HOW I ATE BOUILLABAISSE AT MARSEILLES.

A mad holiday scheme — Prophecies of evil — Paris after rain — In the “Rapide” — Marseilles — A dish of Bouillabaisse, and a disillusionment.

“Go to Tunis!” cried all my friends, when I intimated my intention of taking a holiday in that little-visited district of Northern Africa; “why, you must be mad to think of it.” And then from each in succession there was poured forth a catalogue of the dangers, difficulties, and hardships which I was certain to encounter if I ventured into the dominions of the Bey. “Do you not know that the country is in a state of war; that a French army is on the point of occupying the city of Tunis itself; that the Arabs are murdering every European they can catch, and the French, not to be behind them, are doing the same by the Arabs?” “Have you read those horrible revelations about the prevalence of typhoid fever in Tunis? They say they are dying there by hundreds daily.” “Do you know what the African climate is? Have you any conception of the heat of an African sun?” These were but specimens of the admonitions poured into my unheeding ears by my kind friends.

The truth was that my determination to visit Tunis dated from a lovely day in October, 1880, when, sailing in the good ship Sidon towards Malta, I had the entrance to the Gulf of Tunis pointed out to me. Until that moment, although I had often looked at the place upon the map, I had never thoroughly realized its nearness to the shores of Europe. Tunis had seemed like Morocco or Timbuctoo or Lake N’gami, a mysterious spot shut out from the civilized world. But when I saw that this land in which the manners and customs of the East are to be found to-day in a degree of perfection which is unknown at Stamboul, was within four-and-twenty hours’ sail of Malta, I inwardly resolved that, if the Fates were propitious, I should make it the goal of my next year’s holiday.

Between that trip in the Sidon and my voyage in the following year a good many things had happened at Tunis. M. Roustan, aided by his accomplices in Paris, had planned and carried out the greatest act of international brigandage upon record, and unoffending Tunis had been violently seized by the French army in the name of a gang of mercenary conspirators. The hot-blooded Arabs and Moors of the regency had not been slow to resent the usurpation of the infidel, and a bitter war had begun. It was in the very midst of this war, on the day on which a French army entered the city of Tunis itself and made themselves masters of the capital, that I set off on my journey from a Yorkshire town to an African State. I propose to tell the story of that journey in some detail in these pages; for it was one of singular interest, albeit accompanied by more than one unpleasant adventure, and attended at times by an amount of discomfort that often caused me to smile grimly at the notion that I was engaged upon a pleasure excursion. In describing my experiences, I shall quote largely from the diary which I kept from day to day all through my journey; but if at any moment I feel inclined to dwell upon a particular scene or incident, the reader will forgive me if I lay my diary aside, and enlarge upon the rough notes made upon the spot. I can promise him that whether in quoting from my diary or in giving a detailed description of the various scenes I witnessed—some of which were of more than ordinary interest—I shall do my best to keep most strictly within the limits of the truth.

Circumstances not unconnected with an important incident in the political history of Leeds reduced the amount of time at my disposal for preparation for the journey to a few hours. Still the time was sufficient to enable me to lay in the stock of light summer clothing that I required. I shall not soon forget the amazed look of a certain shop-keeper in Briggate, when on a stormy October day I ransacked his stores in search of his lightest neck-ties, handkerchiefs, stockings, and hats, such as, in his opinion, could only be worn in the hottest days of an English summer. A revolver, a box of quinine pills, and some other simple medicines, a portable filter, a very large bottle of vermin powder, and a goodly flask filled with the finest brandy formed part of my equipment. The brandy, like the medicine, was carefully set aside for an emergency; not to be used, in fact, save in case of illness. In due time the emergency arrived, and I then found the provision I had made for it invaluable.

Wednesday, October 12th, 1881.—There is always something to be done at the last moment. Starting from my hotel this morning to catch the tidal express at Charing Cross, I made the melancholy discovery that I had lost the key of one of my portmanteaus, which accordingly could not be locked. I knew what a railway journey from London to Marseilles with an open portmanteau portended, and not wishing to lose half my effects before I reached the shores of the Mediterranean, I set about procuring another key. There was very little time to spare. I dashed into one shop after another in the Strand, and finally, just in the nick of time, got what I wanted. There was a great crowd of passengers at Charing Cross, and the usual bustle and confusion in getting the baggage registered. But at eleven o’clock punctually the train started to run through the beautiful country between London and Folkestone. The day was dull and raw, and the southern suburbs of the metropolis looked melancholy enough in that damp atmosphere; but one’s eye rested lovingly upon them, as each successive name at the wayside stations recalled some happy incident in “the days that are no more.” My travelling companions to Folkestone were a returned Australian, who had left England when he was two years old, and an Irish gentleman and his pretty sisters. “Remember, girls,” said the Irishman as we drew near to Folkestone, “that sea-sickness is not an affection of the stomach but of the brain. All you have to do is to bear that fact in mind, and there will be no fear of your being sea-sick.”

