In days of national antipathy, now happily bygone, it was a vulgar English prejudice that Frenchmen were great only as cooks and dancing-masters. In popular belief, the fiddle and the frying-pan were their insignia, pirouettes and fricassees their highest achievements. Peace and steam have exploded these exaggerated notions in the minds even of the least intelligent. They would be inexcusable in the days of cheap excursions to Paris and electric telegraphs beneath the billows of the Channel. Moreover, Englishmen have learned to rival what they once contemned; native talent has been encouraged; Britain glories in cooks who will lower their culinary flag to no foreign kickshaw-compounder that ever stirred a sauce or frothed a soufflÉ; and in professors of the choregraphic who would scorn to be excelled by any Gaul that ever carried a kit. A higher standard has been fixed for the capacity of Frenchmen. Rivalled in cookery and capers, their claims are admitted to first-rate excellence in two nobler sciences—the military, namely, and the dramatic. Sometimes they unite the two. Witness Napoleon, the greatest warrior and most consummate actor France can boast. Certainly Frenchmen show nowhere to such advantage as on the stage or in the field, by the light of the foot-lamps or through the smoke of the bivouac. So strongly, indeed, are they imbued with the military and dramatic essences, that these are continually perceptible when they are engaged in pursuits of a most opposite character. The conscription and national-guard system give to the whole nation a martial tinge, from which the most pacific callings are no preservative. In France, men whose existence passes in the measurement of calico or the parcelling of groceries, often seem, in tone, costume, and mustache, to pertain to the camp rather than the counter. And in the gravest occupations, as in the most commonplace passages of life, a large majority of Frenchmen appear to us English to be continually acting. Their love of effect, contrast, and epigram, gives a theatrical air to their most ordinary as to their most important proceedings. Nations, like individuals, view each other through their own peculiar spectacles; and the French are as much struck and amused with English phlegm and reserve as we are with their vehemence, gesticulations, and demonstrativeness. We are not, however, here preluding to a dissertation on national character, but to a notice of some pleasant military sketches by a French officer. We have the highest opinion of Frenchmen as soldiers, not merely on account of their bravery, which is universally admitted—by none more freely than by those who have fought and beaten them—but by reason of their many other excellent military qualities—of their discipline, temperance, subordination, and of that sentiment of soldierly honour which we believe to pervade the French troops to an extent never exceeded, and rarely equalled, in any other European army. The works of our own military historians abound with traits of French chivalry and heroism, as they also do with acknowledgments of their peculiar aptitude for war, of their cheerfulness on the march, their patience under privations, their skill—and this is no slight virtue in soldiers—in shifting for themselves, and making the most of a bad bivouac, uncomfortable quarters, or a scanty ration. All these qualities are well displayed in M. de Castellane's sketches of French military life. The date of his campaigns is recent, the scene Africa; his opponents were Arabs and Kabyles; his comrades, Spahis, Zouaves, Chasseurs d'Orleans, and Chasseurs d'Afrique. To some, a brief explanation of these terms may be useful. Spahis are Arab cavalry in the French service, officered by Frenchmen, and with an admixture of European soldiers in the ranks. The Zouaves are a crack infantry corps, similarly composed, and attired, like the Spahis, in Oriental costume. The Chasseurs of Orleans are light infantry, wonderfully active, and wearing dark uniforms. Finally, the Chasseurs of Africa are a very fine body of French cavalry, raised expressly for African service, dressed in light blue, well mounted, and armed with carbine and sabre, some with lances. Like the Zouaves, this last-named corps is a favourite with adventurous volunteers, ambitious of distinction and the epaulet. In its fourth squadron, the author of these sketches held an officer's commission. He writes like a gentleman and a soldier; his style is pointed and to the purpose, and free from egotism and affectation. He himself shared in some of the warlike episodes he tells of; others are derived from the verbal or written narratives of his comrades. They comprise a great variety of details, and fully initiate us into the phases of a soldier's life in Africa. Numerous as are the works, French, English, and German, of which French conquest and colonisation in Africa have furnished the theme, there was still abundant room for this one, taking up, as it does, that branch of the subject which writers generally have had least opportunity of appreciating—the joys and sorrows, hardships and exploits, perils and sufferings, of the French soldier in Algeria. A fresh interest is also imparted to it by the prominent part lately and still taken in public affairs in France by men who have risen into distinction through their valour and military talents during the long struggle with the Arabs. Comparatively inattentive as we in England were to the razzias and skirmishes of the African campaigns, the names of Changarnier, Cavaignac, and LamoriciÈre can hardly be said to have dwelt in our memories until revolution and civil strife in their own country brought them to the front. It now is interesting to revert to those earlier days of their career, when they fought the Bedouin on the arid plains and in the perilous defiles of North Africa, fostering in that rough school the sternness and tenacity of character which they since have more than once had occasion usefully to display amidst the turmoil of domestic discord.

"At four days' march from Milianah," says M. de Castellane, "in the heart of the valley of the Cheliff, stand some old Roman walls, bearing mute testimony to the power of the ancient rulers of the land. At the foot of these walls, not far from tracts of stubble and dried herbs, delicious gardens and orchards, orange and pomegranate trees, and limpid springs, invite a halt; whilst luxuriant vines, trailing from branch to branch, form bowers of verdure, and offer delightful shelter to the fatigued wayfarer. It was at this spot that General Changarnier's column, consisting of twelve hundred infantry, three hundred regular cavalry, and four hundred Arab horsemen, was reposing, in the month of September 1842, from its numerous expeditions under a burning sun, protecting by its presence the tribes that had recently made their submission, and giving the aman to those numerous ones which came to implore it.[17] The column had been for some time at El-Arour, (the name of these gardens), when a letter reached the camp from our Aga in the south. Menaced by Abd-el-Kader, Ahmeur-ben-Ferrah asked succour of General Changarnier, entreating him to arrive speedily if he did not wish soon to learn the ruin and massacre of the tribes to whom France owed protection. It was of the utmost importance to go quickly to his assistance. To pass by Milianah was to lengthen the journey four days; through the mountains, on the other hand, in two marches they would be near enough to support him. The tribes seemed peacefully disposed. The Arab chiefs assured the French that not a shot would be fired at them. They spoke of a very difficult defile, but two hours, they said, would take the troops through it. Besides, it was dangerous only in case of hostility from the tribes adjacent to the river, whose chiefs, only the evening before, had visited the camp in friendship. Finally, the general had under his orders Zouaves, Chasseurs of Orleans, and Chasseurs of Africa, commanded by Colonel Cavaignac, Major Forey, and Colonel Morris. With such valiant troops, and such lieutenants, no danger was to be dreaded; General Changarnier's decision was soon taken; he would pass through the mountains."

On the 17th of the month the little band set out, marched the 18th, receiving the submission of several tribes, and early on the morning of the 19th reached the Oued-Foddha river. There a halt of some duration was ordered, preparatory to entering the defile through which the river flows. The cavalry and a small party of infantry went out foraging. Presently, a well-sustained fire of musketry was heard, and an officer, sent to reconnoitre, saw the foragers defending themselves bravely against a host of white-draped Kabyles, headed by officers of the Arab regulars, dressed in red, who ran from group to group, exciting the men to the combat. This furious attack was rather a contrast with the peaceable passage promised by the Arab chiefs. But retreat could not be thought of. It would be a signal for the spread and consolidation of the revolt, and would occasion as much loss of life as a forward movement. The order was given to march, and the head of the column plunged boldly into the frightful gorge of the Oued-Foddha.

