Tents of the Nomade Tribes. Sahara Desert. BY MATILDA   BETHAM   EDWARDS AUTHOR OF ‘A WINTER WITH THE SWALLOWS’ ETC. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS. 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1868. The right of Translation is reserved....

SUNDAY AT TOURS.—LA COLONIE DE METTRAY.—BEAUTIFUL DORDOGNE.—A FRENCH PARSONAGE.—THROUGH THE LANDES.—THE SOPORIFIC EFFECTS OF ARCACHON. O N a golden autumn afternoon we found ourselves in the old city of Tours, bound for Spain and the enchanted lands lying north of the Great Sahara. Pleasant it was to look backward and forward; backward to the busy life in England, forward to the bright holiday of travel, repeating to ourselves again and again the sentiment, if not the words, of Catullus:— We wer

THE MISCONCEPTIONS OF LUGGAGE.—THE COMFORTS OF SPANISH RAILWAY TRAVELLING.—OUR LIBRARY.—FROM THE TROPICS TO THE STEPPES.—GREGORIA AND ISIDORA.—JOURNEY TO MADRID. “D OS billetes de primera clase para Burgos?” (Two first-class tickets to Burgos) with astonishment repeated the young woman acting as collector at the railway station of Biarritz. “To Burgos! to Burgos!” “To Burgos,” we replied, quietly. “If you are really going as far as Burgos,” she said, with the same look of unmitigated surprise, “

THE GAIETY OF MADRID.—THE IMPERATIVENESS OF TEETOTALISM THERE.—THE QUEEN AND THE ROYAL BIRTHDAY.—ROADS AND RIVER-BANKS.—APROPOS OF BULLS. T HERE is no more stir at the railway-station of Madrid than at that of Tunbridge Wells or Chelmsford; and as you rattle along the quiet streets, you ask yourself—Can this be the capital of so many great kingdoms? It is the fashion to represent Madrid as a dreary place, but, on the contrary, its first aspect is eminently cheerful. The streets are light and air

VELASQUEZ, THE PAINTER OF MEN.—MURILLO, THE PAINTER OF ANGELS.—RIBERA, THE PAINTER OF INQUISITORS.—ZURBARAN, THE PAINTER OF MONKS.—GOZA, THE HOFFMAN OF SPANISH ART.—THE QUIETUDE OF THE GALLERIES. W E had come ostensibly to Madrid to see the works of Velasquez, and we carried out our intention, not glancing at, but really looking into and studying them as we study Homer, or Shakespeare, or Cervantes. The journey from London to Madrid is costly and fatiguing; but I advise any one to make it who is

A LEAR OF CITIES.—GOTHIC, ROMAN, AND MOORISH REMAINS.—COMMENTARIES ON STREET’S GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE, AND ON TOLEDAN LANDLORDS.—TILES, AND A DISCOURSE THEREON. T HE railway journey from Madrid to Toledo is easy enough, occupying about eight hours. Time is given for refreshment on the way, and you are almost certain to be alone if you travel first-class, which, if you are a wise traveller, you will be sure to do. Every one knows how much easier it is to take long journeys in an uncrowded vehicle, a

A MIDNIGHT HALT.—ITS CHARMS AND COUNTER-CHARMS.—DON QUIXOTE’S COUNTRY.—THE SLEEP AT CORDOVA.—THE WAKE IN THE EAST.—SHOPPING. I T was with real regret we left Toledo, as one leaves some rare old book, only glanced at, but enticing months’ study. Notwithstanding the depressing gloom and stagnation of the old city, we loved it for its beautiful and precious monuments, and for the historic solemnity hanging round each. We liked the people too—Cabezas our invaluable guide; our hotel-keeper; Pepa, our

“THE SWEETEST MORSEL OF THE PENINSULA.”—COB-WALLS OR THE HOUSE THAT CAIN BUILT.—PALMS.—THE GOOD WORKS OF THE SISTERS.—THE PRIESTS AND THE PEOPLE.—IS SPAIN UTOPIA? T HE journey from Cordova to Malaga lasts from six in the morning till five in the afternoon. You are, of course, aroused at four and carried off to the station at five; so that you are really on the way much longer. But the scenery of Andalusia is so varied and beautiful that you are almost sorry when the train reaches its destination

“A BOAT, A BOAT, MY KINGDOM FOR A BOAT!”—THE VICTIMS OF A TUNNY FISH.—SENOR BENSAKEN SPEAKS HIS MIND, AND WE ARE REPROVED.—RUNNING WATERS.—HOWLINGS OF TARSHISH.—PEPA’S FAMILY. W E had another amusing instance of Spanish nonchalance at Malaga. The original plan of our journey was this:—to see the galleries of Madrid, the Moorish antiquities of Cordova, Seville, and Granada, and from the south of Spain cross over to Oran, and visit the beautiful old city of Tclemcen, the Granada of the West. But t