Folkestone was in gala dress when we reached the place. In spite of the wind and rain the little town was crowded; bands of music were playing, flags were flying, and cannon were being fired. The Prince and Princess of Wales were laying the foundation-stone of some new docks, so that our last look at England showed us a loyal population yelling themselves hoarse round the carriage in which rode the heir-apparent and his pretty wife. Before we got clear of Folkestone harbour the wind had increased to half a gale, and no sooner were we outside than our wretched little boat began to pitch and roll horribly. Then followed the usual scene. There were 220 passengers on board, and before long fully 200 of these were groaning and writhing in the agonies of sea-sickness. Even those who were proof against the malady—among whom I could happily count myself—had an uncomfortable time of it, for the vessel shipped an immense quantity of water. I had, of course, packed my waterproof in one of my portmanteaus, so that I was quickly drenched to the skin, my through ticket to Marseilles being reduced to something like a state of pulp. Among the earliest of those who succumbed to the sea was my Irish friend of the railway train. Either there was a flaw in his theory concerning sea-sickness, or, like certain other preachers, he expounded doctrines which his own faith was too weak to enable him to accept. The grey, storm-laden sky, the broken foam-topped waves, and the labouring boat, wrapped in its cloud of spray, made up a fine picture; but the groans of misery all around me, and the sights and smells of the vessel detracted greatly from one’s enjoyment of it.

After a passage of nearly three hours’ duration we reached Boulogne. Some of the passengers had suffered so much that they decided to stay there for the night, but, of course, most of us went on to Paris, after paying the usual exorbitant tax to the keeper of the buffet. We had a curious assemblage in the carriage in which I found a seat. There was a shabbily-dressed old gentleman who persistently smoked a black wooden pipe, and whom I eventually discovered to be an English general on his way to his post in India, another Indian going out to manage a newly-discovered gold-mine, a smart young fellow bound for China, myself for Tunis, and three pleasure-seeking tourists intent upon Paris and the Rhine, one of whom I recognized as an old schoolfellow of my own. We reached Paris at 10.30 instead of eight. So much for Sir Edward Watkin’s performances as compared with his promises. After a long detention at the Custom House, where, however, the usual civility was shown to us, I and the two travellers to India found quarters in the Grand Hotel, the familiar courtyard of which I find is now lighted by electricity.

Thursday, October 13th.—A beautiful morning after yesterday’s rain and storm. Paris was looking her best when I strolled out after my first breakfast, to secure a place in the sleeping-car for Marseilles and a berth for Tunis. The sleeping-car, alas! is not yet on the line. “It will be put on to-morrow.” I always find when I miss a good thing of this sort that if I could only wait till to-morrow it would be all right. Among misleading proverbs there is none that more urgently requires revision than that about “the early bird.” Or perhaps I am one of those unfortunates who are doomed by circumstances to take the worm’s view of the situation. I do not find there will be any difficulty in getting a berth in to-morrow’s steamer from Marseilles to Tunis. “Monsieur, nobody goes there at present,” says the clerk in the office of the Transatlantic Company when I inquire upon the subject. I drive up the beautiful Champs Elysées to call upon the L.’s. How charming Paris looks to-day in the bright sunshine, with the trees just beginning to assume the tints of autumn! One feels all the temptations of the spot strong upon one, and there is an urgent desire to inquire whether a later boat might not be just as suitable as to-morrow’s for the voyage.

After luncheon, during which Mrs. L. expresses her horror at the notion of any one visiting Tunis for pleasure at this moment, I go to the Ministry of War, accompanied by L., in order to ascertain if any special permission is needed to get into Tunis. A very polite official distinctly assures me that nothing of the kind is required, and that I can not only enter Tunis, but travel about in it as freely as I please. “Or rather as the Arabs please,” I think of suggesting; but upon second thoughts it strikes me that the joke might not be appreciated. Before I tear myself away from the flesh-pots of Egypt, I must have one good dinner at least; so we betake ourselves to Champeau’s, close to the Bourse, and there indulge in those “luxuries of the Salt Market,” which I cannot hope to carry with me across the Mediterranean. The dinner, which is begun with oysters, is fairly good; but the bill for it is unfairly big. This, however, is nothing to what I have to face at the Grand Hotel, where I am charged thirteen francs for my room on the fourth floor! As I sit smoking a last cigar in the well-known courtyard, meditating upon merry parties I have joined in here in former days, the evening papers bring me the announcement of Parnell’s arrest. At that moment my travelling companion of yesterday, General A———, passes me, and I tell him the news. “Hurrah!” shouts the general, regardless of the fashionable crowd around him, and his battered hat goes spinning up into the air in token of his joy.