"Meanwhile, on the right (the left bank of the river, for they were marching southwards, whilst the Oued-Foddha flows towards the north,) Captain Ribain's company of Chasseurs d'Orleans, sent to cover the foraging, steadily retired upon the column; from brushwood to brushwood, from tree to tree, each man retreated, seeking a favourable position, a good ambuscade; and often the same obstacle concealed a Kabyle on one side, and a chasseur on the other, each seeking an opportunity to kill his opponent. When they reached the last platform the bugle sounded the gymnastic step, and forthwith the chasseurs, rolling and sliding down the slopes, rapidly rejoined the rearguard, now about to enter the pass. The real combat was beginning; already the Kabyles shouted from the summits on either hand, 'You have entered your tomb, and will never leave it:' but they reckoned without our soldiers, without the chief who commanded them. Calm, impassible, General Changarnier rode with the rearguard, wrapped in his little caban of white wool,[18] a target for every bullet, giving his orders with a coolness and precision that reassured the troops and redoubled their ardour. A description of the ground is essential to a clear comprehension of this terrible struggle. A hundred feet wide of sandy soil, furrowed by the bed of the torrent, was the ground they fought upon; right and left were steep slaty precipices, fringed with pine-trees; from the peaks of the mountains, which towered like obelisks, the balls poured down: such was the theatre of the combat. Imagine this ravine, these rocks, these mountains, covered with a multitude exciting themselves by their own yells, intoxicating themselves with the smell of powder, blind to danger, and rushing upon a handful of men, who opposed the coolness of energy, and the regular action of discipline, to their disorderly fury. But never for a moment did our soldiers cease to be worthily commanded. The officers set the example; the chief had not hesitated an instant, but had at once made up his mind, and imparted to his troops his own promptitude and decision. His plan was to march quickly, so as to pass the peaks, which were separated by impenetrable ravines, before the mass of Kabyles could get from one to the other: to effect this he occupied one of those positions indispensable to the safety of the column; and the rearguard, when too hard pressed, extricated itself by vigorous charges with the bayonet.

"Fortunately the tribes to the east did not take part in the attack, so that the defence was at first confined to the right. Nevertheless, the column was advancing with difficulty, when it reached one of those passages that must be occupied. Some rocky precipices impended over the bed of the river, in front of a marabout or tomb, surrounded by lentisk trees; the rifle company of the Chasseurs d'Orleans were ordered to take these rocks; they sprang forward, full of ardour, but the steeps were frightful, and a week's provisions are a heavy load. Their lieutenant, Ricot, who had rushed forward without looking whether he was followed, was the first upon the platform. Two balls pierced his breast. Lieutenant Martin and two men, hastening to his assistance, were likewise shot down. The surviving officer, hurrying in their footsteps, was checked by a terrible wound. The company, deprived of their officers and sergeant major, and exposed, without guide or leader, to a storm of bullets, was compelled to retreat, rescuing M. Martin, who was still alive. The other wounded were torn to pieces in sight of the column, amidst the ferocious cries of the Kabyles.

"The General immediately ordered a halt; the Zouaves and three companies of the Chasseurs of Orleans were to assault the position, whilst the cavalry drove back the enemy in the bed of the river. The charge was sounded, with Colonel Cavaignac and Major Forey at the head of the troops; the General sprang forward and surmounted the steep flanks of the mountain, closely followed by his eager soldiers. Fury was at its height, and the struggle terrible. M. Laplanche, a staff officer attached to the Zouaves, was killed, a major had his horse killed, a captain his epaulet shot off; the General himself was indebted for his life to a bugler, who killed a Kabyle whose musket-muzzle was at his breast. At last we were masters of the position. In the river the charge of cavalry had also been completely successful: numerous dead bodies lay there, including some of women, who threw themselves on our soldiers, mixed with the Kabyles, fighting like men, and cutting off, for bloody trophies, the heads of the slain.

"These two vigorous offensive movements procured us a little respite; soon, however, the combat was renewed with fresh ardour. The officers, foremost in danger, were also the first hit. Five officers of Zouaves, three of the Chasseurs d'Orleans, had already fallen, and it was but the middle of the day. Colonel Cavaignac, with his Zouaves, persisted in revenging his officers. It was no longer courage, but fury; every man was worth a score, and seemed to multiply himself to face all perils. As to the General, the bullets and the danger only increased his audacious coolness; his eyes beamed, and wherever he passed he inspired all with new energy. Amidst the noise of the musketry, which the mountain echoes repeated like the howling of a storm, the column advanced; the cavalry marching in front, with orders to halt, towards nightfall, in the first favourable position.

"The troops had reached a spot where the two lofty banks of the ravine, bending inwards, again left but a narrow passage. Both banks were now occupied by the Kabyles; and whilst two companies were sent to repel them on the left, Captain Ribains, with a detachment of Chasseurs d'Orleans, was ordered to occupy the right-hand position. It was a vertical cascade of rocks and slaty soil, covered with firs and brushwood; a rivulet flowed across and soaked the ground, upon its way to the river. The captain dislodged the Arabs, occupied the position, thus assuring the free passage of the column; but, when he would have rejoined the main body, the Kabyles threw themselves upon his little band. A few men, the foremost files, tried to descend in a straight line; their feet slipped upon the slope, rendered slippery by the water, and nine of them were precipitated from an elevation of eighty feet. They rolled from rock to rock, from cliff to cliff, trying, but in vain, to cling to the bushes, and fell at last into the bed of the river. The rest of the company had inclined to the right towards a ravine, letting themselves drop from tree to tree, to rejoin the column. One soldier, Calmette by name, separated from his comrades and surrounded by Kabyles, was driven to the brink of the precipice. With his rifle he shot down one, two others fell by his bayonet; then, finding that he must fall, he seized two Kabyles, and sought to avenge his fate by making them share it. The rock was perpendicular; they fell from its summit, and, by unheard of good luck, the Kabyle to whom the chasseur most closely clung fell under him, and by his death saved his enemy's life. As to Captain Ribains, he was descending last of all, and seemed to defy the hostile bullets, when three Kabyles rushed upon him, fired, and fractured his shoulder. Fortunately his men managed to carry him off. All who witnessed still remember his being borne past the General, who congratulated him on his glorious conduct; his energetic countenance expressed the legitimate pride of duty done, and blood nobly poured out."