DAYS IN THE ALHAMBRA.—THE GRANDEUR WITHOUT AND THE BEAUTY WITHIN.—“CIELED WITH CEDAR, AND PAINTED WITH VERMILION.”—AZULEJOS AND ARTESONADOS.—MR. OWEN JONES’ HANDBOOK. T HERE is no place in the world like the Alhambra, so graceful, so perfect, so sad. No words can describe it, no pencil can portray it; it remains apart in the heart and fancy, like some second, more golden youth, that has come for a brief season, and made us happy and passed away. The gardens are bordered with violets and myrtle,

PIGS, VULGAR AND ARISTOCRATIC.—THE GIPSY CAPTAIN BEWITCHES US.—WE GO DOWN TO THE POTTER’S HOUSE.—A FAMILY DANCE.—AN AWFUL DISCOVERY.—A BOOKSELLER OF TARSHISH. I HEARD two horrid stories at Granada, which I would not repeat except that I feel some of their truth. We were walking in the town one day, and observing an unusual air of stir and excitement, asked a stander-by what it meant. The person in question told us that a certain Señor, Don So-and-so, had just died, and that as he was a great ene

THE ARCHBISHOP BLESSES THE ENGINE, AND WE HELP HIM.—DELIGHTFUL LOJA.—A FUNNY DINNER.—STARLIGHT, TWILIGHT, MORNING. W E “had heard, but not believed,” that the line of railway between Granada and Malaga, as far as Loja, was to be opened on or about the day we proposed leaving; and we determined that, if the train really ran, we would be among its first passengers. But oh! the dreary difficulty of learning anything from anybody about anything in Spain! We ran hither and thither, we despatched mess

WE GET TO ALGECIRAS, AND ARE MADE WRETCHED.—THE FAT SPANIARD AND THE LEAN ENGLISHMAN.—A RED-LETTER DAY AT GIBRALTAR.—THE LIGHTS.—ADIEU TO EUROPE. A LL the old difficulties about boats recommenced at Malaga; and, much as we disliked the place, which seemed to have grown dustier and fishier since we had left it, we were obliged to remain there several days. At last we learned somehow that there was a boat, named the Adriana , doing weekly services between Malaga and Algeciras, and Malaga and Tangi

A BRIDAL PARTY.—HORRIBLE STORIES.—A LONG DAY.—THE CAID AND THE DRIVER.—A NEW ATMOSPHERE.—TCLEMCEN. W E had originally intended to take tickets for Oran, but finding that the Spahis , if weather permitting, stopped at a little town called Nemours, we resolved to stop there. By this plan we saved ourselves a day and a night at sea, and alighted at a point on the African coast much nearer Tclemcen than Oran. The weather favoured us. When we awoke next morning the sun shone bright and warm in a clou

TCLEMCEN.—THE GRANADA OF THE WEST.—ARAB POETS.—CHILDREN.—THE MOKBARA.—MANSOURA.—PHILO-ARABES.—TEMPTATIONS TO TCLEMCEN. A T Tclemcen, we found ourselves in a second and hardly less beautiful Granada—a Granada moreover peopled with those who had made it what it was, a Granada not wholly dead, but teeming with happy, picturesque Eastern life. The climate is delicious, and the whole atmosphere of the place so gracious and sweet to live in, that one is never ready to come away. We made up our minds t

HOSPITABLE ORAN.—CHRISTMAS DAY AT LE SIG.—THE LAST OF THE PHALANSTERIANS.—BARRAGES.—THE MALARIA.—ABD-EL-KADER’S MOSQUE.—SAÏDA. S ORRY enough were we to leave beautiful Tclemcen, and the many friendly faces that had made the place so homelike to us; but at the end of a week we were obliged to turn our faces towards Oran. The diligence—wretched diligence!—travelled of course at night, and we set off for Oran in the evening, reaching our destination early next day, and not our destination only, but

OPINIONS, CIVIL AND MILITARY.—A LOOK TOWARDS THE SAHARA.—WILD GEESE.—OUR SPAHIS, AND THE CARE THEY TAKE OF US.—A NORMANDY APPLE-ORCHARD IN AFRICA.—NEW YEAR’S DAY. S OME authorities declare Saïda to be an oasis in the Little Desert, some declare it to be an oasis in the Great Desert, others declare it to be in no desert at all. For my part, I wholly side with those who are of opinion that Saïda stands on the skirts of the Sahara, the Dry Country abounding in Dates, as the old maps have it; but I

RAIN.—AN ENGLISH LADY’S OPINION ON THE ARABS.—WILD BIRDS.—THE EARTHQUAKE. A ND the blessed rain came. We had heard it pattering and plashing between our dreams, and, when we came out into the open air, it was moist and sweet and cool. For the first time throughout our entire journey we were unable to procure the coupé to ourselves, for the assizes were to commence at Mostaganem, and, what with witnesses, lawyers, plaintiffs and defendants, the diligence was more than crowded. We could not see ou