Friday, Oct. 14th.—A night in a French train is always a painful penance, and my journey from Paris to Marseilles has been no exception to the rule. We started from the Lyons Railway Station at twenty minutes past seven last night. Of course the carriage was full. Happily, I succeeded in getting a seat facing one of the windows, and I was thus able to ensure the admittance of a little fresh air. Presently, as we stole onwards during the raw, dark night I saw that the window at the other end of the carriage was also open. I blessed my fate which had sent me as a travelling companion a Frenchman who actually liked fresh air. I was still marvelling over the mystery of the existence of such a being when the gentleman who was keeping guard over that window, addressed me in excellent English. “Oh,” I said, “you’re an Englishman, are you? That explains your open window. But why did you speak to me in French before?” “Because I thought you were a Frenchman; and it was only when I saw your open window that I knew you weren’t.” Needless to say, the companionship of my new acquaintance, Captain A———, of the Carlton Club, beguiled the journey, at any rate during its later stages, when we had shaken off the somnolence of night.

It was quite cold towards dawn. When day broke we found ourselves running through something which bore a suspicious resemblance to an English November fog. And this was in Valence! Clearly the “sunny south” had not yet been reached. At Avignon, however, the fog had cleared off, and I could get a good view of the famous ruins and admire the beautiful situation of the town. From Avignon to Marseilles the sun became hotter and ever hotter. The scenery on either side of the line reminded me much of bits of Malta. There was the same scanty covering of earth upon the white chalk-like rocks, and the same semi-tropical vegetation. At last Marseilles itself was reached, about an hour and a half behind time. Here it was as hot and as glaring as on that day when the story of “Little Dorrit” began, goodness knows how many years ago. I had some trouble in getting my baggage out of the train; but I had at the same time occasion to admire the courtesy and good arrangements of the railway officials. When my portmanteaus had been placed in the cab, an inspector asked me where I wished to be driven to, and then handed me a printed paper on which he had filled up the amount to which the cabman was entitled! I wonder when the unlucky foreigner arriving in our beloved London will meet with a similar attention.

Marseilles is much more picturesquely situated than I had expected. It lies at the bottom of a fine bay, with jutting promontories of high rocks running out into the Mediterranean on either side. Behind it is a range of barren hills in the form of an amphitheatre. The glare of white from the city and the surrounding country is positively painful. As for the town itself, it reminded me in one part of Glasgow—Glasgow with an Italian sky overhead!—in another part of Paris, and in a third of Syra. It seems, indeed, to present a curious admixture of different styles of street architecture; but the prevailing type is decidedly Oriental. As I drove through the glaring streets down to the dock where my steamer for Tunis lay, I saw the lazzaroni lying sleeping in the noon-day sun, and, among curious or unfamiliar spectacles, I had time to observe the professional letter-writer in the Market-square, to whom a girl was whispering some message of love or intrigue. It was delightful on reaching the steamboat, a splendid Glasgow-built vessel, belonging to the Transatlantic Company, to be able to indulge in a bath and a change of linen. After that, as much refreshed as though I had been in bed for the traditional eight hours, I set forth to keep rendezvous with my travelling acquaintance, Captain A———, at the Maison Dorée, in order that we might together partake of Bouillabaisse.

Do you know what Bouillabaisse is, good reader? Possibly not; and yet I can hardly suppose that you are ignorant of the name of this wonderful dish. It has as high a place in English literature as the roast pig immortalized by Charles Lamb. Has not Thackeray taken it as a title of his most beautiful poem? You must have read that noble Ballad of Bouillabaisse, and having read you can never have forgotten it.

Ever since I first read those immortal lines, I had been longing for the chance of eating Bouillabaisse. I could no longer do so in “the New Street of the Little Fields,” for Terré’s Tavern has disappeared from the surface of the earth. But I knew that Marseilles was the headquarters of Bouillabaisse, the spot where alone it can be eaten in perfection; and so I waited for the opportunity which had now at last arrived.

