While running her own ranch, Noelle Barnes had encountered all sorts of surprises. But an unconscious cowboy? That was a first! Yet Evan Calhoun was no ordinary rancher. He was a lawman on the hunt for som If it weren't for the ring… …rancher Clancy Calhoun and Olivia Parsons might be able to pull off their cool acquaintances routine. They might be able to convince the world that they just knew each other in passing, enough to say hello and be She couldn't be pregnant Except apparently she was Still, Sassy Matthews was a woman on a mission.
She'd come to Carson City to find her biological parents--not to faint in the arms of the lawyer who'd met her plane Of course, finding out she Everyone knew that Tyler Pickens was the grumpiest, most reclusive rancher in town. But Deputy Sheriff Rosalinda Lightfoot hadn't realized he was also the sexiest When her arson investigation brought her face-to-face w Having struggled for years, Leyla Chee wasn't about to mess up her temporary job as cook on the Chaparral Ranch.
That meant focusing on her work, her young son and her dreams of going back to school. And certai She'd never thought she had a crush on her grumpy boss -- but when Russ Hollister announced he was leaving his vet practice, the thought of not seeing him every day struck Laurel Stanton hard. Then his next proposal -- that she move with him to a ran She didn't expect a propo She'd come for the mustangs, Dallas Donovan told herself. Just a quick visit to Boone Barnett's Nevada ranch. Then her truck's engine seized and she stayed the night in the rugged, off-the-charts sexy Boone's home.
Had pizza with his daughter, waited But when the proud Apache asked for help, Bridget's job as a doctor wouldn't let her say no. Being so close to the man who'd brok While caring for the twins she'd inherited, Vanessa Valdez saw rancher Conall Donovan in a new light. Once a coldhearted businessman, he'd dropped everything to help h Proper, polished Rebecca Hardaway came to New Mexico to pay her respects to the aunt she never knew -- and discover the truth about her new inheritance.
But keeping a broken-down farm wasn't exactly in the big-city girl' Something about her vulnerability, her wistfulness drew Brady Donovan as no one else ever had. In fact, when she lef After her recent heartbreak, all Maura Donovan wanted was to pick up the pieces of her life. Taking a position as nurse to an elderly rancher seemed a perfect temporary tonic. Then she met his grandson His rugged masculini The undercover ranger had come to Chaparral Ranch on a perilous mission; he couldn't afford any distractions. And sweet, all As deputy sheriff, Mac MacCleod gave difficult news--but now he's about to get it.
He's planning to confront his long-lost mother-- until he's blocked by her formidable doctor. So why Single mom Angie Malone left Christmas wishes to her daughter. After all, Santa couldn't fix the broken heart Angie'd had since Jubal Jamison married another woman. She had never seen Jubal again Gabe Trevino came to the family-owned Sandbur Ranch to train horses, not fall for the boss's daughter. The sultry ranching heiress could ride and rope as well as any man. She was also hiding something, tempting Gabe to solve the enigma that was beaut Here was a man that a woman could count on.
One who wouldn't betray his wife and leave her with a son to raise alone. Handsome and successful, Marshall is one of Thunder Canyon's most notorious ladies' men. But when he sees Mia, he has a new m But something about the handsome Texas horseman tempted her to take a crazy ris They said he had striking looks--and Nicolette Saddler certainly felt that something had struck her straight in the heart when she first locked eyes with Dr.
Ridge Garroway. But Nicolette had had her fill of good-looking, sweet-talking men and sh Journalist Juliet Madsen had been burned by men before, but she certainly hadn't left Dallas for small-town Texas looking for love--or a family. Until she met single father and wealthy rancher Matt Sanchez, and the two began a steamy affair. I'll be your new boyfriend. Anything wrong with that? Just about everything was wrong with Neil Rankin coming down to the Sandbur ranch and posing as her fiance, not the le Linc Ketchum hadn't been a pussycat before the fire at the T Bar K burned his hands, but now he was next to impossible.
And he knew no woman would put up with him, especially not Nevada Ortiz, the so-called nurse that Linc's cousin had sent to take c Quito Perez did not know what to make of it. There he was, minding his own business when who should stroll in but Clementine Jones. She looked as stunning as ever -- blue eyes, long blond hair, expensive jewelry -- and as out of place as a kitten in The handsome, chiseled features of the Ute Indian gave no hint of emotion, but under his professional demeanor Deputy Daniel Redwing was riled.
