UPON the 1st of December 18--, in clear, brilliant, splendid
weather, under a south winter sun, the startled inhabitants of
Marseilles beheld a Turk come down the Canebiere, or their Regent
Street. A Turk, a regular Turk -- never had such a one been seen;
and yet, Heaven knows, there is no lack of Turks at Marseilles.

The Turk in question -- have I any necessity of telling you it was
the great Tartarin of Tarascon? -- waddled along the quays,
followed by his gun-cases, medicine-chest, and tinned comestibles,
to reach the landing-stage of the Touache Company and the mail
steamer the Zouave, which was to transport him over the sea.

With his ears still ringing with the home applause, intoxicated by
the glare of the heavens and the reek of the sea, Tartarin fairly
beamed as he stepped out with a lofty head, and between his guns
on his shoulders, looking with all his eyes upon that wondrous,
dazzling harbour of Marseilles, which he saw for the first time. The
poor fellow believed he was dreaming. He fancied his name was
Sinbad the Sailor, and that he was roaming in one of those fantastic
cities abundant in the "Arabian Nights." As far as eye could reach
there spread a forest of masts and spars, cris-crossing in every way.

Flags of all countries floated -- English, American, Russian,
Swedish, Greek and Tunisian.

The vessels lay alongside the wharves -- ay, head on, so that their
bowsprits stuck up out over the strand like rows of bayonets. Over
it, too, sprawled the mermaids, goddesses, madonnas, and other
figure-heads in carved and painted wood which gave names to the