W. G. Windham

Cold Weather.––Milianah.––Vezoul.––The Aubergiste.––El Afroun.––The Rhamazan.––Dancing Dervishes.

In order to avoid the trouble of carrying our ammunition back with us, we sold the greater portion of it. The snow lay four or five inches deep in the road; we sent to the commandant to procure us mules and other necessaries, and set out, with a snow-storm beating down upon us, and the cold as sharp as it well could be. At the “Scorpion” we refreshed ourselves with coffee, and then re-crossed the river, which was scarcely fordable; we got to El Massin about six o’clock; the brigadier told us he had shot a hyena. Some capital wild boar they gave us for dinner, seemed to be an earnest of our return to sporting latitudes. At half-past seven next morning, we emerged from the caravanserai. The weather seemed at last, after a long season of inclemency, to have set in for heat. “Le temps s’est remis a neuf,” observed Mr. Ball; and it had changed with a vengeance, so far as the temperature was concerned. Terribly hot we found it, marching across the Milianah plain. We crossed the 37 Djelish in a bac, or flying bridge, and reached Afreville about ten o’clock. Leaving B––– and Angelo to proceed to Medea, I went on to Milianah, where I arrived at about twelve o’clock. While waiting there for my baggage, I noticed some Arab boys playing at a game closely resembling hockey. Milianah is a very strong fort, with a splendid view over the Atlas mountains and the plain of the Djelish. I stopped at the Cat or Du-chat stables, appropriately kept by Mr. Duchat-el, and found that it was too late to stop at any place on the road to Blidah.

I took a walk through the town, and on the Grande Place found a number of soldiers singing a chorus very creditably, without instrumental accompaniment. They perform in this manner every Sunday. The view over the plain of the Djelish is one of the most splendid I ever beheld, not excepting that from the Alhambra itself. I was told I could easily get to Blidah in a day on horseback, from Milianah, so I determined to stay at the HÔtel d’Iffly, a very comfortable place. At dinner I met Mostyn and Captain Ross, just arrived from Algiers, per diligence. Captain R–––, who is in the Bengal Artillery, told me he thought the French used the natives much better than we do those of India. I differ from him. One of the French officers with whom I dined told me the only way to manage the “IndigÈnes” was by that vigorous measure, “un coup de fouet,” and, from what I saw, I believe it to be the case.

On Monday, the 19th, I left Milianah at about half-past seven, and rode through splendid Pyreneean scenery to Vezoul, a French village. The aubergiste took me for a German, and announced that he had two German workmen staying with him, who spoke with the same accent I used. When I repudiated my Teutonic nationality, he met me with the remark: “Enfin, c’est le mÊme sang rouge qui coule dans nos veines, que nous soyons Anglais, FranÇais, ou Allemands;” to which undeniable proposition I rejoined, “Oui, c’est vrai nous sommes tous EuropÉens ici.” I fed my horse here, and came on, over the mountains, under a very hot sun, to Bourkikah, where I entered the Medidja plain. On entering this plain, the traveller enjoys a magnificent view right onward to sea, gleaming miles away in the sunny haze. At Bourkikah, my horse was so tired, that I was obliged to take off the saddle-bags, and leave them at the “Bureau des Diligences,” to be forwarded. Some French officers at the hotel assured me I should not be able to get to Blidah, and recommended me strongly to stay at El Afroun, “chez les Petits FrÈres,” if I found my horse too tired to proceed. I rode determinedly on through the plain, but could scarcely get my horse to move by dint of whip or spur. By the time I had crossed the river into El Afroun, I found my horse so entirely knocked up, that it was clearly impossible to proceed. So, of necessity, I turned into the auberge, and had a very good dinner, enlivened 39 by a serenade from a legion of frogs, croaking dolefully in the neighbouring marshes.

Getting away from El Afroun by six o’clock next morning, I found myself at Blidah by half-past seven. The cavalry horses were just turning out on the plains, and looked very handsome as I rode into the town. At Blidah, where I breakfasted, the sun was hot enough to burn my face in a most unequivocal manner, and to necessitate the purchase of a new hat. On arriving at Bouffanieh, I got off my horse, which by this time had fairly fallen lame, and took the diligence into Algiers. At Bouffanieh I was much amused at the proceedings of a group of Arabs, who were squatting on the ground, selling oranges. Their first customer was a drunken Frenchman, who came staggering up, and began chaffing the vendors; but they evidently got the better of him in no time, and he retired in confusion. Next came a grave, steady-looking Spaniard, who, after much bargaining, marched off with one orange. He was followed by a little girl, who very quickly got hold of three. I thought Algiers improved on a second view.

Next day I went for a ride to the Maison CarrÉe, with De Warne and Captain Thouars, of the Euphrates. We had a most magnificent view over the plain of the Metidja. This was the first night of the Rhamazan. I visited the mosques, which have been thrown open to Europeans since the French occupation. Thence I proceeded to view a strange religious or fanatic ceremony 40 of the Mussulmans; some Swedish naval officers were with us. The whole affair reminded me of a meeting of Jumpers, or Ranters. There are no priests to take part in it. The men stand round in a circle, reciting prayers to Allah, and calling on Mahomet, while they work their bodies violently backwards and forwards, till they lash themselves into a state of perfect frenzy. One fanatic more zealous than the rest then rushes forward, cuts himself with a knife, and stands on the sharp edge of the weapon, which is held by another. The chaunt or psalm is then renewed, and another devotee comes forward howling; snatches a portion of prickly pear, and actually devours it ravenously. Then another exceedingly zealous performer––whose face, by the way, reminded me strangely of the portraits of Disraeli in Punch––seized some red-hot coals, and held them in his mouth for a time, afterwards proceeding to swallow lighted pipes, and execute other salamandrine feats. After witnessing this spectacle of degradation for some time, we retired, somewhat disgusted at the buffooneries perpetrated in this country, as elsewhere, in the name of religion.