Wealthy widow Maggie Ketchum was out of his league, but the flaming redhea Sierra Mendoza was nursing yet another broken heart when an unexpected distraction appeared at her door -- an abandoned baby who was truly the man of her dreams. But Child Services wouldn't consider the unmarried Sierra as a possi A trio of brand-new stories about three women who meet -- and become friends -- while stranded at the airport, en route to a holiday getaway where love is in store! Annette Broadrick introduces Kayla Parker, who can hardly believe that her best fr But when a very pretty, very pregnant female answered the door, the Texas sheriff feared that telling her about the family she'd never known would send her in When he returned to his family ranch to investigate a murder, he was all business -- until he encountered Corinna Dawson, t Isabella Corrales refused to fall for her newest client, Ross Ketchum.
He was cocky and arrogant, with a devil-may-care attitude and dimples deeper than the Grand Canyon. Nope, she wasn't going to fall for him. Not even when she had to move into his She should have been mine, Victoria Ketchum thought as she cradled Jess Hasting's daughter. Instead, Victoria had turned from Jess, and he'd married another.
Now a widowed single father, the lean, rugged deputy sheriff coul The bride's big adventure was escaping her handpicked fiance in the arms of a hot-blooded cowboy! And from the moment Gloria Rhodes said "I do" to rugged Spencer Tate, she dreamed their wedded bliss would never end! The tot's mom was none other than Comanche beauty Kerry WindWalker, the only woman in the state of Oklahoma who was immun She prided herself on her logic and quick wits -- so why, when wearing her grandmother's ring, did Claudia Westfield have visions of an incredibly sexy, utterly captivating man?
Determined to solve the problem, Claudia tracked down Hayden Bedford Pregnant with twins, a young woman sets out to find the family she never knew -- and discovers the perfect father when she falls for a sexy cowboy He'd been in dangerous situations before But Luke Maitland had never put another person at risk -- until Blossom Woodward, the controversial TV reporter, happened into the line of fire meant for him. He had saved her life; then he'd had to take h Princess Dominique Stanbury's father was missing, presumed dead, and she had to be strong for the sake of her family.
The only one she could turn to was Marcus Kent, her father's devastatingly handsome High Counsel -- and the older man who could stil They needed a miracle Hope Logan wanted only two things for Christmas -- her husband, Drake, and the child he refused to give her. Drake had made it plain he had no desire to be a father The moment he saw his new neighbor, Jack Barrett was intrigued. Grace Holliday had a sweetness the cynical lawyer hadn't encountered in a long time.
Yet he realized she was much too young for him. And very obviously pregnant Though the baby had been left on Caroline Pardee's doorstep by mistake, sweet Caroline knows she and surprised new dad Joseph Garcia were meant to be a family. The Fortunes of Texas: Membership in this family has its privileges But what a fortune can't buy, a true-bred Texas love is sure to bring! An ice-cold marriage of convenience was the only way for Logan McNally to keep his family's home. Even worse, the bride-to-be was Nicole Carrington, the daughter of the woman who'd stolen Logan's father from his family.
The tempting young girl had be Hardly a soul in Lincoln County believed any man could get near enough to kiss Judge Penelope Parker -- let alone get intimate! But someone had gotten a heck of a lot closer -- because Penny Parker was pregnant! Yep, Penny Wealthy, handsome, successful oilman, dynamic rancher Adam Murdock Sanders was simply too good to be true. Then she moved to a nearby ranc So she returned to the Bar M, swearing off men forever!
But then she met Miguel Chavez But she needed a ride--and a job--so when Charlie offered her both, she w The very sight of Cooper Dunn still made Emily's pulse race, but the last thing she wanted was to let him back into her life What Emily needed was a man who would stay, a man who would love her more than th When Houston oil tycoon Wyatt Sanders got the belated letter from his sister Belinda, telling him that she'd had twins that she couldn't raise because she was in prison, he was devastated.
He further learned that she'd married a man old enough to be They'd struck a dry-eyed deal to live together in holy matrimony, and Rose knew the tall, dark and irresistible When single mother Justine Murdock found baby twins abandoned on her doorstep, she saw the Murdock chin and big green eyes in those sweet little faces. Oh, maybe she was just imagining the family resemblance. Or maybe she w Farmer Cord Rawlins was used to finding strange things in his fields, but a woman in a wedding dress-with amnesia, no less? Now, that didn't happen every day! But soon the sexy woman-who thought her name Tall, dark, rich and powerful, Lucas Lowrimore was one of the most eligible bachelors in town.