So sings Thackeray. A———, who, like myself, had never tasted the dish before, quoted the lines to me with enthusiasm, and we prepared ourselves for a wondrous treat as we sat in that cool, shady best dining-room of the Maison Dorée, looking out through the green Venetian blinds upon the hot and crowded Southern street. Alas! for disillusionment. When the Bouillabaisse appeared we attacked it eagerly. It was a thick sort of stew, in which there were many fishes, chiefly of the bony, spiky description, a considerable quantity of red pepper, saffron, and garlic, and an inordinate amount of bread.

A——— was the first to succumb. “I don’t care for it,” he said, pushing his plate away, and gulping down a goblet of Burgundy. If I had spoken the truth, I should have made the same admission; but loyalty to my great Master kept me silent. Only for a minute or two, however. With profound thankfulness I recognized the fact that my plate was empty, and eagerly declined the invitation of the waiter to accept of more. And this dismal fish curry was the far-famed Bouillabaisse! Thackeray must have been more gourmand than gourmet if he really liked it. But I consoled myself with the thought that though Bouillabaisse might not be worth eating, nothing could affect the charm of the immortal ballad, and whilst I waited for the next course I quoted, quite inappropriately, a few more lines from it:—

I had got so far in my sentimental rambling when a voice I recognized fell upon my ear. I looked up, and lo! at the next table sat a man whom I had last seen standing in front of the Treasury Bench in the House of Commons, Sir Charles Dilke, the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. And he, too, was making believe to eat Bouillabaisse at the Maison Dorée at Marseilles. I hope he liked it.

ON BOARD THE CHARLES QUINT.

A noble ship — Fellow-passengers — The vivandière — Husbands and wives — A defect in the ship’s arrangements — “Why is an Englishman never sea-sick?” — Bone — Hair-cutting made easy — Colonel Allegro — The vivandière distinguishes herself — A sudden change.

Marseilles, Friday, October 14th.—The Charles Quint is one of the newest and finest of the splendid line of steamers recently built at Glasgow for the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique of Marseilles. She was lying in the Joliette Dock when, accompanied by the kindly Captain A———, who seemed loth to part with me, I boarded her this afternoon. Nothing more luxurious in the shape of a sea-going vessel has ever met my eyes. The saloon is a marvel of beauty and elegance. Marble walls richly gilded, luxurious arm-chairs, crimson couches, mirrors, carpets, pictures, silver lamps, completely destroy for the moment the notion that one is on board ship. You seem to be seated in the splendid apartment of some palace. The state-rooms, too, are large, airy, and well found. My own is nearly amidships, so I am well away from the grinding of the screw, whilst close to me is a beautiful bath-room, the accommodation of which I have already tested, where a bath of pure white marble might tempt even the most nervous of Frenchmen to unwonted ablutions.

But it was not the remarkable completeness and elegance of the furnishings of this noble ship that occupied my attention this afternoon when, having at last said good-bye to my genial fellow-countryman, I lounged on the broad hurricane-deck awaiting the hour of our departure, which had been fixed for five o’clock. The starting of a steamboat is always an interesting spectacle, whether one witnesses it in a grimy Liverpool dock, a crowded harbour in the Levant, or here under the glaring sunshine of Southern France. But a special interest attaches to the Charles Quint on its present voyage. She is bound for the wars, and the passengers she carries are, in many instances, leaving their native country for the first time in order to take part in a campaign in which the full amount of peril must be encountered. What a mixed and picturesque company we have on board the ship! There are a number of unmistakable Algerian colonists, male and female, stout in figure and swart of complexion, returning to their homes on the other side of the Mediterranean. We talk of the French faculty of dressing. I wonder how long it would take for England to produce, among the respectable middle classes, such a picture of unkempt dowdiness as that which is presented by one of our passengers, the only lady apparently who has secured a place in the first saloon. Next to the Algerians, who have been kissing, laughing, crying, and shouting for the last hour, as one by one they parted from their friends, we have a number of commercial travellers; smart fellows, who “know their way about,” and who are already beginning to make themselves as comfortable as possible during their sojourn on board ship.

But it is in the people who are actually bound for Tunis and the war that I am chiefly interested. We have about a score of officers on board, chiefly doctors and captains of infantry. Poor fellows! They pace up and down the deck with rather melancholy faces, casting many a longing eye towards the white houses and white hills of Marseilles. Nobody has come to see them off. Nobody seems inclined to take much notice of them. I should certainly not gather from the manner in which they are regarded by the outer world that the war is very popular in Marseilles. Nor does the army seem to occupy a very brilliant social position in the estimation of the French people. Will it be believed that no officer under the rank of a major is permitted to travel first class on these boats? So our rueful-visaged captains troop off presently with clanking swords and downcast heads, to take their appointed places in the second saloon.

