opera they were performing! It was called “Le Diable;” and to me it appeared as though the fiend in question had no tail––or rather, no end––to that appendage, so long did the time seem. Far be it from me to despise the arts; I admire them in every shape, except in the compound form of speech: exempli gratiâ, art-union, art-school, 21 &c. Why, in the name of common sense, can we not talk English instead of German, and say school of arts, union of arts, &c.? I suppose we shall soon go a step farther in imitation of our Germanic neighbours, and call poetry by the appellation of poet-art. In the last century, it seemed likely, as Johnson said, that we should babble a dialect of France; in this, there is more danger of our talking a Teutonic jargon. Let us stick to the middle course––for our language is essentially half way between the German and the French, the Teutonic and Romance tongues, and any attempt to approximate too much to either extreme is simply preposterous.

The next day we had the sirocco; and, to quote the expression with which I once heard a popular preacher commence a sermon, it was “d–––d hot.” Start not, ladies of Belgravia, for the preacher in question belonged not to the Anglican communion; he held forth to mere vulgar audiences, at least, in a remote locality. Thrice he repeated the expression (which I will not), and then improved the occasion by describing a place hotter than the crowded chapel in which he was officiating, in the month of July. He was evidently in his element. He was especially hot against those modern spirits, who are not such faithful believers in the burning flames of the lower regions, and even begin to imagine they may have cooled down, if they have not been quite extinguished. “And if”––he cried, in his ardour––“if they were 22 on the point of being extinguished, I would with my own breath rekindle the expiring flame!” And his voice, which sounded like a gale of wind, and his face, red as a furnace, and his enormous fists fiercely clenched, made it appear to the congregation, for the moment, that this terrifying assertion was no exaggeration. But to return to the sirocco.

In spite, or rather by reason of the heat, I went for a stroll on the sea-shore with Nero, that we might cool our wearied limbs in the azure wave of the Mediterranean. We had been walking along the shore for about a mile, when about twenty Arab dogs rushed out most ferociously at Nero, and would, I believe, have torn him to pieces, but for the large hunting-whip with which I managed to keep them at bay. There was with me a young Maltese boy, of Irish parentage––a most amusing character this urchin was. He wanted me to take him into the interior as my interpreter. “Take me wid you, sir,” was his eloquent appeal; “give me pound a month, sir; tell Arabs you brother of Queen Victoria, sir; Arabs great fools, sir; know no better, sir;” but I was proof against the voice of the charmer.

In returning, I met General Martinprez on horseback, and saluted; of course, he returned my greeting most graciously. But I was not a little amused, and could hardly help laughing, when the young Hiberno-Maltese tatterdemalion took off his dirty cap with a flourish to the General, simultaneously with my salute, 23 as if he had been my confidential friend, taking a promenade with me.

That evening I went to the theatre. The piece performed was “Les Femmes Terribles”––and a terribly Gallic flavour there was diffused over the whole performance––a kind of haut goût, for which we stolid islanders have, happily, no relish.

General Youssouf was at the theatre this evening. He is rather a fine-looking man, and not too stout. His is a curious history. Originally a Christian slave at Tunis, supposed to be the son of Italian parents, he received the name of Youssouf (Joseph) from his Mussulman masters at Tunis, where he was employed in the Bey’s palace. Of fine stature and handsome appearance, the Christian slave soon attracted the notice of the Bey’s daughter, an honour to which he was not insensible. The Bey was soon informed of what was going on, and Joseph would have been caged, if not racked, had not some kind friend apprised him of the discovery, and of his own consequent danger. A French man-of-war happened to be in the harbour at La Goeletta, off Tunis, and young Youssouf, then about twenty years of age, managed to effect his escape on board. The Franks, of course, gladly received him as an escaped Christian slave. The Bey sent to demand him back; but the French commander gave him politely to understand that he would see the Bey experiencing the reverse of the joys of Paradise before he would comply with such a request. The vessel set 24 sail next day for Algiers, where the Gallic occupation had just commenced. Young Youssouf––who, in addition to his knowledge of French and Italian, could, of course, speak Arabic perfectly––was here landed, and became interpreter to a foot regiment. Quick and clever, he was soon promoted, till he attained an officer’s rank. He is now a general in the service. Entertaining––perhaps naturally––a mortal hatred of the Arabs, he has generally been selected to enforce those stern acts of reprisal against the native population, which, though perhaps justified by necessity, still bear the impress of great severity, and are unpalatable to officers of French birth and education. These measures he has always carried out with strict fidelity and unrelenting harshness. He was the centre of attraction this evening––every battery of eyes was turned upon him. He had fought a duel with the editor of a newspaper, only that morning, for abusing him or his wife, and had succeeded in running the journalist through the shoulder.

The next few days I was engaged in making purchases, chiefly of shot and necessary travelling articles, for the interior. I was swimming my dog in the water of the port, according to my daily custom, when I stumbled on my servant, Angelo, whom I determined to take with me into the interior. Besides English, which he spoke very well, he could talk Arabic quite fluently, and I found him very useful.

Departure from Algiers.––Blidah.––The Zouave Officers and their Companions.––Government Establishment of Horses.––Joseph, the Horse-dealer.––To Arbah.––The Caravanserai.––Journey towards Oued-el-Massin.

On Thursday, March 8th, after seeing A––– start, by diligence, with innumerable bags of cheviotine (deer-shot), I and Angelo left Algiers with my newly-purchased horses, and, passing through some very pretty country, stopped at the first village, where De Warn, a French officer, came up on horseback, with his groom. He admired my horses very much, and announced his destination to be the Maison Carrée, where he was going to shoot quails, a friend of his having bagged forty there in one afternoon. It came on to rain very hard as we passed through the plain of the Medidja, and arrived at Bouffaseh, where there is a column raised to the memory of twenty-three men killed there during the war. We galloped in to Blidah, the rain pouring down on us. At dinner, I met A––– in a café, with Count L’Esparre and three or four officers of the 1st Regiment of 26 Zouaves. They were a very pleasant set of fellows, but did not appear to admire their remote quarters at Blidah by any means. The heat, during the height of summer, they informed me, was terrific, and the private