient city, the oldest city but one in the world. The Moors of Spain in the time of Aboo-Abdallah made pilgrimages to it on account of its antiquity. The cloth merchants, and the swarthy money-changers, and the shrill water-carriers were plying their trade, and all the indolent, feverish life we witness to-day was seething, in these narrow streets when Christ was a little child in Nazareth. Founded in some unknown period, by the Carthaginians it is supposed, Tangier the Tingis of the Romans-has always been a bone of bloody contention among the nations. In the reign of Claudius it became the capital of the province Mauritania Tingitana, and was an important city. Wrested from the Romans, it pass ed successively under the rule of the Vandals, Greeks, Saracens, and Arabs. In 1471, Tangier fell into the possession of the Portuguese, who, in 1662, ceded it to England as a portion of the dower of the Infanta Catherine of Braganza, queen of Charles II. The English, finding that the occupation was not worth the cost, abandoned the place in 1684, after demolishing the mole. Here a quaint and incongruous figure appears for an instant on the scene-the figure of Mr. Samuel Pepys. I think it was a conception of high humor on the part of Charles II. to send Mr. Pepys among the Moors, for it was by the king's order that he accompanied Lord Dartmouth with the fleet dispatched to destroy the sea-wall. This precautionary piece of engineering left the bay of Tangier in such plight as to render the town impossible of approach by large vessels, except in the rarest weather. The ruins of the old mole are still visible at low tide, ragged, honeycombed blocks of masonry, looking, when seen through the transparent emerald of the Mediterranean, like ledges of silver. The water in the harbor is so shallow that until the present emperor projected a landing for small boats, the visitor arriving there by sea was forced to go ashore on the back of a native. This has been the emperor's sole concession to the spirit of modern progress. During the last hundred years But my strong interest in the historic part of Tangier ends with Mr. Pepys. From any point of view the hoary little town is vastly interesting: the remoteness and obscurity of its origin, the sieges, pestilences, and massacres it has undergone, and the tenacity with which it clings to primitive customs and beliefs, are so many charms. To walk its streets is to breathe the air of Scriptural times. There, to-day, fishermen costumed like Peter are dragging their nets on the sandy shingle outside the gates; at the fountain stands Rebekah with her water-jar poised on her head, and a hand's-breadth of brown bosom lying bare between the green and yellow folds of her robe. To-day, as eighteen hundred years ago, a pallid, hooknosed man shuffles by counting some coins in his palm-the veritable thirty pieces of silver, perhaps. If it be not Judas Iscariot himself, then it is a descendant, and a striking family likeness. In brief, Tangier is a colossal piece of bric-àbrac which one would like to own. A countryman of ours, a New-Yorker if I remember, once proposed to purchase Shakspeare's house at Stratford, and transport it bodily to Central Park. I had a like impulse touching Tangier. Perhaps I may be permitted to say that in a certain sense I have brought it home with me, and set it up in Franklin Square. THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. PART III. ASON of Erin is said to have exclaimed, on seeing the White Mountains for the first time, "Bedad, there is, then, so much waste land in America that they have to stack it!" Could these mountains be levelled, and the materials they contain be spread out, a vast area would be gained, at the price of reducing New England to a desert. We are therefore content that there is not enough faith in the world, at least since the day of the apostles, to say unto these mountains, "Remove!" In the language of the great French poet, and without more ceremony, once more, "Levons les yeux vers les saintes montagnes." Plymouth, in New Hampshire, lies at the entrance to the Pemigewasset Valley like an encampment pitched to dispute its passage. At present its design is to facilitate the ingress of tourists. A single glance at the map will suffice to show its strategic importance. Perhaps it is scarcely remembered that Nathaniel Hawthorne breathed his last in this village on the night of May 18, 1864. He who was born in sight of these mountains had come among them to die. At three in the afternoon I set out for Campton, seven miles up the valley, which the carriage road soon enters upon, and which, by a few unregarded turnings, is presently as fast shut up as if its mountain gates had in reality swung noiselessly together behind you. Hardly had I recovered from the effect of the deception produced by seeing the same mountain first upon one side, then upon the other, when I saw, spanned by a high bridge, the river in violent commotion below me. The Pemigewasset, confined here between narrow banks, has cut for itself two deep channels through its craggy and cavernous bed; but one of these being dammed for the purpose of deepening the other, the general picturesqueness of the fall is greatly diminished. Still, it is a pretty and engaging sight, this cataract, especially if the river be full, although you think of a mettled Arabian harnessed in a tread-mill when you look at it. Livermore Fall, as it is called, is but two miles from Plymouth, the white houses of which look hot in the same brilliant sunlight that falls so gently upon the luxuriant green of the valley. Half a mile below the little village of West Campton, the road crossed the point of a spur thrust well out into the valley from the mountain. It is here that the circlet of mountains inclosing it on all sides like a gigantic palisade is first seen. Dimmed by distance, surrounded by an atmosphere deliciously tender, clothed with poetic feeling, we now see the great clump of granite spires, the family of grand peaks, dividing with Mount Washington and his distinguished compeers the honor of keeping watch and ward over New England. We salute these venerable towers from afar, before beginning a last pilgrimage |