But who is this that suddenly appears upon the hurricane-deck—a vision, well, hardly of beauty or of joy, but still of a very uncommon kind? Five-and-twenty years ago, at the time when illustrated histories of the Crimean war were common, and when my young imagination was being fed upon the stirring adventures of the French and English allies under the walls of Sebastopol, I was quite familiar with such a figure as this, for it was one which was constantly appearing in the pages of the aforesaid illustrated histories. But I had almost forgotten that such beings had ever existed until this moment, when a real live Vivandière, clad in her full uniform, with plumed hat, frock coat, military trousers, and shining boots complete, stepped upon the hurricane-deck and saluted me with bland dignity. She must be no ordinary vivandière either, for on her breast glitters a row of medals, crosses, and decorations of all kinds, that would do credit to a prize ox at Smithfield, whilst round her neck is a red ribbon, which must surely be that of the Legion of Honour. Nor are these the only distinguishing marks she bears. On her arm is a broad band of canvas, bearing the sign of the Red Cross. So my vivandière is not going to Tunis to sell wine, but to succour the wounded. I think of one of Ouida’s novels, and cry to myself, “Brava, Cigarette!” though all the time I wonder to what extent the Arabs are likely to respect that Red Cross. She is a brisk, comely woman of forty or thereabouts, with a sharp, shrewd eye, a pleasant smile, and a ready jest for everybody. In less than five minutes after her appearance on board she has made friends with some of her fellow-passengers, and is volubly explaining to them the mission on which she is proceeding to Africa.

At five o’clock sharp the last bell rings, and the visitors leave the ship and range themselves alongside the dock wall. I lounge over the rail of the upper deck, smoking my cigarette, and watching a dozen little dramas of domestic life that are being played out under my eyes. Wives, some tearful and others gay, are parting from their husbands. Alas! for the “contrariness” of human nature. In my cynical mood this afternoon I cannot but observe that where the wives are in tears the husbands are all smiles and jokes; whilst a blithe face on the part of a wife means a grim and melancholy countenance on the part of her spouse. But at last the welcome sound of the screw puts an end to my observations. The stately ship begins slowly to glide out of the basin, and ten minutes later we are fairly clear of the port of Marseilles, whose white towers and rocks and hills begin slowly to fade away as the Charles Quint ploughs her path onward through the blue waters of the Gulf of Lyons. As one turns seaward towards the Mediterranean it is impossible to forget that twelve months ago to-day I was sailing on this same sea, in the company of as joyous and genial a little band of travellers as ever traversed the ocean. Alas! of that small company two of the bravest and the best have already reached the end of the long voyage of life; whilst the others are scattered far and wide all up and down the world; and I am here alone to-day, the solitary Englishman on board this vessel. As I sat after dinner smoking a last cigar on a comfortable deckseat, and watching the stars blaze out in their southern magnificence, whilst the ear was soothed by the solemn melody of the ocean, it was a difficult matter to drive away those pensive feelings which must come to all men when they revisit scenes once familiar to them, and reflect upon the changes which have been wrought since they last were here. But even whilst I mused I was suddenly aroused by a very trifling yet significant incident. My cigar dropped out of my nerveless hand, and I started up shivering, to find I had fallen asleep on the open deck. Then I recalled the fact that I had not been in bed last night, and made haste to turn into my comfortable cabin.

Saturday, October 15th.—I awoke refreshed after a good night’s rest. Presently turning out upon the deck, I found that I was in the full enjoyment of real Mediterranean weather. The sun was bright and hot, and one was glad to get shelter from it beneath the awning, where the pleasant breeze produced by the rapid motion of the boat made the temperature quite agreeable. The water was of that wonderful blue colour which you see nowhere except in the Mediterranean; but the waves were crested with white, and made the blank sea, upon which not a sail was to be discovered, itself a glorious spectacle. As I sat in the full enjoyment of the scene I could not help thinking of last Saturday, and contrasting my surroundings then, when I found myself one of thirty thousand human beings packed into the Leeds Cloth Hall yard—or rather, into the fine “Gladstone Hall” erected on that spot—with the situation in which I am placed to-day.

