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    Notes in North Africa Being a Guide to the Sportsman and Tourist in Algeria and Tunisia
    Notes in North Africa Being a Guide to the Sportsman and Tourist in Algeria and Tunisia
    Notes in North Africa Being a Guide to the Sportsman and Tourist in Algeria and Tunisia
    Ebook130 pages1 hour

    Notes in North Africa Being a Guide to the Sportsman and Tourist in Algeria and Tunisia

    By W. G. Windham

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Notes in North Africa Being a Guide to the Sportsman and Tourist in Algeria and Tunisia

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      Book preview

      Notes in North Africa Being a Guide to the Sportsman and Tourist in Algeria and Tunisia - W. G. Windham

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Notes in North Africa, by W. G. Windham

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Notes in North Africa

      Being a Guide to the Sportsman and Tourist in Algeria and Tunisia

      Author: W. G. Windham

      Release Date: December 2, 2009 [EBook #30581]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOTES IN NORTH AFRICA ***

      Produced by Dan Horwood and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was

      produced from images generously made available by The

      Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

      R. Pheney, lith. M. & N. Hanhart, Impt.

      MY TWO SERVANTS, ANGELO AND NERO.

      NOTES IN NORTH AFRICA:

      BEING A

      GUIDE TO THE

      SPORTSMAN AND TOURIST IN ALGERIA AND TUNISIA.

      BY

      W. G. WINDHAM, ESQ.

      NEW EDITION, WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS.

      LONDON:

      WARD AND LOCK, 158 FLEET STREET.

      1862.

      LONDON:

      PETTER AND GALPIN, BELLE SAUVAGE PRINTING WORKS,

      LUDGATE HILL, E.C.

      PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

      Two great faults have been found with my first edition. The first was, that I had offended many people by personal allusions. To this, I reply, that offence was very far from my mind; and to those offended (if any there be), I say, consider the expressions unsaid. For the rest, they are omitted in this edition. The second alleged defect is, that, while I call my book, to a certain extent, sporting, so little allusion is made to sport. I grant there is some reason in this, and accordingly I have added matter which I think will be useful to future sporting tourists. I would, however, not advise the man who seeks sport alone and solely to go to Algeria, as I am sure he will be disappointed, as I most decidedly was. With regard to the illustrations, I have taken the greatest pains that they may faithfully represent, not only the particular localities alluded to, but also give a fair idea of the country and climate of these latitudes.

      W. G. WINDHAM.

      Hull, April, 1861.

      ILLUSTRATIONS.

      CONTENTS.

      NOTES IN NORTH AFRICA.

      CHAPTER I.

      THE VOYAGE OUT.

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

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

      The next day was Sunday, and I went to hear vespers at Notre Dame. How I love the old gothic cathedrals, that seem to remove one at once from this work-day world––the fanes wherein the very air seems redolent of devotion, and peopled with phantoms of the past! ’Spite of all disparagement, there is something grand and solemn about them. After service, I ascended one of the towers to the gallery immortalised by Victor Hugo’s wonderful romance. The day was declining, and sunset had already commenced. The galleries were crowded with students and respectable operatives and bourgeois, with their wives and children. Every face was bathed in the purple light of the departing sun, and many eyes lifted up in silent meditation.

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

      frivolity which defaces the works of the man, who, with all his faults, was undoubtedly the greatest poet the nineteenth century has yet produced.

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

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