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.  Their king’s country residence was at the famous Garden of Hesperides, seventy miles down the coast from here.  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.

Five days’ journey from here—­say two hundred miles—­are the ruins of an ancient city, of whose history there is neither record nor tradition.  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., and among them file trains of laden asses, not much larger, if any, than a Newfoundland dog.  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.  They don’t coin much money nowadays, I think.  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.  Jack went out to get a napoleon changed, so as to have money suited to the general cheapness of things, and came back and said he had “swamped the bank, had bought eleven quarts of coin, and the head of the firm had gone on the street to negotiate for the balance of the change.”  I bought nearly half a pint of their money for a shilling myself.  I am not proud on account of having so much money, though.  I care nothing for wealth.