sides of the houses or appearing and disappearing in the black doorways.

A small square, another narrow but short street, and out to the water-front again, to a long, rickety wooden pier and a gray stone wall, from which a broad inclined space, paved with slippery, mud-covered stones, leads down to the water's edge. Numerous boats are moored here, and up from under the stone walls where they have been lying, a score of boatmen rush forth and with much eager gesticulation and noisy acclamation, proffer their services. "Me John Fishboy, officer! Best boat for officer! All American officer know John Fishboy!"

"No, my boat best! John Steeck-amod boat best, captain!" and so on, through a whole category of nicknames, handed down from father to son for generations, ever since English-speaking seamen first landed on Lisbon's shores.

A great, high-bowed craft is quickly boarded, and, amid a chorus of "goodnights! Tek' me nex' time, officer! More come soon!" shoves off and out on the rushing bosom of the broad river. The night is bright with the full light of the moon, the tide is running strong, and the oarsmen sigh and pant, as they pull the heavy boat along. The water is covered with shippinglong, black-hulled steamers, sailing vessels from all parts of the world; huge iron buoys strain and pull at their fastenings, as the tide rushes, gurgling and sparkling in the moonbeams. Every port shining bright and a blaze of light from the cabin windows, a great passenger steamer towers high out of the water; silent and dark and grim, the warships lie at their moorings. Hark! mellowed by the distance, deep-toned bells are chiming. Over from steeple and dome, in moon-lit Lisbon, the solemn yet joyous notes float on the midnight air, proclaiming "On earth, peace, good-will toward men!" Christmas Eve! Ah, dear little ones in far away America! Ah! sweethearts and wives! God bless you, and a Merry Christmas!

ship ahead of us; behind him, crouching among the loose folds of the jib and balancing his spyglass on the rail, his companion is awaiting the answer. The sun has just risen from behind the hazy blue line of the land, trending away before us over yonder, and the sea, a deep, rich purple, dark under the shadow of the coast and sparkling with glints of golden light, where the sharp-prowed cruisers, cleaving the clear waters, send rippling wakes astern, stretches with gently heaving, long, smooth swell, far away to the horizon's edge. The tall masts and great spars of the ships stand out in bold relief against the bright, pale-blue sky, the tall chimneys pour forth dense volumes of black smoke, which drift slowly off to leeward, until mingled with and lost in the air; miles away on our port bow, between the faint line of the headlands on either side, the Straits of Gibraltar open out, as we head for the African coast. We are in sight of the shores of two continents.

The surf, breaking over the black rocks, throwing masses of snow-white spray up against the precipitous sides of the cliff; a tall, white tower, perched on a rugged crag-Judios Point, with its lighthouse, the only one on these barbarous shores. The coast rises, dark, forbidding, and abrupt, straight out of the sea; here and there the white walls of a house gleam out, in striking contrast with the luxuriant masses of dark-green foliage, with which the hillsides are covered, and, as we steam slowly into the bay the flat-roofed houses, the domes and minarets of Tangier rise over the old gray walls, running from the summit of the hills down to the water's edge. One after the other the ships come to anchor and float quietly at rest on the mirror-like surface, their shapely hulls and maze of spar and rigging reflecting straight down into the water. A glorious day! Like a fairy town of silver, Tangier lies basking in the sunlight; with graceful curves, the crescent of the beach borders with an edge of golden sands the azure of the sea, and melts gradually into the rich green of the rolling mounds beyond. Through the glass I can see a long string of camels moving

slowly along, and flying past them, an Arab on horseback, white cloak streaming out behind, gallops toward the town. Yonder comes a heavy fishing boat, nets heaped in a great pile, swarthy, barearmed, bare-legged crew bending to the long oars. It passes close under our stern, and the wild faces of the fishermen look up at me, fierce, stern, imperturbable under the picturesque folds of turban or shadow of hood of brown burnouse. Other boats dot the surface of the bay, a white-winged felucca stands out to sea, her huge lateen sail swelling with the scarcely perceptible, soft, warm breeze from the land. From the shore, near the crumbling crenellated walls of the ancient fort, a barge puts out and goes alongside the flagship, and I conjure up visions of picturesque streets and buildings, moon-eyed and veiled beauties, and proud, gaudily attired Moorish cavaliers, of the caliph of Bagdad, and of Sheherazade and all the tales of the thousand and one nights, of the bazaars and the mosques, the stories and pictures of Oriental splendor and barbarous life I have heard of, and I hug myself mentally in delightful anticipation of the artistic treat in store for me, once the blood-red standard of the Moorish emperor should float at the foretop-mast of the flag-ship, as her guns saluted his barbaric majesty, and the despised giaour from over the seas would be allowed to set foot on the sacred shores of the followers of the prophet.