Usually, women just fell at his feet! So when he couldn't even sweet-talk his way out of a speeding ticket Savannah Starr's new boss, Joe McCann, was a rugged, blue-eyed hunk. But the man didn't know a thing about raising a child But the haven she found in his arms was a joy she knew couldn't last. Leaving was the only way to keep Chance and his family out of da Anything for love Jess Malone didn't want to raise his son Daniel alone, but he didn't want to get married, either. He'd already learned that loving a woman didn't guarantee she'd stay.
But Jess couldn't deny his son a mother. And Daniel had his h Denim and diamonds Sophisticated Margo Kelsey hadn't known what to expect at the Silver Spur ranch--certainly not a Ion g, lean, laconic cowboy named D. Barlow who told her to go away! Undaunted by primitive conditions, hostile horses and rude Partners in crime Tragedy had forced Victor Damien to leave crime reporting for the safer--and saner--world of business news.
Now he was known as the Ice Man and nothing blew his cool-until his boss gave him the bad news. Not only was he being tra In from the cold Lovely widow Kathleen Gallagher Hayes was devastated when a blizzard left her unable to get to her parents' farm for New Year's Eve. She'd resigned herself to spending the holiday alone when she heard a knock on the door.
Christmas bells, wedding bells Sergeant Nick Gallagher had come home to the Gallagher farm to be in a Christmas wedding. But the carefree bachelor had only planned to be his brother's best man, not a groom! Nick had never thought about settling do After all these years Olivia Westcott was home. Or at least that's how she felt when she arrived at the Gallaghers' farm for Thanksgiving. Olivia had left to pursue a career halfway around the world, yet she'd never forgotten the generosity of Three years ago his wife had thrown him out.
Rozlyn hadn't understood that the rodeo flowed in his veins. She'd made him choose--her or the circuit--and f But now Chris was old enough to want a daddy, and to Julia's dismay, he had set his heart on Harris Hargrove. Harris was everything Julia had ever dreamed of--hands Priscilla Parker's mother had it all wrong! Priscilla wasn't engaged. She didn't even have a promising prospect. But Prriscilla couldn't bear to disappoint her mother, so she asked her best friend, handsome, fun-loving Rick L Running a boardinghouse had never been a problem for Claire Deupree--until she rented a room to Madison McCrea.
With his come-hither eyes and sexy drawl, this construction engineer made her feel more like a desirable woman tha She'd seen enough of the world to know she desired no part of it. Helen R. Lynda Sandoval.
The Rancher's Surprise Marriage
Delaney's Shadow. Ingrid Weaver. Jacquelin Thomas. The Maverick's Reward. Roxann Delaney. Until Morning Comes. Peggy Webb. It was not a trot, a gallop, or a canter, but a stampede, and made up of all possible or conceivable gaits. No spurs were necessary. These rascals were all on foot, but no matter, they were always up to time—they can outrun and outlast a donkey. Altogether, ours was a lively and a picturesque procession, and drew crowded audiences to the balconies wherever we went. Blucher could do nothing at all with his donkey.
The beast scampered zigzag across the road and the others ran into him; he scraped Blucher against carts and the corners of houses; the road was fenced in with high stone walls, and the donkey gave him a polishing first on one side and then on the other, but never once took the middle; he finally came to the house he was born in and darted into the parlor, scraping Blucher off at the doorway.
He turned a corner suddenly, and Blucher went over his head. And, to speak truly, every mule stumbled over the two, and the whole cavalcade was piled up in a heap. No harm done. A fall from one of those donkeys is of little more consequence than rolling off a sofa. The donkeys all stood still after the catastrophe and waited for their dismembered saddles to be patched up and put on by the noisy muleteers. Blucher was pretty angry and wanted to swear, but every time he opened his mouth his animal did so also and let off a series of brays that drowned all other sounds.
It was fun, scurrying around the breezy hills and through the beautiful canyons. There was that rare thing, novelty, about it; it was a fresh, new, exhilarating sensation, this donkey riding, and worth a hundred worn and threadbare home pleasures. The roads were a wonder, and well they might be. Here was an island with only a handful of people in it—25,—and yet such fine roads do not exist in the United States outside of Central Park.