At last night approached, and the bivouac was established at a place where the bed of the river expanded. Tents were pitched for the General and the wounded; the soldiers received fresh ammunition; a battalion was ordered to march, in profound silence, at two in the morning, to occupy the heights along the river bank, by which the morrow's march would lead. The French, still excited by the contest, conversed eagerly round their bivouac fires. Their Arab allies were discouraged, and sat gloomily beside their saddled horses, wrapped in their burnous and without fire. There were but three surgeons in the camp, and their hands were full. Most of the wounds had been received at the musket's muzzle, and were very painful. Eight amputations took place during the night. The quarter of the bivouac where the hospital was established, resounded with groans and cries of anguish. Examples of heroic endurance were not wanting. "For three quarters of an hour the chief surgeon probed and tortured the arm of Captain Ribains, saving the limb by his skill. During this long operation, the captain, seated on a biscuit box, amidst the dead and dying, showed as much fortitude as he had previously displayed courage. Not a complaint did he utter; only, from time to time, he could not help turning to the surgeon and saying—'Really, doctor, you hurt me.' Amongst the wounded of the 4th Chasseurs d'Afrique was a soldier named Cayeux. Feeling his death approach, he sent for his captain. After giving him a last message for his mother: 'Give my thanks, also,' said the soldier, 'to Colonel Tartas; he is a good man—he has always loved those he commanded; tell him that one of his soldiers thanks him with his dying breath.'" An affecting trait, honourable alike to soldier and to chief. There was much to do that night: it was all done, and well done. Litters were required for the wounded: trees were cut down, and the litters were made. The dead were to be buried: an hour before daybreak they were collected; a detachment of engineers, diverting the course of the stream, dug a hole, in which the bodies were deposited, and over which the water was again allowed to flow. This was to protect the corpses from Kabyle profanation. At dawn the march was resumed, amidst the shouts of the Kabyles, summoning each other to the massacre of the French. Their surprise and rage were excessive on finding the positions along the line of march all occupied. Notwithstanding the disadvantage of ground, the French now had the best of it, and several times during that day's march they turned upon their pursuers with terrible effect, the Zouaves especially distinguishing themselves. "After one of these rallies, they passed, to the great joy of all, through some magnificent vines, and quenched their thirst with the ripe grapes—the General himself, to whom the soldiers hastened to offer the first-fruits of the vintage, setting the example. Just then Colonel Cavaignac passed by. 'Here, my dear colonel,' said General Changarnier, offering him a splendid bunch of grapes, 'you must need refreshment after such glorious fatigues.' And they fell into chat, the balls falling thickly around them, until Colonel Cavaignac was called away to one of his captains, shot down at a few paces' distance, and who wished to recommend to him his mother and sister, and to give him his cross of officer of the Legion of Honour."

A short time brought the column out of the defile upon ground which, although mountainous, appeared by contrast an open plain, and where the cavalry could act with advantage. The Kabyles were beaten off; and the next day halt was made, to rest the men, look after the wounded, and execute a plan of reprisals devised by Changarnier. His spies had informed him where the flocks and families of his late antagonists were assembled. A razzia was ordered in the night, and its result was eight hundred prisoners and twelve thousand head of cattle. Thus encumbered with captives, spoil, and wounded, the little band, which originally numbered barely two thousand men, now notably reduced by two days' severe fighting, completed a march of fifty leagues, to the utter astonishment of the natives, who could not believe that such a handful of troops had made their way, amidst the storm of Kabyle bullets, through those terrible ravines, which the Arabs designate the defiles of death. The affair of the Oued-Foddha is still celebrated in the French army as one of the most heroic achievements of the African war. All who were engaged did their duty well, taking example from their commander, of whom M. de Castellane speaks in the highest terms. Eight months after this affair the Kabyles had made their submission, and the war was at an end in the province—for a time, at least. General Changarnier was about to return to France. M. de Castellane accompanied him to the coast.

"I well remember that, on our road from Milianah to Algiers, the Arab chiefs came to greet him on his passage, and amongst them I met an old CaÏd of the Hadjouts, whom I had known at Blidah. We spoke of the numerous razzias and nocturnal expeditions that had destroyed his warlike tribe. 'His name, with us,' he said to me, speaking of General Changarnier, 'signifies the subduer of pride, the conqueror of enemies;[19] and he has justified his name.' Then pointing to the long line of mountains which border the Mitidja from Chenouan to the sea, 'When the storm comes,' he continued, 'the lightning runs in an instant along all those mountains, penetrating their inmost recesses. Thus did his glance discover us. And when he had seen us, the bullet reaches not its aim more rapidly!' The old Arab spoke the truth. General Changarnier's characteristics are a quick and sound judgment, and dauntless energy: he knows how to command. His courage rises with danger; then, if you approach him, his vigour communicates itself to you, and you cannot doubt of success. At Constantina he first distinguished himself, and since then he has never for a day been inferior to the glorious reputation he there acquired. If ever you find yourself at the bivouac, or under the soldier's little tent, with one of those old African bands, get them to talk to you of their numerous expeditions under his orders, and you will see what they say of him."

It was in March 1843 that M. de Castellane and some other officers left Algiers for Blidah, there to join General Changarnier, and commence, under his orders, a campaign in the interior. Their mid-day halt was at Bouffarik, an unwholesome town, frequently ravaged by fever, but which, nevertheless, enjoys a certain degree of prosperity, due to its central position. Here they refreshed themselves, according to invariable custom, at the celebrated coffee-house of la MÈre Gaspard, a veteran sutler, who, after following the drum ever since the first landing of the French in 1830, had wearied of wandering, and pitched her tent at Bouffarik. There she greatly prospered, and in a few years had land of her own, a splendid hotel and coffee-house. "The place was adorned with paintings, marbles, and mirrors, and especially with some very fine engravings from Horace Vernet's pictures, which had been placed there by the hand of the celebrated artist. One day, dying of thirst, Vernet alighted at Mother Gaspard's. There he was offered drink, and land to buy. He drank and he bought some land, but, when signing the bargain, he perceived that the walls were covered with wretched lithographs after his pictures. Like a good neighbour, he promised to send the engravings, and he kept his word. Mother Gaspard, proud of the gift, never fails to relate the incident, and in my turn I repeat the tale." Between Bouffarik and Blidah, the traveller comes to a monument erected in honour of a sergeant and fifteen men who perished there in 1840. They and five others were escorting the post-bag from Bouffarik, when they were set upon by some four hundred mounted Arabs. Forming a miniature square, they made a valiant defence, but five only survived when a squadron of Spahis came to the rescue.

At Blidah, a perfect labyrinth of streets, squares and lanes, the travellers were greatly puzzled to find the General's quarters, when an obliging Arab volunteered to guide them to the residence of the Changarlo. It was a very humble habitation for the commander of a great province. A single sentry stood at the door; a great fig tree, the refuge of countless pigeons, shot up in the middle of the court; a small chamber, the only one upon the first floor, was the General's sleeping room; upon the ground floor, a large apartment answered the double purpose of orderly-room and of an aide-de-camp's bed-chamber. Two tolerably furnished rooms were allotted to visitors. At Blidah, as in camp, General Changarnier's hospitality was proverbial, even amongst the Arabs. M. de Castellane and his comrades found a cordial reception. But they were not long to enjoy themselves beneath the shadow of the General's fig-tree. The march was ordered for the next morning; Blidah's quiet streets and unfrequented shops swarmed with soldiers, providing themselves with coffee and tobacco, and such other comforts as their pocket-money allowed. The French soldier receives twopence half-penny every five days—no great fund for luxuries. On all sides, fatigue-parties were hurrying to the stores; and at night, until tattoo was beaten, every wine-house, was thronged for a parting carouse. At daybreak, with well-packed knapsacks and a week's rations on their backs, the column set out for Milianah. No apprehensions of perils or fatigues ruffled their joyous humour. They were all old soldiers, hardened in many campaigns; and besides, as they themselves said, in their barrack-room style, "with Changarnier there is always a smell of mutton." The allusion was to the numerous flocks they had captured under his orders. The success of his frequent razzias had made the saying proverbial amongst the troops. "On the 13th June 1849, the sixth battalion of Chasseurs, who had so long served under General Changarnier in Africa, having received orders to charge the insurgents in the streets of Paris, set off laughing and repeating to each other, to the great astonishment of the national guards, the old African proverb: 'This smells of mutton.'"