I step down the ladder from the quarter-deck, pass along the waist and climb up to the forecastle, whence I can get a better view of the Chicago. The barge is still alongside and the men of her crew are lying on their oars; on the steps of the frigate's gangway a couple of officers are parleying with the occupants of the boat, who do not seem to have boarded the big ship. "Something is up," evidently, as I see the Moors giving way and heading toward the land again, while the dark-blue figures on the gangway ascend and disappear behind the bulwarks. I don't have long to wait to know what has happened. Instead of the crimson flag of Morocco, a bright yellow square of bunting is run up to the fore. Quickly following the lead of the flag-ship, out flutters

VOL. VIIL-47

the hateful emblem of the quarantine from the foretop-masts of the Boston and the Atlanta, of our own ship, the Yorktown, and, to my intense disgust and disappointment, I realize that "pratique " is refused to the American squadron, and that all my anticipations of a few days of artistic enjoyment of the life of a genuine Oriental city were but "dreams, idle dreams."

In the Straits for a short run to the "Rock!" A levanter has been blowing, and the swell is heavy, and our gallant little craft responds to the rise and fall of the waves with impatient pitch and roll, as she speeds swiftly through the water in the wake of the other ships.. On either side the land is in full sight. On the Spanish coast Tarifa nestles at. the base of the hills, on the African shore the mountains of the Apes raise summits of strange and fantastic shape skyward, ahead the "Lion Couchant' Gibraltar's famous rock-looms into view.

It is the first Sunday of the month; the crew is being mustered at quarters and the deck is crowded with "bluejackets." On the port side the marine guard endeavors to preserve its steady military alignment, a difficult task with the rolling of the ship; the engineers, machinists, and firemen form in a double rank amidships, and the seamen, and "all hands" generally, stand at their appointed stations, while the executive officer reads out the naval regulations the Articles of War.

At the davits on the starboard side, where the captain's gig hangs, the coxswain and one or two men are engaged in securing the boats.

Sparkling in the sunlight, little dancing wavelets rippling over its bright blue surface, curving in a great horseshoe-like bend, the Bay of Gibraltar sweeps from the point over beyond Algeciras around to the great "Rock," thrusting its embattled walls in haughty grandeur out into the sea, as if in proud consciousness of Britain's mighty power. Gray sea-walls: line the strand, roof-tops peeping over them; houses and barracks, turret and ancient stone defence climb the steep hillside; the Alameda, with its dark fringe of

trees and level parade ground, lies beyond, and, bristling with barrack and battery, Europa Point-the New Mole projecting into the harbor some way inside of it-rises out of the water. Sheer from the verdure-clad incline behind the town, the naked rock rears its rugged outline, on its top the signal-tower, with its tall staff pointing heavenward.

Back in the bay off the Water Port, a tangle of masts and rigging, here and there black smoke-clouds rising from the funnels of some steamer, mark the anchorage of the merchant-men; dingy and dismantled, the coal hulks sit heavily on the water. Off the Ragged staff landing thousands of sea-gulls are flying, screaming about the war-ships riding easily at their moorings, the snowwhite hulls of the American cruisers, "anchored at discretion," showing conspicuously among them.

Almost like yachts the latter look, compared with some of their huge neighbors, for some of Great Britain's strongest and most terrible sea-monsters are gathered in the harbor, lying on the waters as if in slumber, quiet and tranquil enough now, but ready to awaken at their mistress's bidding, and to vomit forth death and devastation from their steel-clad sides.*

Close to our ship is the Anson; on the other side the huge Benbow, with massive black hull and white, fortress-like superstructure, points the muzzles of Of the ships of the British Navy, lying at Gibraltar

when the squadron of evolution visited that port in December, 1889, the Anson, Benbow, Camperdown, and

Colossus are the most formidable. The Northumberland, Monarch, and Iron Duke are vessels of a different type from those first named. The Benbow, Anson, and Camperdown-the latter ship came into the harbor one day and left on the next are similar to one another in general shape and construction, the Benbow having, however, an armament of two 110-ton guns in barbette-one in each barbette, fore and aft-and ten six-inch guns in broadside, while the Anson and Camperdown have two 63-ton guns in each barbette and six six-inch rifles in broadside. Their armor is compound, being of a maximum thickness of eighteen inches on the belt and fourteen inches on the barbettes. Their displacement is 10,600 tons, horse-power 11,600, and the speed attained about seventeen knots. Each is provided with five torpedo tubes and each carries a number of machine and rapid-fire guns in excess of the heavier batteries. The Colossus has a displacement of

9,420 tons, 7,500 horse-power, and a speed of about sixteen knots. Her armor has a thickness of eighteen inches on the belt and sixteen inches in the revolving turrets, of which she has two, each containing two 43-ton guns; her auxiliary batteries consist of five six-inch rifles in the superstructure. She carries torpedoes and rapid-fire

and machine guns. The Northumberland, Monarch, and Iron Duke are all older vessels, less powerful ironclads, but are still more formidable than any man-of

war of the United States in commission, or even planned, a similar class to the American ships were in port at the time of the writing of this article. No cruisers of during the stay of our squadron.