I have already discovered that there is one serious defect about the arrangements on board the Charles Quint. Everybody who has travelled by sea knows that the two principal occupations of well-disposed passengers are eating the meals provided on board and then grumbling at the cookery and the quality of the provisions served. With a perverse want of consideration for the passengers, the Compagnie Transatlantique have resolved apparently to deprive them of at least one of these occupations—and possibly the favourite one—that of grumbling. Nothing could well be better than the manner in which we are fed on board the Charles Quint. At seven in the morning the usual French “first breakfast,” consisting of coffee and bread and butter, is provided. After that I have my bath, and my first walk on deck. At half-past nine comes the regular breakfast, beautifully served in the saloon. At the head of our table sits the captain, a handsome and refined-looking man of fifty, who speaks French with a strong southern accent, and who is quite a model of mingled dignity and suavity. To his right and left are seated two smart young gentlemen in elegant uniforms, one of whom is the purser and the other the doctor, and whom I have already christened the Corsican Brothers, not merely because of their striking resemblance to each other, but because they invariably walk the deck together, and seem almost as inseparable as the Siamese Twins themselves. Then, each of us in a comfortable revolving arm-chair, come the ten or twelve saloon passengers.

A very sociable party we make; and how we enjoy our food, to be sure! At breakfast this morning the following was the menu, all the dishes being served in a style which would have done credit to Champeau’s:—Radishes, anchovies (excellent), omelette of mushrooms, calves’ head, hot lobster with sauce piquante (excellent), filet de bœuf with potatoes, cheese, and fruit. Admirable white and red wine is supplied in abundance during the meal, and the usual coffee and cognac afterwards. With a cuisine like this, and in so pleasant and airy a saloon as ours, the most squeamish of travellers might fairly tempt the “dangers of the deep.”

A very amusing conversation occupied the company at breakfast. They thought proper to engage in an edifying discussion on sea-sickness, accompanied by realistic—indeed, occasionally too realistic—illustrations on the part of most present of the peculiar manner in which they were affected by the malady. Eventually some one propounded a knotty problem for solution. “How is it,” he asked, “that Englishmen are never sea-sick?” Alas! poor innocent. I thought of the revelation that awaited him whenever he made his first passage from Calais to Dover; but in the meantime I listened eagerly for the answer to his question. It came from the captain, and was as follows: “You see it is all an affair of the imagination, this sea-sickness. Now, the English have no imagination, and consequently they are never sea-sick. Voilà tout!”

But if my friends on board have limited ideas on some subjects, they are nevertheless—like most people in this world when you once get to know them—very good fellows, and they have shown an amazing amount of kindness to myself as the sole foreigner on board. One pleasant little “commercial,” bound for Bone, has insisted upon playing chess with me during the greater part of the afternoon; whilst after dinner the Corsican Brothers invited me to join them in the smoking-room at a game at dummy whist. There was a lovely sunset this evening, and to-night the stars are shining with marvellous brilliance, the Milky Way reflecting a perceptible track of light upon the ocean. The moon is burning, a crescent of red fire, high in the heavens. Before turning in for the night the long low line of the African coast became visible in the distance. Strangely enough, I last saw it on this very day twelve months ago.

Sunday, October 16th.—Hardly had I fallen into my first sleep last night when I was aroused by the din of our arrival at Bone. Everybody on board the ship apparently seemed to think it necessary to jump out of bed and forthwith to make the greatest possible amount of noise. Shouting, laughing, crying, talking, and even playing the piano in the saloon, they evidently found that in no other way could they give expression to their feelings at having once more come within sight of land. One would have imagined that it was a voyage of a year instead of one of a day only that had come to an end. Then the “horrid winch” began to work, and for a couple of hours the uproar was really appalling. After that, apparently because everybody was exhausted, things became quieter, and I was able to get a few hours’ sleep.

At seven o’clock, when I rose and dressed, I found the vessel moored alongside the quay of Bone, and consequently lying snugly in the best harbour on the coast of Algiers. Bone is one of the most flourishing towns in the French colony in North Africa, and it attracts a considerable number of commercial travellers like those who have come with me in the Charles Quint. For the uncommercial traveller it has other attractions of a special kind. Thus the sportsman comes here because the railway from this place takes him to the nearest spot to England where that noblest of all the beasts of the forest, the lion, is to be found; whilst those who are interested in the past visit Bone because here St. Augustine lived and wrote his burning “Confessions,” and because near here his tomb is now to be seen.