The town of Milianah had twice been preserved to the French by the skill and enterprise of General Changarnier. In June 1840, that officer was colonel of the 2d Light Infantry, a regiment celebrated in African annals, and whose exploits have been repeatedly recorded on the canvass of Horace Vernet. The French army, commanded by Marshal ValÉe, was assembled, exhausted by many fatigues, beneath the walls of Medeah. Milianah, then but recently occupied by the French, was in want of provisions. All the generals deemed its relief impossible; the distance was too great, the men were too weary. Colonel Changarnier thought otherwise, and volunteered the service. By a march of twenty-four leagues in thirty hours, he evaded the enemy and accomplished his task, returning to Medeah four days afterwards, to receive the congratulations of the whole army. The stores and succours thus thrown into Milianah would suffice, it was hoped and expected, until the end of the autumn. But the hot season brought sickness in its train; vermin destroyed part of the provisions; the cattle died: famine was imminent.

"Pent up within the ramparts and hard pressed by hunger, the soldiers ate whatever they could lay hands upon, even boiling and devouring weeds and mallows. This unwholesome nourishment, acting on the brain, induced nostalgia and suicide. Of twelve hundred men, seven hundred and fifty had perished; four hundred were in hospital, the others were little better than invalids, and had hardly strength to carry their muskets. The officers themselves were obliged to stand sentry, and the fatal day was near at hand when, for want of defenders, the town must be taken. No letters, no news—the spies had all been killed. At last a despatch from the governor escaped the Arabs, and intelligence reached Algiers of the sad condition of the garrison. Colonel Changarnier, who had become general since his first relief of Milianah, had increased, by further feats, his reputation for skill and audacity, and to him Marshal ValÉe again had recourse. Only two thousand men could be spared, wherewith to brave the attacks of the whole forces of Abd-el-Kader, who then had scarcely passed the zenith of his power. But Changarnier did not hesitate. The greater the peril, the more glorious the success."

By spreading reports of a march in a contrary direction, the daring leader gained a day upon the enemy, and then cut his way to Milianah, reaching it in time to save the remnant of the unfortunate garrison. But three years had greatly changed the aspect of affairs; and when M. de Castellane reached Milianah in 1843, he found five thousand effective soldiers waiting the orders of Changarnier. There ensued a period of idleness for the men, but of great activity for the General and staff. The plan of campaign was to be sketched out; information was to be obtained concerning the nature of the country.

"Everyday the Aga of the Beni-Menacers, Ben-Tifour, came to the General's quarters with men of his tribe, and there, by dint of questioning, by asking the same things ten times over and of ten different individuals, the chief of the province succeeded in obtaining exact notions of the country, the halting places, the water, the bivouacs. During this time a constant communication was kept up with Cherchell by means of spies. Some of the letters sent cost five hundred francs postage, for the carriers risked their lives. At last, after mature reflection, the General's plan was decided upon and written down; and his orders were given with that clearness and precision which leaves no doubt or ambiguity. This was one of General Changarnier's characteristics. With him obedience was always easy, because the duty was never doubtful."

At Milianah the French officers had a club, a pleasant pavilion in the middle of a garden. A library and a coffee house were attached to it. For evening amusement there was the theatre. Ay, a theatre at Milianah! How could Frenchmen, even in the heart of Algeria, exist without a vaudeville? The soldiers were actors. The vivandiÈres lent their caps and gowns to dress up the female characters. "I well remember," says M. de Castellane, "seeing Le Caporal et la Payse played at Milianah. The Dejazet of the company, a mettlesome ArtÉmise, excited the laughter of the whole audience, even that of General Changarnier, who often attended the performance, in his box of painted paper. It is impossible to say how much these amusements, which some may deem futile, contributed to keep up the spirits of the troops, and to dispel those gloomy ideas which in Africa are often the forerunners of nostalgia and death."

Not all these diversions and resources, however, could reconcile M. de Castellane to a fortnight's halt at Milianah. He beguiled his anxiety for action by researches into the history of certain Arab tribes. The three principal families of Milianah were those of Omar, Sidi-Embarek, and Ouled-ben-Yousef. At that time, Sidi-Embarek was organising amongst the Kabyles a vigorous resistance to the French, to whom Omar was friendly. The recent annals of the Omars are highly curious, and form a chapter of the purest Oriental romance. In the valley of the Cheliff, "at Oued-Boutan, the new Hakem of the town of Milianah, Omar Pacha, of the illustrious family of the pacha of that name, was waiting for us. There we had a fresh proof of the deep traces the Turks have left in this country. After more than thirteen years, the remembrance of them is still so lively amongst the people, that the son of the Pacha Omar was surrounded by the respect of all these chiefs as in the day of his family's power."

"The most celebrated of the Omars was one of those Turkish soldiers, each one of whom may say, when he dons the uniform—'If it is written, I shall be a pacha!' Mehemet Ali, putting into Metelin on his way to Egypt, met Omar, whose brother had for some years past held high office under the Pacha of Algiers. Mehemet Ali and Omar formed a close friendship, and set out together to seek their fortune, but scarcely had they reached Egypt when Omar received a letter from his brother Mahomed, summoning him to his side. The two friends parted, with a vow that the first who succeeded in life should share his prosperity with the other. At Oran, where his brother had become Caliphate of the Bey, Omar's fine figure, his eye, whose gaze none could endure, his long black mustaches, and his brilliant beauty, procured him the surname of chaous. Soon afterwards, the daughter of a Turk of Milianah, named Jemna, whom all cited as a marvel of loveliness, became his wife. But Omar's prosperity was of short duration. His brother Mahomed, whose credit with the Pacha of Algiers gave umbrage to the Bey of Oran, was thrown into prison, and the Bey ordered his death. Omar was compelled to share his brother's dungeon, and when the executioner entered, he would have defended him; but Mahomed prevented it. 'The hour of my death is come,' he said. 'It is not given to man to resist the power of the Most High; but pray to him daily that he may choose thee as my avenger; and bear in mind that you are the husband of my wife and the father of my children.' Thenceforward, revenge was Omar's sole thought; and when, by the Pacha's order, the Bey sent him to Algiers, he used all his efforts to elevate himself, in order to hasten the hour of retaliation. Soon he became CaÏd of the Arabs; and his wife Jemna, who at first had been prevented leaving Oran, managed to join him, through a thousand dangers, escorted by her father, Si-Hassan, and by a faithful servant, Baba-Djelloull.

"The troops of Tunis marched against Algiers; a battle took place, and the Turks were giving way, when Omar, dashing forward with thirty horsemen, made a daring charge, rallied the army by his example, and decided the victory. On his return to Algiers, the troops clamorously demanded him as their Aga. Meanwhile, Mehemet Ali's fortune had also made progress. The massacre of the Mamelukes consolidated his power, and he testified his recollection of his friend, by sending him a magnificent tent.

"The country flourished under the administration of the new Aga. Stone bridges were built over the Isser and the Cheliff. In the words of the Arab chronicle, victory everywhere accompanied Omar. His name was a terror to his enemies, and he was blessed by all the people, when the Bey of Oran, still detesting the brother of Mahomed, and dreading this new power, persuaded the Pacha of Algiers that Omar was planning to usurp his throne. Fortunately, an intercepted letter warned Omar, who hurried to the barracks, and assembled the troops. 'It is you who have raised me,' he said, 'and in none others do I recognise the right to cast me down. I place myself in your hands; either kill me or deliver me from my enemies.' The furious soldiery ran to the Pacha's palace, stabbed him, (1810) and would have named Omar in his stead; but Omar refused, and the khrasnadji, or treasurer, was then elected. All-powerful, Omar saw the hour of revenge at hand. The Bey of Oran having revolted, he marched against him, took his enemy prisoner, and had him flayed alive. In the province of Oran you are still told of Bey el messeloug, the flayed Bey.