Everywhere you go, in any direction, you find either a hard, smooth, level thoroughfare, just sprinkled with black lava sand, and bordered with little gutters neatly paved with small smooth pebbles, or compactly paved ones like Broadway. They talk much of the Russ pavement in New York, and call it a new invention—yet here they have been using it in this remote little isle of the sea for two hundred years!
Every street in Horta is handsomely paved with the heavy Russ blocks, and the surface is neat and true as a floor—not marred by holes like Broadway. And every road is fenced in by tall, solid lava walls, which will last a thousand years in this land where frost is unknown. They are very thick, and are often plastered and whitewashed and capped with projecting slabs of cut stone.
Trees from gardens above hang their swaying tendrils down, and contrast their bright green with the whitewash or the black lava of the walls and make them beautiful. The trees and vines stretch across these narrow roadways sometimes and so shut out the sun that you seem to be riding through a tunnel. The pavements, the roads, and the bridges are all government work. The bridges are of a single span—a single arch—of cut stone, without a support, and paved on top with flags of lava and ornamental pebblework.
Everywhere are walls, walls, walls, and all of them tasteful and handsome—and eternally substantial; and everywhere are those marvelous pavements, so neat, so smooth, and so indestructible. And if ever roads and streets and the outsides of houses were perfectly free from any sign or semblance of dirt, or dust, or mud, or uncleanliness of any kind, it is Horta, it is Fayal.
The lower classes of the people, in their persons and their domiciles, are not clean—but there it stops—the town and the island are miracles of cleanliness. When we were dismounted and it came to settling, the shouting and jawing and swearing and quarreling among the muleteers and with us was nearly deafening. One fellow would demand a dollar an hour for the use of his donkey; another claimed half a dollar for pricking him up, another a quarter for helping in that service, and about fourteen guides presented bills for showing us the way through the town and its environs; and every vagrant of them was more vociferous, and more vehement and more frantic in gesture than his neighbor.
We paid one guide and paid for one muleteer to each donkey. The mountains on some of the islands are very high. We sailed along the shore of the island of Pico, under a stately green pyramid that rose up with one unbroken sweep from our very feet to an altitude of 7, feet, and thrust its summit above the white clouds like an island adrift in a fog!
We got plenty of fresh oranges, lemons, figs, apricots, etc. But I will desist. I am not here to write Patent Office reports. We are on our way to Gibraltar, and shall reach there five or six days out from the Azores. And the last night of the seven was the stormiest of all. There was no thunder, no noise but the pounding bows of the ship, the keen whistling of the gale through the cordage, and the rush of the seething waters. But the vessel climbed aloft as if she would climb to heaven—then paused an instant that seemed a century and plunged headlong down again, as from a precipice.
The sheeted sprays drenched the decks like rain. The blackness of darkness was everywhere. At long intervals a flash of lightning clove it with a quivering line of fire that revealed a heaving world of water where was nothing before, kindled the dusky cordage to glittering silver, and lit up the faces of the men with a ghastly luster!
The Rancher's Surprise Marriage (Back in Business, book 3) by Susan Crosby
Fear drove many on deck that were used to avoiding the night winds and the spray. Some thought the vessel could not live through the night, and it seemed less dreadful to stand out in the midst of the wild tempest and see the peril that threatened than to be shut up in the sepulchral cabins, under the dim lamps, and imagine the horrors that were abroad on the ocean.
And once out—once where they could see the ship struggling in the strong grasp of the storm—once where they could hear the shriek of the winds and face the driving spray and look out upon the majestic picture the lightnings disclosed, they were prisoners to a fierce fascination they could not resist, and so remained. It was a wild night—and a very, very long one. But dull eyes soon sparkled with pleasure, pallid cheeks flushed again, and frames weakened by sickness gathered new life from the quickening influences of the bright, fresh morning.
Yea, and from a still more potent influence: the worn castaways were to see the blessed land again! On our left were the granite-ribbed domes of old Spain. The strait is only thirteen miles wide in its narrowest part. At short intervals along the Spanish shore were quaint-looking old stone towers—Moorish, we thought—but learned better afterwards. In former times the Morocco rascals used to coast along the Spanish Main in their boats till a safe opportunity seemed to present itself, and then dart in and capture a Spanish village and carry off all the pretty women they could find.