The morning was bright and beautiful, though on the brown hills behind the town some rather ominous clouds were hanging. As I was about to take my first walk on the soil of Africa, I thought it advisable to array myself in my lightest attire, and accordingly I presently sallied forth in a guise which would have brought a mob to my heels in any English town. The scene was very picturesque. The town is of semi-French architecture, with a wide boulevard and a little square, besides many narrow streets. Everywhere Arabs, clad in the flowing white burnous and in the blue or red jebbas, were to be seen. Hundreds of black and brown children—genuine street Arabs these—were gambolling about the doors of the houses; and amid the swarthy elders of the famous race and their half-naked offspring, there strolled about, with that air of dignity which the conqueror, wherever he may be found, seldom forgets to wear, numbers of Frenchmen.

Sunday morning though it was, the shops were all open. Those best worth examining were the photograph and coral shops. Coral is obtained in large quantities upon this coast; La Calle, a port a few miles to the east, being one of the seats of the coral fishery. The articles I was shown in the different shops were very cheap, but were poor in quality. I strolled into the fish and vegetable markets. In the former were many curious fishes, as well as some very fine ones. Among the curious fish were large quantities of a creature very like the octopus, which I was told was a favourite delicacy among all classes. In the vegetable market, besides an abundant supply of such vegetables as are only produced in England during the summer, there were great quantities of melons, oranges, lemons, and pomegranates. In the centre of the town is a small garden, in which tropical plants and trees were growing luxuriantly. Everywhere one could see traces of the struggle between the old and the new, and everywhere proofs were to be found of the success with which the French are establishing their own institutions on the soil of Africa, in spite of the dogged opposition of one of the most conservative races in the world.

The church bells were ringing, and I could not resist the temptation to attend the Catholic service in the town in which St. Augustine once ministered. In coming back towards the ship, I noticed that in many cases a bottle of live leeches was suspended as a sign in front of the barbers’ shops. In an evil moment I was induced to enter one of these establishments, and trust myself to the tender mercies of an Algerian hairdresser. It was a wonderful operation which I had to undergo. I had chosen the most fashionable establishment of the kind in Bone, and a stately Frenchwoman, seated at that little counter which is so dear to the ladies of her race, superintended the work of the shop, and received with dignity the fees of the shorn. The barber to whose care I was intrusted began by covering my head and beard with violet powder, causing me to look amazingly like an overgrown baby. This was not the worst of what I had to submit to, however, for when the hair-cutting was concluded, my tormentor produced an article, the sight of which recalled my own nursery days, to wit, a small tooth comb, and proceeded to apply it with exemplary diligence to my head! It was not without a feeling of profound thankfulness that I at last escaped from his grasp, and, returning to the Charles Quint, partook of the admirable breakfast which the chef had served up. This breakfast began with oysters and melons—which might have grown among the fields of far-away Cassaba—and ended with new oranges and curaçao.

All the saloon passengers who came with me from Marseilles have left the ship, but we have some new-comers in their place. The most important of these is Colonel Allegro, the notorious adventurer, who for a time filled the post of Tunisian Consul at Bone, and who, although in the service of the Bey, is well known as one of the most determined and relentless Arab-hunters in North Africa. He is now on his way to Tunis accompanied by Arab horses, Arab servants, and an immense amount of camp equipments, having just been offered the command of the cavalry in one of the columns which are destined to march upon Kairwan. A swarthy man with keen black eyes and resolute mouth, the colonel does not promise much in the way of agreeable companionship during our voyage to Tunis. The other new-comers are a young Italian with his remarkably pretty wife and their baby. This gentleman lives at Susa, one of the Arab coast-towns in the Gulf of Hammamet, and is returning to his dreary home after a pleasure-trip to Paris. His wife seems quite content at the prospect of exchanging the delights of Paris for the dull confinement of a house in such a place as Susa. The husband has already taken me into his confidence so far as to express his opinion not only about Colonel Allegro in particular, but about the French in general. There is clearly no love lost between Frenchmen and Italians at this moment.

Whilst we have been waiting here discharging or taking in cargo, my fair friend the vivandière has been distinguishing herself. Yesterday, smooth though the sea was, she kept her berth, and doubtless nourished those feelings towards the rest of the human race which only the sea-sick know. To-day she had recovered her equanimity, her good looks, and, I hope, her benevolence. At all events, she stepped ashore early this morning arrayed in her most gorgeous costume, feathers flying from her hat, and stars and medals glittering on her bosom. A crowd of a hundred solemn-faced Arabs, among whom a few lively-looking Frenchmen were mingled, quickly formed round her, and escorted by this guard of honour she set off into the town. She returned at twelve o’clock in the highest state of delight. Her guard had increased from one to five hundred, whilst she enjoyed the satisfaction of being tenderly supported on either side by a private soldier of the line. I must say these soldiers looked rather sheepish, half proud and half ashamed, in fact. Not so mademoiselle, however. It was evidently one of the brightest moments of her life. She embraced her two friends with fervour on parting from them; and then, leaning over the bulwarks of the Charles Quint, she discharged a whole armoury of messages of remembrance and affection to her brave comrades of the 91st regiment. How the Arabs stared; and how the jolly handsome-looking young negroes on the quay showed their gleaming white teeth as they grinned at the amazing spectacle.