"In 1816, fearing the Coulouglis,[20] the Pacha planned their massacre, and confided his project to Omar, who, far from countenancing it, had the Pacha stifled in his bath. This time he was obliged to accept the Pachalik. When sending the customary present to the Porte, he intrusted Si-Hassan and his son Mahomed with rich presents for Mehemet Ali, who was named Pacha almost at the same time. For the space of two years, Omar made head against all manner of misfortunes—against the plague, the locusts, and Lord Exmouth's bombardment; but poor Jemna had lost her peace of mind, for she knew that all Deys die a violent death. In 1818, she was in the pains of childbed when she heard discharges of artillery. Seized with alarm, she desired to see Omar, and, contrary to etiquette, she sent her faithful attendant, old Baba-Djelloull, to seek him; but the old man soon returned, and returned alone. Jemna understood, and swooned away. At the same instant, numerous blows were struck on the door of her apartments. It was the chaous of the new Dey, coming to take possession of Omar's treasures."

The treasures were enormous in amount. M. Roche, the French consul-general at Tangiers, to whom M. de Castellane declares himself indebted for this very interesting history of the Omar family, derived his account of them from a son of Jemna, apparently that one whose birth she was hourly expecting when she was shocked by the intelligence of her husband's violent death. "Omar's palace contained a hundred negroes, three hundred negresses, ten Georgians, twenty Abyssinians, forty thoroughbred horses, ten mares from the Desert. The entire furniture of one saloon was of gold and silver, adorned with precious stones; another room was full of chests of gold and silver coin, silk brocade, and cloth of gold. Jemna changed her dress every week, and attached to each costume was a complete set of diamonds, consisting of a diadem, an aigret and earrings, a collar of fifteen rows of pearls, two clasps, bracelets, twelve rings for the fingers and two for the ankles, and a tunic of cloth-of-gold, studded with precious stones." Omar's murderer and successor would fain have wedded his widow, but she spurned his offer. He then seized her treasures, and, in the moment of good-humour which their great amount occasioned him, he allowed her to retire with her children to Milianah, where her father had property. After a few months' sway, the new Pacha was assassinated in his turn, and his successor, Hadj-Mohamed, went to inhabit the Casbah palace, in defiance of a prophetic inscription announcing an invasion by Christians during the reign of a Pacha whose residence should be the Casbah.

He died of the plague; and Hassan, who succeeded him, and who had been an iman under Omar, showed his gratitude to his former master by magnificent presents to his widow, and great kindness to his sons. Jemna had almost forgotten past sorrows in present happiness, when the arrival of the French brought her fresh disasters and sufferings. Her sons allied themselves with the invaders, thereby incurring hatred and persecution from Abd-el-Kader. They were stripped of all they possessed: Omar, the youngest of them, was loaded with fetters, and placed in a dungeon; Jemna escaped the bastinado only by the mercy of an executioner, who inflicted it upon a negress in her stead. At last the intervention of some Arab chiefs procured the liberty of both mother and son, and the progress of the French enabled them to take up their residence in safety at Milianah, where Omar was appointed hakem, an office equivalent to mayor. In 1843, M. de Castellane was present at an interview between Marshal Bugeaud and Jemna, whose countenance, in spite of lapse of years and many sorrows, still retained traces of great beauty.

The chief of the Sidi-Embarek, a family which, although of Arab race, had enjoyed great respect and influence in the country for some centuries before Turkish rule was terminated by French usurpation, had actively stimulated the persecution of the family of Omar, whose personal enemy he was. M. de Castellane gives the following account of the founder of the Sidi-Embarek:—"In 1580, a man of the Hachems of the west, named Si-Embarek, left his tribe, with two servants, and went to Milianah. There, on account of his poverty, he discharged his servants, who settled upon the banks of the Cheliff, and gave birth to the tribe of Hachems still existing there. Sidi-Embarek then went to Coleah, and engaged himself as rhamÈs (a sort of subordinate farmer) to a certain Ismael; but, instead of working, he slept; and meanwhile, marvellous to relate, the yoke of oxen intrusted to him ploughed by themselves, and, at the close of day, he had done more work than anybody else. This prodigy was reported to Ismael, who, desirous of witnessing it with his own eyes, hid himself one day, and saw Embarek sleeping under a tree whilst the oxen ploughed. Thereupon Ismael knelt before him, and exclaimed—'You are the elect of God; 'tis I who am your servant, and you are my master;' and, taking him home, he treated him with profound respect. Embarek's reputation for holiness spread far and wide; multitudes thronged to solicit his prayers and make him offerings, and he speedily acquired great riches." The grandson, many times removed, of this miraculous ploughman, was a Marabout or saint by right of descent; but he was also a very considerable fighting man, and a most efficient lieutenant of Abd-el-Kader. We make his acquaintance under very striking circumstances, in the course of M. de Castellane's curious account of the Spahis of Mascara. The corps of Spahis had its origin in the necessities of African service. Excellent and most efficient as are the regiments of light dragoons known as Chasseurs d'Afrique, they were not all that was wanted in the way of cavalry. It was found expedient to make Arab fight Arab. Knowledge of the country, and of the habits of the foe, was as essential as good soldiership. The prospect of gain brought abundant recruits; the discipline exacted was less rigid than in French regiments; the sole uniform was a red burnous, stripped off in an instant, when desirable to conceal the military character of the wearer. Europeans not being excluded from the corps, many roving and desultory blades, tempted by the adventurous nature of the service, and to whom the routine and strict discipline of a more regular one would have been irksome, have, at different periods, served in the ranks of the Spahis, and sometimes sabred their way to a commission—"strange adventurers," says M. de Castellane, "whose lives resembled some tale of former days cut out of an old book." And he gives an account of two such persons whom he met with in the Mascara squadron, with which his own was for some time brigaded. One was a French marÉchal-de-logis or sergeant, named Alfred Siquot, a man of good family and eccentric character,—a great humourist, whose gloomy air and silent laugh had procured him from his comrades the surname of Jovial. There does not appear, however, to have been mystery in his previous life, which was open to all, nor any particular romance or adventures in its incidents previously to his service in Africa. The case was very different with his comrade, Mohamed-Ould-CaÏd-Osman, who had the rank of native officer. "The Arab name concealed a Prussian one, and an agitated life, full of duels and adventures—of condemnations to death, and executions in effigy. Clever and well-informed, there was a great charm in his bluntness of manner, and his bravery, justly celebrated, procured him the respect of all. He was the very type of the officer of fortune—of the lansquenet of former days. His double-barrelled gun, as much dreaded by the Arabs as by the partridges—his dog Tom—his sorrel charger, a beast of famous bottom—were his sole friends in the field. In garrison, a fourth affection found a place in his heart—a little Spanish girl, who never opened her mouth, and was as devoted to him as his dog. Tom, the Chica, the CaÏd, made but one. Their life, with its joys and sorrows, was in common. Now and then Siquot went and smoked his pipe in the midst of the three friends.

"As to the CaÏd's African life, it was well known, and its accidents had more than once beguiled the leisure of the bivouac. He had been twice seen at Algiers, but in very different circumstances. The first time, in all his splendour, he was travelling with Prince Puckler-Muskau, who speaks of him in his Letters, designating him by his initials. The second time, in 1840, he had assumed the knapsack of the infantry soldier, and was marching to the defile of Mouzaia, in the ranks of the foreign legion."