It was a pleasant business, and was very popular. The Spaniards built these watchtowers on the hills to enable them to keep a sharper lookout on the Moroccan speculators. 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 were forgotten. All homage was for the beautiful stranger. While everybody gazed she swept superbly by and flung the Stars and Stripes to the breeze!
Quicker than thought, hats and handkerchiefs flashed in the air, and a cheer went up! 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! The other, the great Rock of Gibraltar, was yet to come. The ancients considered the Pillars of Hercules the head of navigation and the end of the world. 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 center of the wide strait and apparently washed on all sides by the sea, swung magnificently into view, and we needed no tedious traveled parrot to tell us it was Gibraltar. There could not be two rocks like that in one kingdom. The Rock of Gibraltar is about a mile and a half long, I should say, by 1, to 1, feet high, and a quarter of a mile wide at its base. One side and one end of it come about as straight up out of the sea as the side of a house, the other end is irregular and the other side is a steep slant which an army would find very difficult to climb.
At the foot of this slant is the walled town of Gibraltar—or rather the town occupies part of the 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. I must have a prodigious quantity of mind; it takes me as much as a week sometimes to make it up.
But behold how annoyances repeat themselves. 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 galleries are like spacious railway tunnels, and at short intervals in them great guns frown out upon sea and town through portholes 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 labor.
The gallery guns command the peninsula and the harbors of both oceans, but they might as well not be there, I should think, for an army could hardly climb the perpendicular wall of the rock anyhow. Those lofty portholes afford superb views of the sea, though. At one place, where a jutting crag was hollowed out into a great chamber whose furniture was huge cannon and whose windows were portholes, a glimpse was caught of a hill not far away, and a soldier said:. 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 turned 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 I 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. There—I had used strong language after promising I would never do so again; but the provocation was more than human nature could bear. 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 in its beauty in silence, you might have even burst into stronger language than I did.
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 armor of a fashion that antiquaries are not acquainted with, though it is supposed to be Roman.
Roman armor and Roman relics 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 thick, 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. 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 Gibraltar and the Spanish hills behind it was once ocean, and of course that these African animals, being over at Gibraltar after rock, perhaps—there is plenty there , got closed out when the great change occurred. The hills in Africa, across the channel, are full of apes, and there are now and always have been apes on the rock of Gibraltar—but not elsewhere in Spain! The subject is an interesting one. 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 bare-kneed 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 trousered Moorish merchants from Fez, and long-robed, bare-legged, ragged Muhammadan vagabonds from Tetuan and Tangier, some brown, some yellow and some as black as virgin ink—and Jews from all around, in gabardine, skullcap, and slippers, just as they are in pictures and theaters, and just as they were three thousand years ago, no doubt.
You can easily understand that a tribe 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 independence about them like ours, made up from fifteen or sixteen states of the Union, found enough to stare at in this shifting panorama of fashion today. Speaking of our pilgrims reminds me that we have one or two people among us who are sometimes an annoyance.
However, I 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 cornered 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 guidebooks, 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 morning at breakfast he pointed out of the window and said:. Some authors states it that way, and some states it different.
If you have got your hand in for inventing authors and testimony, I have nothing more to say—let them be on the same side. We rather like him. We can tolerate the Oracle very easily, but we have a poet and a good-natured enterprising idiot on board, and they do distress the company. The one gives copies of his verses to consuls, commanders, hotel keepers, Arabs, Dutch—to anybody, in fact, who will submit to a grievous infliction most kindly meant. The other personage I have mentioned is young and green, and not bright, not learned, and not wise.
He will be, though, someday if he recollects the answers to all his questions. In Fayal they pointed out a hill and told him it was feet high and 1, feet long. And they told him there was a tunnel 2, feet long and 1, feet high running through the hill, from end to end. He believed it. 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 half 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 can not do otherwise who speeds over these sparkling waters and breathes the soft 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. The entire garrison marched and counter-marched within the rampart, in full view—yet notwithstanding even this, we never flinched.
I suppose we really do not know what fear is. I inquired the name of the garrison of the fortress of Malabat, and they said it was Mehemet Ali Ben Sancom. I said it would be a good idea to get some more garrisons to help him; but they said no, he had nothing to do but hold the place, and he was competent to do that, had done it two years already. 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.