her enormous guns over the tops of the turret-like barbettes on her decks, fore and aft, while from the ports in her sides the cannons of her batteries peer menacingly outward. A fringe of davits, from which here and there a boat is hanging, runs on both sides of her upper-deck, and her tall military mast, the tops bristling with machine guns, tapers aloft amidships. The Anson flies the flag of the rear admiral; on her quarter-deck scarlet coated, white helmeted marines are drawn up and the band is playing; alongside of her some boats are lying. Farther out in the bay the Iron Duke has shaken out her topsails, and the canvas droops from the long yards in graceful folds, while from her bows to aft of her main-mast the white clothing of her crew, hanging there to dry, flutters from the clotheslines. Over by the long stone wall of the New Mole the Northumberland and the Colossus, the vice admiral's ship, and a number of smaller vessels-despatch-boats and yachts-are moored, while back among the colliers the Monarch's white ensign marks the presence of a man-of-war in their midst. In the offing another naval monster, the Camperdown, is steaming slowly out to sea.

The harbor is alive with row-boats and launches of all kinds. Yonder, glancing like a fish half emerging from the water, comes a small, queerly shaped craft. Circling with astonishing rapidity around our ship for a moment, it darts off suddenly, and, with a swish and quick splash, something drops from its side. A moment later a dull report, a flash of fire, and a little puff of blue smoke, curling over the water some distance beyond us, where a little red flag waves from a sort of buoy floating there, shows us that the torpedo, that we have just seen launched, has reached its mark. With hum of forced draft and pant of steam and thud of rapidly revolving screw, a launch is passing near us, towing great man-of-war boats, filled with blue-jacketed sailors and red-coated marines, toward the shore. On the height, crowned with masonry work, over by the dockyard, clouds of white smoke, followed by sharp ringing reports cates where a crowd of blue-jackets are and the shriek of the projectiles, indi

at target practice with their howitzers, and out to sea beyond, columns of spray fly up in the air as the shells strike the water or ricochet across its smooth surface.

From some of the regiments forming the garrison of Gibraltar, and from all the British ships lying near us, many of the officers have come on board at various times to bid us welcome, and a party of our own people from the wardroom are leaving the ship for the purpose of returning the calls. As this projected round of visits is purely of a social nature, I gladly accept the invitation to accompany my friends, and we board the formidable iron-clads one after the other, and are received everywhere with great cordiality and frank hospitality by our transatlantic cousins. Perfect order and admirable discipline are visible on all the ships; the men of the crews are a splendid lot of fellows -uniformed in well-made, easy and perfectly fitting blue, and neat and clean as brush and soap and water can make them-heavier and perhaps slower in their movements than our own Jackies, but homogeneous and unmistakably British in character and with the national spirit and pride strongly developed in their natures.

The Benbow is sending out some of her boats for practice as we come alongside. Great heavy launches, filled with men and with machine-guns mounted in bow and stern, pull slowly out toward the harbor's mouth, the blades of their long oars dipping into the water in perfect unison and whirling circling eddies astern. On the decks of the big ship the monster guns-weighing each 110 tons, throwing, with a charge of 960 pounds of powder, a projectile 1,800 pounds in weight-seem more huge and terrible than ever, as we look up at them from where we stand, mere pigmies alongside of them, and we measure with our eyes the immense width of the vessel's beam, the tremendous steel walls of her sides, and "take in "with rapid glances, on our way to the spacious and comfortable wardroom, her thousand and one appliances for defence and offence, for the health and welfare of her crew.

A fine, hearty lot of men, these new

found friends of ours, of a common race and speaking the same tongue, evidently intending us to feel at home among them, and to carry away with us friendly impressions of the British navy.

And, as we pull away from the Iron Duke, the last of the ships we have visited, and look up her high sides to the genial, smiling face of her executive officer, who has been our host and entertainer during our short visit, and hear his cordial voice, as he shouts out kind words of farewell, I cannot help but hope that when we fight again—as sooner or later we must surely expect to do-it may not be with Englishmen.

The basin at the Ragged staff landing is crowded with man-of-war boats, British and American. A number of officers from the different ships of our squadron are going ashore for a tour through the streets of the town, and are disembarking at the landing-steps. On the pier a battalion of sailors is drawn up, awaiting the command to enter their boats, lying in the water by the wavelapped stone wall. All in white canvas and brown leggings, their rifle-butts resting on the ground, the sturdy English seamen "stand at ease," where they have halted after their shore-drill on the Alameda, and many of their officers, acquaintances of ours, nod and smile friendly greetings as we pass along the front of the battalion and out, over the drawbridge, through the stone archway of the gate and across the court, where ton upon ton of iron and steel shot and shell are piled in regular rows. On the ramparts above, pacing up and down with rapid stride, a scarlet-coated, whitebelted sentry looks down upon us, and, with precise military salute, blue-coated gunners, swinging their short, slim canes, pass by us, as they stroll down to the landing to have a look at their seafaring comrades of the navy.

Some of us are bound for a walk in the town; others have calls to make or business to attend to, and so, breaking up into little groups, we go our separate ways. With one or two, who, like myself, have come ashore just to wander about anywhere that our fancy may dictate, I turn to the left and pass under