In the early morning, under such delightful trees, up in the
mountains, the branches had given me a roof, the wild surroundings
made me part of the out-of-doors, and the rain had seemed to marry
itself to the pastures and the foaming beck. But here, on a road and
in a town, all its tradition of discomfort came upon me. I was angry,
therefore, with the weather and the road for some miles, till two
things came to comfort me. First it cleared, and a glorious sun showed
me from a little eminence the plain of Alsace and the mountains of the
Vosges all in line; secondly, I came to a vast powder-magazine.

To most people there is nothing more subtle or pleasing in a
powder-magazine than in a reservoir. They are both much the same in
the mere exterior, for each is a flat platform, sloping at the sides
and covered with grass, and each has mysterious doors. But, for my
part, I never see a powder-magazine without being filled at once with
two very good feelings--- laughter and companionship. For it was my
good fortune, years and years ago, to be companion and friend to two
men who were on sentry at a powder-magazine just after there had been
some anarchist attempts (as they call them) upon such depots--and for
the matter of that I can imagine nothing more luscious to the
anarchist than seven hundred and forty-two cases of powder and fifty
cases of melinite all stored in one place. And to prevent the enormous
noise, confusion, and waste that would have resulted from the
over-attraction of this base of operations to the anarchists, my two
friends, one of whom was a duty-doing Burgundian, but the other a
loose Parisian man, were on sentry that night. They had strict orders
to challenge once and then to fire.

Now, can you imagine anything more exquisite to a poor devil of a