The ruined gentleman, however, could not accustom himself to walking, and after a severe campaign, in which three-fourths of his company perished, he procured a substitute and left the legion. Once more a free agent, his roving propensities were checked for a while by the fascinations of a fair Moor. "Halfway up the hill leading to Mustapha, stood a cheerful white house, embowered in foliage and commanding a splendid view of the Bay of Algiers. The Armida of that enchanting spot was named AÏcha, and never did Eastern poet dream of a more charming creature. What wonder, then, if beneath these shades six months of peace, calm, and repose elapsed. Each morning the smiling beauty seated herself at Osman's feet, whilst he wrote, upon a little Arab table, in the midst of perfumes and flowers, the life of a Protestant missionary whom he had met in one of his rambles."[21] The Rinaldo of the foreign legion might, one would think, have been well content to linger long in such a retreat and such society. AÏcha was fond and constant, and was rapidly acquiring German. But after six months of this Capuan existence, the vagabond again got the upper-hand in the restless soul of the CaÏd. Like the celebrated Lord Lovel, he loved and he rode away; the horse, in this case, being represented by a steamer, which carried him off westwards one fine morning, his gun on his shoulder, and in his pocket a letter of recommendation, now two years old, for General LamoriciÈre, whom he had formerly known in command of a battalion of Zouaves. What became of AÏcha—whether she cried her eyes out, or took arsenic, or another lover—the little dog, as Mr Commissary Capsicum would say, forgot to mention.

"The province of Oran, in 1841, was far from tranquil; a stout heart and a strong arm had then abundant opportunities of distinction. Mohamed-Ould-CaÏd-Osman, inscribed under this Arab name on the muster-roll of the Spahis, and Siquot, who enlisted at the same period, did not miss such opportunities. Soon afterwards, Siquot was wounded, the CaÏd had his horse killed under him, and their names appeared in the orders of the army. Heroes, whether illustrious or unknown, always find enviers; take as an example Sergeant Froidefond, a grumbling old trooper, who thought proper to tell the CaÏd he was good for nothing but cleaning his nails. On their return to Mascara, they fought at twelve paces: Froidefond fired first, and the CaÏd fell, shot through the buttock. The seconds ran forward to pick him up. 'Stop!' he cried, 'it is my turn to fire;' and raising himself on his elbow, he shot Froidefond dead. He himself was then carried to the hospital, where he found Siquot, who was getting cured of a wound. On hearing what had happened, the Chica—who had then been about a year mixed up in his existence, without very well knowing why, like the dogs who attach themselves to a squadron—hastened to the hospital to nurse him, and in three months he was on his legs again."

The CaÏd had returned to his duty when, in 1813, M. de Castellane's regiment entered Mascara with trumpets sounding, escorting Marshal Bugeaud. Abd-el-Kader was at no great distance, and Generals LamoriciÈre and Tempoure had been operating against him until the cavalry of the province had great need of repose to recruit and remount. One night a Spanish deserter came over from the Emir, and gave Marshal Bugeaud important information, fully confirming the reports of the spies. An hour later, orders were given for an expedition in pursuit of Abd-el-Kader's battalions of regulars, of whom Sidi-Embarek had just taken the command. General Tempoure had charge of the column, which consisted of two battalions of infantry, four hundred and fifty French dragoons, fifty Spahis, including Siquot and the CaÏd Osman, and a few irregular horse.

"If the official reports in the Moniteur were not there to confirm its truth, the narrative of this expedition would risk being deemed a fable. Cavalry and infantry marched three days and three nights: in the morning they halted for one hour and a half—at night, from six o'clock till midnight. From the moment when the trail of the enemy was first struck, the drum was not once beaten. They followed the scent, like dogs pursuing their prey. Thirty Spahis, with some horsemen belonging to the Arab office at Mascara, preceded the column; they read the earth during the night. What all exciting time that was! We came to bivouacs whose fires were still burning; the enemy had left them only that morning, and in all haste we resumed our march. At last, after forty-eight hours, our Arab scouts, hovering round the flanks of the column, captured two Arabs of the tribe of Djaffra. These refused at first to speak; but a musket-muzzle, applied to their heads, untied their tongues, and we learned that the regulars were at Taouira on the previous evening. We were on the right road, therefore, and should end by overtaking them. The march was resumed, the Spahis still leading. Not a pipe was alight; profound silence was observed, broken only by the noise of a fall, when some sleepy foot-soldier stumbled over an obstacle. Day broke, and a slight smoke was seen; the fires had just expired, the regulars were gone. The hope which had hitherto sustained the soldiers' strength suddenly abandoned them; nothing was heard but cries and maledictions. Everyone grumbled at the general. The morning halt was called in a hollow, and whilst the soldiers ate, the scouts reported that the traces of the enemy were quite fresh. For a second General Tempoure hesitated; then his decision was taken, and the order for instant march given. A great clamour arose in the bivouac. 'He wants to kill us all!' cried the soldiers, who during seventy hours had had but a few moments of repose. They obeyed, however, and the march was resumed. In an hour's time, the track turned southwards. In that direction there was no certainty of water. No matter, advance we must. But the traces grew fresher and fresher: here a horse had been abandoned; a little farther, a jackass. 'We have got the rascals!' said the soldiers, and their strength revived. At last, towards eleven o'clock, whilst the column was passing through a deep ravine, a thick smoke was seen behind a hill. This time the enemy was assuredly there. Fatigue vanished as by enchantment. In an instant cloaks were rolled, priming renewed, horses girthed up; all was ready, and the troops formed for the attack. Three hundred infantry supported three columns of cavalry; the centre was commanded by Colonel Tartas of the 4th Chasseurs. The advance began; just then there was the report of a musket; it was a vedette whom our scouts had been unable to surprise. The Arab galloped up the hill, waving his burnous. At the same moment, the drums of the regulars beat to arms; there was a stir in our ranks. The cavalry broke into a trot; the infantry, forgetting forced marches, followed at a run, and from the top of the hill we saw the two battalions of regulars, who had been unable to reach the opposite summit, halt half way up. Away went the cavalry, sabre in hand, horses at a gallop, Colonel Tartas at their head. They were met by a volley of musketry; some fell, but the avalanche broke through the obstacle, and the Arabs were cut down on all sides. Their horsemen try to escape—some flying to the left, others straight forward. They are pursued by all whose horses are not yet knocked up; and the CaÏd Osman rolls over with his charger, which is hit in the head. M. de Caulaincourt, admirably mounted, continues the race; he kills one of the Emir's horsemen; but, separated by a ridge of ground from his soldiers, whom he has outstripped, he is surrounded by enemies. Without losing his presence of mind, he spurred his horse and broke through the circle, sabre in hand; when, just as he was about to rejoin his men, an Arab, issuing from a glade, shot him with a pistol, close to the eye. The horse galloped on, and carried back the wounded officer to his troop. The blood streamed, the flesh hung in shreds; M. do Caulaincourt, however, was still conscious. Lifted from his horse, a soldier took him on his back and carried him to the surgeon, traversing the scene of the combat, a true field of the dead. In a narrow space lay five hundred corpses, nearly all frightfully mutilated by the sabres of our chasseurs.