They had something else to grin at presently. A shuffling young fellow, aged twenty or thereabouts, in the red breeches and blue coat of the infantry, came listlessly along in the direction of our vessel. As soon as she saw him our vivandière became greatly excited. “Ho! Adolphe! Adolphe! Venez ici!” she shouted at the top of her somewhat shrill voice. Adolphe seemed not particularly anxious to respond to the invitation. He grinned idiotically; thrust his hands deeper than ever into his breeches’ pockets, and blushed vividly. But he made no motion towards the gangway connecting the ship with the shore. For a moment mademoiselle seemed puzzled as to what she should do: then, after telling him that he was nothing but a great stupid, she tripped lightly down the ladder, sprang upon the quay, seized Adolphe’s ear between her dainty little finger and thumb, and amidst the loud laughter of the spectators conducted him in triumph on board the Charles Quint. Why she wanted him there goodness only knows. Perhaps to scold, perhaps to pet him. I do not know. But in a couple of minutes she reappeared with her captive at the gangway, bestowed upon him two sounding kisses, and then patting him on the back, sent him down the ladder looking more doltish than ever. I think she must have seen a suspicious twinkle in my eye. At all events she turned to me, and with a mocking little curtsey said, “C’est mon cousin, monsieur!” But I confess I have my own ideas about that kind of cousinship.

A WHITE SQUALL.

A crowded deck — Rough seas — La Calle and its boatmen — A sea-fight on a small scale — Dinner under difficulties — Trying to sleep — The small miseries of life — The Gulf of Tunis — A beautiful prospect — Goletta — My friend Afrigan — Jewish women — French soldiers.

Sunday, October 16th.—The Charles Quint left Bone at two o’clock on its voyage to Goletta. Unfortunately, before the hour of sailing the weather underwent a complete change. Heavy clouds settled down upon the hills encircling the town, swathing them in a grey mist, so that the scenery suddenly seemed to change from that of Africa to that of Scotland. Indeed, these African hills at all times bear a strong resemblance to the brown highlands of our own country. Then a fresh wind sprang up, and sharp showers of rain began to fall; whilst the sea rapidly lost its beautiful blue colour, and turned to a pale green like that of the German Ocean. I was glad to betake myself to my cabin, and there lay aside the white garments in which I had clad myself in the hot early morning, returning to a warmer and more sober dress.

At last, at two o’clock, the moorings were cast loose, and we set sail amid the chattering of the excited crowd of Moors and negroes on the wharf, and the dismal groaning of our deck passengers, whose prophetic souls had apparently already enabled them to foresee the trouble that was to come. It is one characteristic of French and Italian steamers, and not altogether an agreeable one, that the whole deck is free to the passengers of all classes. The saloon is, of course, reserved for those who pay for its accommodation: but everybody is at liberty to walk upon the hurricane-deck, or to sit in the snug corners which abound near the poop. This afternoon accordingly I found many Arabs, many Jews, and not a few dubious-looking Christians, scattered about on the upper deck. Below, in the ship’s waist, were the horses and tents of Colonel Allegro, and a swarm of Mohammedan women squatting under Turkish carpets, and apparently endeavouring to persuade themselves that they were going to have a fine run to La Calle, the first port on the way to Goletta. Alas! no sooner had we got clear of the harbour of Bone than we found ourselves in the full enjoyment of all the experiences of a white squall. Only a few hours had been needed to turn the placid sea of yesterday into a boiling, angry ocean, upon which our brave Charles Quint pitched and rolled like a cork. Woeful was then the scene among our deck passengers. One after another they succumbed to their inevitable fate, and before long there did not seem to be a single person among them who was not horribly sick.

The misfortune was that they simply “lay where they fell” like so many logs, so that a promenade upon the upper deck could only be enjoyed at the risk of trampling upon some prostrate Arab, Turk, or Jew. I thought of Thackeray’s description of “the white squall famous” which he encountered nearly forty years ago in the Levant. Many of his lines were appropriate to the situation on board the Charles Quint as, tossed about upon the raging sea, she resolutely fought her way onwards towards her destination:—