They said they were elegant and very moderate in price. It seemed a stylish thing to go to the theater in kid gloves, and we acted upon the hint. A very handsome young lady in the store offered me a pair of blue gloves. I did not want blue, but she said they would look very pretty on a hand like mine. The remark touched me tenderly. I glanced furtively at my hand, and somehow it did seem rather a comely member. I tried a glove on my left and blushed a little. Manifestly the size was too small for me.
But I felt gratified when she said:. I see you are accustomed to wearing kid gloves—but some gentlemen are so awkward about putting them on. It was the last compliment I had expected. I only understand putting on the buckskin article perfectly. I made another effort and tore the glove from the base of the thumb into the palm of the hand—and tried to hide the rent.
She kept up her compliments, and I 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 I hated the other boys for taking such an absorbing interest in the proceedings. I wished they were in Jericho. I felt exquisitely mean when I said cheerfully:.
I like a glove that fits. It is warm here. It was warm. It was the warmest place I ever was in. A self-complacent ass, ready to be flattered out of your senses by every petticoat that chooses to take the trouble to do it! They let me alone then for the time being. We always let each other alone in time to prevent ill feeling from spoiling a joke. But they had bought gloves, too, as I did. We threw all the purchases away together this morning.
They were coarse, unsubstantial, freckled all 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. This is royal! Let those who went up through Spain make the best of it—these dominions of the Emperor of Morocco suit our little party well enough. We have had enough of Spain at Gibraltar for the present. Tangier is the spot we have been longing for all 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 center to circumference—foreign inside and outside and all around—nothing anywhere about it to dilute its foreignness—nothing to remind us of any other people or any other land under the sun.
And lo! In Tangier we have found it. Here is not the slightest thing that ever we have seen save in pictures—and we always mistrusted the pictures before.
We cannot anymore. 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. Tangier is a foreign land if ever there was one, and the true spirit of it can never be found in any book save The Arabian Nights.
Here are no white men visible, yet swarms of humanity are all about us. Here is a packed and jammed city enclosed 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 doors are arched with the peculiar arch we see in Moorish pictures; the floors are laid in varicolored diamond flags; in tesselated, many-colored porcelain squares wrought in the furnaces of Fez; in red tiles and broad bricks that time cannot wear; there is no furniture in the rooms of Jewish dwellings save divans—what there is in Moorish ones no man may know; within their sacred walls no Christian dog can enter.
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. There are stalwart Bedouins of the desert here, and stately Moors proud of a history that goes back to the night of time; and Jews whose fathers fled hither centuries upon centuries ago; and swarthy Riffians from the mountains—born cut-throats—and original, genuine Negroes as black as Moses; and howling dervishes and a hundred breeds of Arabs—all sorts and descriptions of people that are foreign and curious to look upon.
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, trousers that only come 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, upon 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 only be determined by the fact that they only leave one eye visible and never look at men of their own race, or are looked at by them in public. 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.
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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 fabled days of the olden time; was old when Christ and his disciples walked the earth; stood where it stands today when the lips of Memnon were vocal and men bought and sold in the streets of ancient Thebes!
The Phoenicians, the Carthagenians, the English, Moors, Romans, all 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 goatskin 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 Caesar nineteen hundred years ago.
Near it are the ruins of a dockyard where Caesar repaired his ships and loaded them with grain when he invaded Britain, fifty years before the Christian era. Here, under the quiet stars, these old streets seem thronged with the phantoms of forgotten ages. 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 revolt 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. The garden, with its golden apples oranges , is gone now—no vestige of it remains. Antiquarians concede that such a personage as Hercules did exist in ancient times and agree that he was an enterprising and energetic man, but decline to believe him a good, bona-fide god, because that would be unconstitutional. 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 traveled much, else he would not have kept a journal.
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 Muhammadan 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 pigeonholes 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 all day long are counting bronze coins and transferring them from one bushel basket to another. I saw none but what was dated four or five hundred years back, and was badly worn and battered. These coins are not very valuable. I am not proud on account of having so much money, though. 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. 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 furnish 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 later the Emperor trumps up a charge against him—any sort of one will do—and confiscates his property.
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. About the first adventure we had yesterday afternoon, after landing here, came near finishing that heedless Blucher.
We had just mounted some mules and asses and started out under the guardianship of the stately, the princely, the magnificent Hadji Muhammad Lamarty may his tribe increase! Had Blucher succeeded in entering the place, he would no doubt have been chased through the town and stoned; and the time has been, and not many years ago, either, when a Christian would have been most ruthlessly slaughtered if captured in a mosque.