"A steep bank of rock had checked the progress of those horsemen who had fled to the left. Several alighted, and, jerking their horses with the bridle, surmounted the obstacle. Only one of them rode at a walk along the foot of this rocky wall. The whiteness of his garments and beauty of his equipments marked him as a chief. Siquot, a corporal of chasseurs, and Captain Cassaignoles, rode after him. The ground was very bad, full of impediments. The corporal was the first to reach him; just as his horse's nose touched the crupper of the Arab's charger, the horseman, turned round with the utmost coolness, took aim, and laid him dead on the spot. At the same moment Siquot came up and wounded the Arab, but received a pistol-ball through his left arm, the same shot killing the horse of Captain Cassaignoles, who was a little lower down the slope. The tall cavalier then rose in his stirrups, and struck Siquot on the head with his heavy pistol-butt, when Corporal Gerard of the Chasseurs, riding up on the top of the bank, shot him through the breast. The horse was caught; it was a splendid animal, which a wound in the shoulder had alone prevented from saving its master's life. 'See if that Arab is blind of an eye,' cried Captain Cassaignoles. They looked; an eye was wanting. 'It is Sidi-Embarek; let his head be cut off.' And Gerard, with a knife, separated the head from the body, that the Arabs might not have a doubt of his death. Then all obeyed the recall, which was sounding. The chase was over; the regulars were broken and destroyed; cruel fatigue had been rewarded by complete success. General Tempoure returned to Mascara, and a month later each man received, according to the Arab expression, the testimony of blood, the cross so glorious to the soldier.

"The chances of war then separated us from the CaÏd: I also learned the return of Siquot to France, where, by an odd coincidence, he received from his Paris friends the same surname as from his African comrades. As to the German lansquenet, he marked every corner of the province of Oran by some daring feat, and always fortunate, invariably escaped unhurt. Within three years of service, he was five times named in orders, and passed through the noncommissioned grades to the rank of cornet. When I next met with him in 1846, Tom, the horse, the Chica, formed, as before, his whole family. Poor Chica, who in all her life had never had but one ambition, that of wearing a silk dress! In garrison, Tom was purveyor; he and his master started at daybreak and returned at night, weary but content, and with a well-filled game-bag. The Chica, who had passed the day singing, laid the table, and the three friends supped together.

"Some months later, after an absence of three weeks, one of our squadrons returned to Mascara from the outposts. We were moving down the street that leads to the cavalry barracks, when we saw the officers of the garrison assembled before the CaÏd's little house. They advanced to greet and shake hands with us, and they told us that the Chica, the CaÏd's companion, the friend of all, was dead.

"The poor little thing had suffered for some time; the evening before, however, she had got up. There was a bright warm sun, and the air was full of perfume. 'Chico,' said she to the CaÏd, 'give me your arm, I should like to see the sun once more.' She took a few steps, wept as she gazed on the budding foliage and the beauty of the day: then, as she returned to her arm-chair, 'Ah! Chico,' she exclaimed, 'I am dying!' And in sitting down she expired, without agony or convulsion, still smiling and looking at the CaÏd.

"At this moment the Chica's coffin was borne out of the house; all present uncovered their heads, and we joined the officers who followed her to her grave.

"The cemetery of Mascara, planted with olive and forest trees, is situated in the midst of gardens: everything there breathes peace, calm, and repose. The Chica's grave had been dug under a fig-tree. The Spahis who carried her stopped, all present formed a circle; two soldiers of the Engineers took the light bier, and lowered the poor Chica into her final dwelling-place. The CaÏd was at the foot of the grave. One of the soldiers presented him with the spadeful of earth: the Spahi's hard hand trembled as he took it; and when the earth, falling on the coffin, made that dull noise so melancholy to hear, a big tear, but half suppressed, glistened in his eyes.

"Thenceforward Tom, whom the Chica loved, was the CaÏd's only friend."

Some may suspect M. de Castellane of giving a romantic tint to his African experiences. We do not partake the suspicion. Even in the nineteenth century, generally esteemed prosaic and matter-of-fact, there is far more romance in real life than in books; and the Prussian-Arab Osman is but one of scores, perhaps hundreds, of military adventurers who have fought in various services during the last twenty years, and the events of whose career, truly noted, would in many cases be set down by the supporters of circulating libraries as overstrained and improbable fiction. In that chapter of M. de Castellane's work which consists of the journal of an officer of Zouaves, we find an account of another singular wanderer, who in the year 1840 deserted from the Arabs, (having previously served with the French,) and came into the town of Medeah, where the Zouaves were in garrison. He was a very young man, a Bavarian, of the name of Glockner, son of a former commissary in the service of France, and nephew of a Bavarian officer of the highest rank. "A cadet at the military school at Munich, he was sent, in consequence of some pranks he played, to serve in a regiment of light dragoons; but his ardent imagination and love of adventure led him to fresh follies; he deserted into France. Coldly received, as all deserters are, he was enrolled in the foreign legion. He had hardly reached Africa when he became disgusted with the service, and, yielding to the craving after novelty which constantly tormented him, he deserted to the Arabs. He remained with them three years. Kidnapped at first by the Kabyles, he was taken to a market in the interior, and sold to a chief of the tribe of the Beni-Moussa. After being his servant for a year, he managed to escape from his master's tent, and, with legs bare, a burnous on his shoulders, a camel rope round his waist, and a pilgrim's staff in his hands, he marched at random in a southerly direction. In this manner he reached the Desert, passing his nights with the different tribes he encountered, amongst whom he announced himself by the Mussulman's habitual salutation, 'Eh! the master of the Douar! A guest of God!' Thereupon he was well received; food and shelter were given him, and he departed the next morning unquestioned as to his destination. It concerned no one, and no Arab ever asked the question. He followed his destiny. Thus did Glockner cross a part of the Sahara, and reach the town of Tedjini, AÏn Mhadi; thence he went to Boghar, Taza, Tekedempt, Mascara, Medeali, and Milianah; then, enrolled by force amongst the regulars of El Berkani, he made the campaigns of 1839 and 1840 in their ranks. Decorated by Abd-el-Kader in consequence of a wound received the 31st December 1839—a wound inflicted, as he believes, by a captain of the 2d Light Infantry—he again returned to us, after other adventures, like the prodigal child, lamenting his follies, weeping at thoughts of his family, especially of his father, and entreating as a favour to be received as a French soldier. They talked of sending him back to the foreign legion, but he begged to be admitted into the Zouaves, and was accordingly enlisted as an Arab, under the name of Joussef. He was then but one-and-twenty years old, was fresh as a child, timid as a young girl, and marvellously simple in his bearing and language." The end of this young fellow's history, as far as M. de Castellane became acquainted with it, is on a par with its commencement. "In the Zouaves his conduct was admirable. In every engagement in which he shared, his name deserved mention. Made a corporal, then a sergeant, he was sent to Tlemcen on the formation of a third battalion of Zouaves. Recommended by Colonel Cavaignac to General Bedeau, he rendered great services by his intelligence and knowledge of the Arab tongue. His father, to whom they had written in Bavaria, had confirmed the truth of his story. He was happy, and treated with consideration, when, one fine morning, he took himself off with a political prisoner who had just been set at liberty, and deserted into Morocco. He remained there a long time; then he went to Tangiers, and, denounced by the French consul as a deserter, he was going to be tried by a court-martial, when, in consideration of his former services, they continued to treat him as an Arab. His mania for rambling is really extraordinary; and he declares that he cannot approach a strange country without being seized with a desire to explore it."

It is surprising that the African campaigns have not been more prolific of military sketches and memoirs from the pens of French officers. Although tolerably familiar for many years past with French literature, we can remember but few such works. La CaptivitÉ d'Escoffier, noticed, in conjunction with an English volume upon an analogous subject, in a former Number,[22] is the only French book of the kind we have met with for a long time; and that was of inferior class, and of less authentic appearance, than M. de Castellane's agreeable Souvenirs. We should have thought the war in Africa, the adventurous and often severe marches of the troops, the exploits of the hunting-field, the humours of garrison life, and the tales of the bivouac, would have found innumerable chroniclers amongst the better educated portion of French officers. The French soldier is a good study for painter or humourist; whether as the stolid recruit with the ploughman's slouch and the smell of the furrow still hanging about him, or the smart and wide-awake trooper of four or five years' service, or the weather-beaten old sergeant, all bronze and wrinkles, with his grizzled moustache, his scrap of red ribbon, his tough yarns and his mixture of simplicity and shrewdness, his lingering prejudices against English and Germans, and his religious veneration of Napoleon the Great. We believe M. de Castellane would be successful in portraiture of French military character and eccentricities, and we regret he has been so sparing of it. Here and there we find a characteristic bit of camp-life, or a pleasant sketch by the watch-fire.

