moving guns. Their daily allowance of food had
been ten ounces of black bean bread, one handful
of peas, and a thimbleful of oil. On Fridays,
the Turkish sabbath, they were compelled
to fast. As soon as the transports came to
anchor, the freed slaves crowded the shrouds and
the yards, rejoicing in the old familiar element
and their old avocation, and shouted and cheered
our sailors enthusiastically.

The Moorish troops, in a ferment of fanatical
rage, and eager for fresh massacres — as the
common Turk always is — rushed to the mole when
the English boats began to shove off with the
slaves, and fired several times at our sailors;
whereupon Lord Exmouth told the Dey, plainly,
that he would bombard the town again if such
intolerable conduct were repeated. There was then
much diplomacy about a Neapolitan boy and a
Spanish vice-consul and a merchant, who were,
however, eventually released.

The three hundred and eighty-two thousand
five hundred dollars, and the eight
thousand dollars for the consul, were paid
punctually by the tyrant. The money was
weighed and put in four hundred sacks,
which were carried to the shore by Jews
and Moors pressed from the streets. The
shrewd interpreter, Salamé, afraid of being set
upon by the Kabyle soldiers, refused to take
charge of the money to the mole, and the Dey
refused to admit four hundred infidel sailors
into the palace. A great part of this treasure
was green with rust; the Dey's treasury being
a cistern in an old castle, where millions of
stolen dollars and much gold coin obtained by
piracy, had been hoarded from the time of
Barbarossa.

Salamé calculated the Algerine loss at more
than a million, reckoning the loss of the fleet
and the slaves, the payment of troops, the
ransom, and the reparation of one hundred
thousand houses, besides the long lines of
batteries.

The Moorish minister of marine was perhaps
a greater sufferer than the Dey by this affair,
for he was beheaded the morning after the
battle, either for inciting the soldiers to revolt,
or for not firing soon enough on the Queen
Charlotte.

Lord Exmouth had obtained his peerage, and
two thousand pounds a year, for his services
with the fleet on the east coast of Spain. In
early life this brave Cornishman had covered
himself with glory by his capture of the
Cleopatre — a crack French ship — with a crew of
raw miners, and by saving the men of the
Dutton. Always devoted and daring, he was
the terror of the French cruisers. On his
return from Algiers he was created a viscount,
and on the death of Admiral Duckworth (the
hero of the Dardanelles in 1817) he was
appointed to the chief command in Plymouth.
In 1826 he retired from active service. In
1832 he was made Vice-Admiral of England,
and died in January, 1833.

One last word about that consummate
scoundrel the Dey. When Aga of the
Janissaries, he had roasted the children of the Bey
of Oran, and had made their father, whom he
afterwards scalped and flayed, eat portions of
their flesh. He had succeeded to a wretch, who,
getting into the habit of murdering his wives and
salting them down in jars, was suffocated in his
bath by a black slave. On ascending the
throne, the Dey beheaded merchants, and
plundered everybody, till that tremendous blow of
Exmouth's fist hammered him into better
conduct. Soon after our fleet left Algiers, the
Janissaries pounced upon the Dey and flung him out
of the window of the gallery — a proceeding
much to be commended. The two following
Deys lived only one year each. Turkey
approved highly of their rapid disappearance, as
each new Dey, as satrap of the Grand Vizier,
pays her one hundred thousand pounds on his
election.

An engraving, representing the interviews
between the Dey, Rear-Admiral Sir Charles
Penrose, and Captain Brisbane, is curious, as
illustrating some variations in costume.
Captain Brisbane wears a frilled shirt, loose white
trousers, straps and shoes, and the old rear-
admiral is remarkable for knee-breeches and
Hessian boots, while his white hair is combed
back into a tight ribboned queue.

LOOKING DOWN THE ROAD.

IN the early spring-time
My long watch began;
Through the daisied meadows
Merry children ran;
Happy lovers wandered
Through the forest deep,
Seeking mossy corners
Where the violets sleep.
I in one small chamber
Patiently abode—
At my garret window
Looking down the road.

Watching, watching, watching,
For what came not back!
Summer marked in flowers
All her sunny track,
Hid the dim blue distance
With her robe of green,
Bathed the nearer meadows
In a golden sheen.
Full the fierce sure arrows
Glanced, and gleamed, and glowed
On my garret window
Looking down the road.

Watching, watching, watching,
Oh the pain of hope!
Autumn's shadows lengthened
On the breezy slope;
Groups of tired reapers
Led the loaded wains
From the golden meadows,
Through the dusky lanes;
Home-returning footsteps
O'er the pathway strode—
Not the one I looked for,
Coming down the road.