Notes in North Africa 1861

CHAPTER I.

THE VOYAGE OUT.

Paris in 1860.––Notre Dame.––Our Hotel.––Nero and the Groom.––The Steamer for Algeria.––Gallic Peculiarities.––Life on Board.

In medias res. I will not stop to describe my journey to Paris, viâ Folkestone, nor to chronicle the glasses of pale ale––valedictory libations to perfide Albion, quaffed at the Pavilion––nor to portray the sea-sickness of “mossoo,” nor the withering indignation of the British female when her wardrobe was searched. Briefly, kind reader, be pleased to understand that we arrived in safety––guns, rifles, “and all”––at the Hôtel du Louvre, in Paris, at about eleven o’clock on a certain day in February, 1860.

The next day was Sunday, and I went to hear vespers at Notre Dame. How I love the old gothic cathedrals, that seem to remove one at once from this work-day world––the fanes wherein the very air seems redolent of devotion, and peopled with phantoms of the past! ’Spite of all disparagement, there 


is something grand and solemn about them. After service, I ascended one of the towers to the gallery immortalised by Victor Hugo’s wonderful romance. The day was declining, and sunset had already commenced. The galleries were crowded with students and respectable operatives and bourgeois, with their wives and children. Every face was bathed in the purple light of the departing sun, and many eyes lifted up in silent meditation.

I was aroused from the reverie into which the contemplation of this glorious sight had thrown me, by hearing a female voice exclaim, “How beautiful is Nature––how magnificent!” I turned, and saw two ladies, evidently mother and daughter, of sufficiently pleasing appearance. It was from the elder that the exclamation had come, which brought me back from my dream to this nether world. Conquering the shyness which appears to be the Englishman’s birthright, I made some remark on the beauties of sunset. Like the earth, we revolved round the sun; but, unlike that planet, we quickly diverged into other orbits. I dimly remember that we talked of Angola cats, Dresden china, Turkish chibouques, maccaroni, and Lord Byron, with whose poems this lady seemed sufficiently familiar. I improved the occasion, as the right thing to do, when talking with ladies about Byron, to find fault with his impiety, his blasphemous scepticism, his cutting sarcasm, and the unhappy frivolity which defaces the works of the man, who, with all 


his faults, was undoubtedly the greatest poet the nineteenth century has yet produced

A pleasant walk along the quays brought me back to my hotel, in the courtyard of which establishment I found an admiring circle of idlers surrounding my English groom, who had just arrived with my dog Nero; or rather Nero, who seemed by far the most popular character of the two, had just arrived with him; and both appeared to know about as much French one as the other, and to make themselves equally understood or misunderstood. That evening, my friend and travelling companion, B––– and I dined at Dotesio’s, in the Rue Castiglione, where we had an excellent dinner, washed down by more excellent wine. The next day found us at Marseilles, at the Hôtel D’Orient, concerning which hostelry I have merely to place on record the fact, that B––– was mulcted in the sum of five francs for the matutinal cold tub in which it was his custom to indulge.

The steamer which was to convey us to Algeria was well fitted up in every way. We were the only Englishmen on board. The fore part of the deck was crowded with Zouaves and French soldiers of various denominations, with whom Nero soon made himself perfectly at home, though the exclamation of a Zouave on his first appearance seemed to forbode but an indifferent reception for the four-footed intruder. “Cré nom d’un chien” cried the shaven, 


fez-capped warrior, “mais je ne t’aimerais pas pour mon camarade du lit!”

Breakfast was served in French fashion on board at ten o’clock, and dinner at five. With one or two exceptions, the company consisted of French commercial travellers, and they were split up into the usual hostile factions of north against south. North, of course, commenced the conversation with Paris, Paris, and again Par-rri; the southerners every now and then throwing in a doubt of the universal superiority of the metropolis over the known world. One disputant stood out for Marseilles, another broke a lance for Bordeaux, and the war of words waxed so fierce that I began to tremble for the consequences. One young man in company had been some time at Bordeaux, and had much to say thereon; but all his remarks were on one subject––the theatre. On its beauty, its luxury, and its actresses, he held forth at unwearied but wearisome length.

While this conversation was going on, the inner man was by no means neglected. Stewed pullets, potatoes, salad, and etceteras, disappeared with marvellous celerity. The cheer was by no means bad, though decidedly Provençal, as I remarked to my next neighbour, a dark-looking Marsellais; which observation, by the way, brought down upon me the anger of the Gods, as impersonated by a large, fat, dirty Calaisien, sitting opposite. He was a big man, this champion, and, according to Cervantes, should, by consequence, 


have been a good-natured one. Giving himself a sounding blow on the chest for emphasis, he declared the Calaisiens to be an infinitely more moral people than the Marseillais––and washed down his own dictum with an enormous glass of bière blanche. I am rather fond of going to sleep after dinner; so I secured my nap on cheap terms, by feigning an interest in the Picard virtues, and accordingly enjoyed a profound rest, disturbed only at intervals by a monotonous and expostulatory “allons donc!” thrown in by another dissentient southerner. He was an enormously fat man, the new disputant, and wore a mass of very greasy hair, hanging down over his shoulders. His flannel shirt, an exceedingly dingy specimen of British manufacture, did duty for a waistcoat also; but he was decoré, though it was very doubtful to what order the medal on his breast may have belonged.

Our captain merits a word of description. He was a short, red-faced individual, of such ineffable seediness, as regarded costume, that I should never have suspected his station but for the fact that he sported a gold band “bien usité” round his cap, and sat at the head of the table. For the credit of French politeness be it, however, added, he was a perfect gentleman in his behaviour throughout the voyage. There was also a young French naval officer, whom I afterwards got to know much better in Algeria. He, too, like all the Legitimists, was a most finished gentleman, and spoke English well––a common accomplishment among 


the officers of the French navy. Though quite a young fellow, he had been in the Russian and Chinese wars, and imparted some very amusing and instructive intelligence on both these subjects.

As the noise and the intimacy at the table increased, and the punch and cognac had already “chased” the wine, I adjourned with B––– and the French sailor to the after-deck, and, in company with two young Dutch travellers, smoked our Havanas in a climate that was already African in its heat, while Majorca and Minorca faded away in the distance, and the pale moon rose silently over the quiet sea.