"During our marches, we were never weary of admiring the constancy of the infantry-man, so heavily loaded that, in mockery of himself, he has taken the surname of the Soldat-chameau. It was really wonderful to see them make those long marches, under a burning sun, across frightful mountains, always gay and cheerful, and amusing themselves with the merest trifle.... It is on their arrival at the bivouac that their industry is displayed to the greatest advantage. Pause beside this little tent, and watch the chief of the squad; they bring him crabs, tortoises, water serpents, all manner of creatures that have no name, but a flavour, and which experience teaches may be eaten without danger. Or they bring a mess-kettle full of bullock's blood. Thrice boiled and suffered to grow cold, bullock's blood forms a sort of black cheese. Spread upon biscuit, with a little salt, this is tolerable food, and a precious resource for famished stomachs." In presence of such messes as these, it is easy to understand the popularity of a general who, like Changarnier, classed a greasy haversack amongst a soldier's first necessaries, and rarely allowed his men to lack mutton, of either Arab or Kabyle growth. For the loss of their flocks and herds the natives retaliated, when opportunity offered, by the theft of French horses. "In the night we had an alarm; we were in a friendly district, but our friends were not the less arrant thieves. Two horses were taken away. According to their custom, some bold fellows, stark naked and well anointed with grease, so as to slip through detaining fingers, glided between the tents, crawling like snakes. On coming to two fine horses, they cut the thongs that shackled them, jumped on their backs, and were off at a gallop, clearing all obstacles and crouched upon the animals' necks to avoid the bullets of the advanced sentries. A few hours later, another of these gentry was less fortunate. The soldier on guard over the piled muskets, remarked, as he perambulated his beat, a bush of dwarf palm. It was upon his right hand. A minute afterwards the bush had changed its place, and stood upon his left. This struck the sentry as looking like mischief. He took no notice, but quietly cocked his musket and continued his walk. The bush continued to change its place, gaining ground little by little; suddenly it made a rapid advance, and a Kabyle, dagger in hand, sprang upon the soldier; but the soldier received him on the point of his bayonet. The thrust was mortal, and the living bush rose no more." The Kabyles might have taken lessons from the Thugs of India and the Red men of North America. On a large scale, as well as in petty details, stratagem was a prominent feature of the war in Africa. Beneath the spacious tent of one of the Arab allies of the French, M. de Castellane listened one evening, in an atmosphere fragrant with the vapours of pipes and coffee, to the extempore stanzas of a native poet. When the improvisatore had come to an end, and had received his tribute of praise, an old sergeant of the Spahis of Orleansville narrated the death of the Aga of Ouarsenis.

"It was on the 20th July of this year," he said; "Hadj Hamet had gone, with his goum[23] and twenty Spahis, to seek at Mazouna the betrothed of his son. His heart was joyful, and happiness reigned around him, when the young girl was delivered to him. After a night of rejoicing, the escort set out. On arriving at Oued-Meroui, we saw at a distance a goum of Arabs. Hadj Hamet thought it was the Aga of the Sbehas, advancing with his horsemen to perform the fantasia before the bride, and at a sign from him his followers formed in two lines, to give the strangers free passage. The troop came up at a gallop, dashed in between the double row of horsemen, and then, turning right and left, sent a volley into their faces. It was Bon Maza in person. Thus unexpectedly attacked, the goum broke and fled; the Spahis alone stood by old Hadj Hamet, who defended his daughter until loss of blood, which already flowed from several wounds, left him no longer strength. At last he fell dead. Of the twenty Spahis, ten had fallen; all was over; the other ten cut their way through, and reached Orleansville."

Formidable as many of the Arabs are—owing to their excellent horsemanship and skill in arms—in single-handed conflicts, in large bodies they rarely await the charge even of far inferior numbers of disciplined cavalry. Near the confluence of the Cheliff and the Mina, on an October day in 1845, two squadrons of dragoons, under Colonel Tartas, were in quest of the aforesaid Bou Maza, who had been committing razzias upon tribes friendly to the French. Reinforced by a native ally, Sidi-el-Aribi, with a handful of horsemen, and notwithstanding the heavy load of four days' rations for man and horse, they pressed on at a rapid pace, and on surmounting a ridge of ground, beheld, "numerous as the sands on the sea-shore, the hostile Arabs firmly waiting our attack. In the centre floated an immense green banner, and the wings, forming a horse shoe, seemed ready to enclose us. "Walk!" cried Colonel Tartas, and we advanced at a walk, sabre in scabbard. In his loud parade-voice, the colonel then gave his orders, and the squadrons formed front, each keeping a division in reserve. Between the two squadrons marched the colonel and his standard; at his side was Sidi-el-Aribi; behind him a little escort; on our flanks, the handful of Arab horse. "Where is the rallying place?" asked the adjutant. "Behind the enemy, round my standard," replied the colonel; and then, connected as by a chain, the squadrons broke into a trot, with sabres still sheathed. At musket-shot distance, "Draw swords!" shouted the colonel; and the two hundred and fifty sabres were drawn as by one hand. A hundred paces further we changed to a gallop, still in line like a wall. Suddenly, on beholding this hurricane of iron, so calm and so strong, advancing towards them, our innumerable foe hesitated; a dull noise, like the sound of the waves in a storm, arose in the midst of the multitude. They crowded together, wavered to and fro, and suddenly disappeared like dust before the gale. In a quarter of an hour we drew bridle. A hundred of the enemy were on the ground; and our Arab allies, pursuing the fugitives, secured much spoil. As for us, without hospital train, without troops to support us, at three leagues and a half from all assistance, the least hesitation would have been perdition. Coolness and audacity had saved us; and there, where our only hope was a glorious death, we obtained a triumph.

"Pressing round Colonel Tartas, near his standard, which two balls had rent, all these men of great tent,[24] all these bronze-complexioned Arab chiefs, their eyes lighted up by the excitement of the fight, thanked him as their saviour. At their head, Sidi-el-Aribi, with that majestic dignity which never deserted him, lavished expressions of gratitude upon the colonel; whilst around them, like a frame to the picture, the foaming horses, the dragoons leaning on their saddles, the arms and floating garments of the Arabs, the heads which some of them had fastened to their saddle-bows, and a nameless something in the air which told of victory, combined to give to the scene somewhat of the noble and savage grandeur of primitive times."

We will not contrast with the picture thus vividly painted by M. de Castellane, the less romantic episodes of grubbing for silos, (buried stores of corn,) driving cattle, or smoking unfortunate Arab families out of their caves of refuge. Of all these matters the chasseur speaks, if not altogether admiringly, yet as necessities of that war, and stands forth with plausible sophisms in defence of the barbarities of the razzia system. We did not take up his sketches with disputatious intentions, and are quite content with the interest and amusement we have extracted from them, without attempting to drive their author from positions which, we suspect, he would find it as difficult to defend as the Arabs did to maintain those assailed by the gallant charges of the African Chasseurs.