We caught a glimpse of the handsome tessellated 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 clock in the tower of the mosque got out of order. The Moors of Tangier have so degenerated that it has been long since there was an artificer among them capable of curing so delicate a patient as a debilitated clock.
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 clock, 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 savors of civilization.
Murder is punished with death. 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 criminals at long range, like so many targets, and practiced on them—kept them hopping about and dodging bullets for half an hour before they managed to drive the center.
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. However, the Moorish heart is stout. The Moors were always brave. These criminals undergo the fearful operation without a wince, without 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. The young man takes the girl his father selects for him, marries her, and after that she is unveiled, and he sees her for the first time.
If after due acquaintance she suits him, he retains her; but if he suspects her purity, he bundles her back to her father; if he finds her diseased, the same; or if, after just and reasonable time is allowed her, she neglects to bear children, back she goes to the home of her childhood. Muhammadans here who can afford it keep a good many wives on hand. They are called wives, though I believe the Koran only allows four genuine wives—the rest are concubines.
I have caught a glimpse of the faces of several Moorish women for they are only human, and will expose their faces for the admiration of a Christian dog when no male Moor is by , and I am full of veneration for the wisdom that leads them to cover up such atrocious ugliness. They carry their children at their backs, in a sack, like other savages the world over. Many of the Negroes are held in slavery by the Moors. 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 to the pavement time and again, says his prayers, and goes back to his work.
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; will not cook or have anything to do with fire; and religiously refrains from embarking in 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 all the trip costs. From the time they leave till they get home again, they never wash, either on land or sea. 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 time to gather together the ten dollars their steamer passage costs, and when one of them gets back he is a bankrupt forever after.
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 can circumvent the law!
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 harbor! 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 Muslims, while America and other nations send only a little contemptible tub of a gunboat occasionally. The Moors, like other savages, learn by what they see, not what they hear or read.
We have great fleets in the Mediterranean, but they seldom touch at African ports. 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 favor. 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.
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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 toward them in the breasts of the Moors, to which even the driving them out of Spain was tame and passionless. Moors and Spaniards are foes forever 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 parlor carpet out of their hides. He made his carpet in circles—first a circle of old gray tomcats, with their tails all pointing toward the center; then a circle of yellow cats; next a circle of black cats and a circle of white ones; then a circle of all sorts of cats; and, finally, a centerpiece of assorted kittens.
It was very beautiful, but the Moors curse his memory to this day. When we went to call on our American Consul General today I noticed that all possible games for parlor amusement seemed to be represented on his center tables. I thought that hinted at lonesomeness. 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 indulged in.
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Tangier is clear out of the world, and what is the use of visiting when people have nothing on earth to talk about? There is none. 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 things that even decades of centuries have scarcely changed, and say never a single word!
They have literally nothing whatever to talk about. The arrival of an American man-of-war is a godsend to them. I would seriously recommend to the government of the United States that when a man commits a crime so heinous that the law provides no adequate punishment for it, they make him Consul General to Tangier. I am glad to have seen Tangier—the second-oldest town in the world.
But I am ready to bid it good-bye, I believe. We shall go hence to Gibraltar this evening or in the morning, and doubtless the Quaker City will sail from that port within the next forty-eight hours. We passed the Fourth of July on board the Quaker City, in mid-ocean. 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.
They even have fine sunsets on the Mediterranean—a thing that is certainly rare in most quarters of the globe. The evening we sailed away from Gibraltar, that hard-featured rock was swimming in a creamy mist so rich, so soft, so enchantingly vague and dreamy, that even the Oracle, that serene, that inspired, that overpowering humbug, scorned the dinner gong and tarried to worship! What should you think? And he knows it, too. What should you say, Jack? Then you let me alone.
I never see one of them poets yet that knowed anything. I always enjoy your conversation, notwithstanding the luxuriance of your syllables, when the philosophy you offer rests on your own responsibility; but when you begin to soar—when you begin to support it with the evidence of authorities who are the creations of your own fancy—I lose confidence. That was the way to flatter the doctor. He considered it a sort of acknowledgment on my part 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 comers, and so tranquilly, blissfully happy!
But I digress. The thunder of our two 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 flags 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. Nobody mourned. A minister pronounced the benediction, and the patriotic little gathering disbanded.
The Fourth of July was safe, as far as the Mediterranean was concerned. The speeches were bad—execrable almost without exception. In fact, without any exception but one. Captain Duncan made a good speech; he made the only good speech of the evening. He said:. 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 all together, it was a bright, cheerful, pleasant Fourth. Toward nightfall the next evening, we steamed into the great artificial harbor 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 stern was at our companion ladder and its bow touched the pier. We got in and the fellow backed out into the harbor. 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. I repeated. Still he could not understand. He appeared to be very ignorant of French. The doctor tried him, but he could not understand the doctor. 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 I 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:. Means he is going to the hotel. This was a crusher, as Jack would say. 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 douain was the customhouse and not the hotel. We did not mention it, however. With winning French politeness the officers merely opened and closed our satchels, declined to examine our passports, and sent us on our way.
We stopped at the first cafe we came to and entered. An old woman seated us at a table and waited for orders. The dame looked perplexed. The doctor said again, with elaborate distinctness of articulation:. Let me try her. Madame, avez-vous du vin? 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. Here we were in beautiful France—in a vast stone house of quaint architecture—surrounded by all manner of curiously worded French signs—stared at by strangely habited, bearded French people—everything gradually and surely forcing upon us the coveted consciousness that at last, and beyond all question, we were in beautiful France and absorbing its nature to the forgetfulness of everything else, and coming to feel the happy romance of the thing in all its enchanting delightfulness—and to think of this skinny veteran intruding with her vile English, at such a moment, to blow the fair vision to the winds!
It was exasperating. We set out to find the centre of the city, inquiring the direction every now and then. 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 drugstore 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-colored stone every house and every block precisely like all the other houses and all the other blocks for a mile, and all brilliantly lighted—brought us at last to the principal thoroughfare.
On every hand were bright colors, flashing constellations of gas burners, gaily dressed men and women thronging the sidewalks—hurry, life, activity, cheerfulness, conversation, and laughter everywhere! We found the Grand Hotel du Louvre et de la Paix, and wrote down who we were, where we were born, what our occupations were, the place we came from last, whether we were married or single, how we liked it, how old we were, where we were bound for and when we expected to get there, and a great deal of information of similar importance—all for the benefit of the landlord and the secret police.
We hired a guide and began the business of sightseeing immediately. That first night on French soil was a stirring one. I cannot think of half the places we went to or what we particularly saw; we had no disposition to examine carefully into anything at all—we only wanted to glance and go—to move, keep moving! 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.
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It is so easy to be bloated aristocrats where it costs nothing of consequence! There were about five hundred people in that dazzling place, I suppose, though the walls being papered entirely with mirrors, so to speak, one could not really tell but that there were a hundred thousand.
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. There was a stage at the far end and a large orchestra; and every now and then actors and actresses in preposterous comic dresses came out and sang the most extravagantly funny songs, to judge by their absurd actions; but that audience merely suspended its chatter, stared cynically, and never once smiled, never once applauded!
I had always thought that Frenchmen were ready to laugh at any thing. We are getting foreignized rapidly and with facility. 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.
We are getting used to driving right into the central court of the hotel, in the midst of a fragrant circle of vines and flowers, and in the midst also of parties of gentlemen sitting quietly reading the paper and smoking. We are getting used to ice frozen by artificial process in ordinary bottles—the only kind of ice they have here.
We are getting used to all these things, but we are not getting used to carrying our own soap. We are sufficiently civilized to carry our own combs and toothbrushes, 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 bathtub long enough, and then, of course, an annoying delay follows. These Marseillaises make Marseillaise hymns and Marseilles vests and Marseilles soap for all the world, but they never sing their hymns or wear their vests or wash with their soap themselves.
We take soup, then wait a few minutes for the fish; a few minutes more and the plates are changed, and the roast beef comes; another change and we take peas; change again and take lentils; change and take snail patties I prefer grasshoppers ; change and take roast chicken and salad; then strawberry pie and ice cream; then green figs, pears, oranges, green almonds, etc.
Wine with every course, of course, being in France. An embankment fell on some Frenchmen yesterday, and the papers are full of it today—but whether those sufferers were killed, or crippled, or bruised, or only scared is more than I can possibly make out, and yet I would just give anything to know. We were troubled a little at dinner today 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:.