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THROUGH SPAIN TO THE SAHARA.
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[Illustration: THE ALHAMBRA. FROM AN ORIGINAL PHOTOGRAPH.]
THROUGH SPAIN
TO
THE SAHARA.
[Illustration: _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._
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CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
SUNDAY AT TOURS--LA COLONIE DE METTRAY--BEAUTIFUL DORDOGNE--A
FRENCH PARSONAGE--THROUGH THE LANDES--THE
SOPORIFIC EFFECTS OF ARCACHON 1
CHAPTER II.
THE MISCONCEPTIONS OF LUGGAGE--THE COMFORTS OF SPANISH
RAILWAY TRAVELLING--OUR LIBRARY--FROM THE TROPICS
TO THE STEPPES--GREGORIA AND ISIDORA--JOURNEY TO
MADRID 24
CHAPTER III.
THE GAIETY OF MADRID--THE IMPERATIVENESS OF TEETOTALISM
THERE--THE QUEEN AND THE ROYAL BIRTHDAY--ROADS AND
RIVER-BANKS--APROPOS OF BULLS 41
CHAPTER IV.
VELASQUEZ, THE PAINTER OF MEN--MURILLO, THE PAINTER OF
ANGELS--RIBERA, THE PAINTER OF INQUISITORS--ZURBARAN,
THE PAINTER OF MONKS--GOJA, THE HOFFMANN OF SPANISH
ART--THE QUIETUDE OF THE GALLERIES 63
CHAPTER V.
A LEAR OF CITIES--GOTHIC, ROMAN, AND MOORISH REMAINS--COMMENTARIES
ON STREET’S GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE AND ON TOLEDAN
LANDLORDS--TILES, AND A DISCOURSE THEREON 81
CHAPTER VI.
A MIDNIGHT HALT--ITS CHARMS AND COUNTER-CHARMS--DON
QUIXOTE’S COUNTRY--THE SLEEP AT CORDOVA--WE WAKE
IN THE EAST--SHOPPING 108
CHAPTER VII.
“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? 134
CHAPTER VIII.
“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 158
CHAPTER IX.
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 175
CHAPTER X.
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 187
CHAPTER XI.
THE ARCHBISHOP BLESSES THE ENGINE, AND WE HELP HIM--DELIGHTFUL
LOJA--A FUNNY DINNER--STARLIGHT, TWILIGHT,
MORNING 209
CHAPTER XII.
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 222
CHAPTER XIII.
A BRIDAL PARTY--HORRIBLE STORIES--A LONG DAY--THE CAID
AND THE DRIVER--A NEW ATMOSPHERE--TCLEMCEN 239
CHAPTER XIV.
TCLEMCEN, THE GRANADA OF THE WEST--ARAB POETS--THE
CHILDREN--THE MOKBARA--SIDI BOU MEDIN--MANSOURA--PHILO-ARABES--TEMPTATIONS
IN TCLEMCEN 253
CHAPTER XV.
HOSPITABLE ORAN--CHRISTMAS DAY AT LE SIG--THE LAST OF THE
PHALANSTERIANS--BARRAGES--THE MALARIA--ABD-EL-KADER’S
MOSQUE--SAIDA 270
CHAPTER XVI.
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 287
CHAPTER XVII.
RAIN--HOW TO CARRY ONE’S WARDROBE--AN ENGLISH LADY’S
OPINIONS ON THE ARABS--WILD BIRDS--THE EARTHQUAKE 304
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CHAPTER I.
SUNDAY AT TOURS.--LA COLONIE DE METTRAY.--BEAUTIFUL DORDOGNE.--A
FRENCH PARSONAGE.--THROUGH THE LANDES.--THE SOPORIFIC EFFECTS OF
ARCACHON.
On 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:--
“Jam mens prætrepidans avet vagari,
Jam læti studio pedes vigescunt,
Oh! dulces comitum, valete, coetus,
Longe quos simul a domo profectus
Diversæ variæ viæ reportant.”
We were to be made so much richer and so much wiser by the experiences
of the next few weeks; a new country was about to be mapped out on our
chart: we were to speak another language, breathe another atmosphere,
feel the influences of another religion. For the present we were at
home, among French faces and French voices; and, however impatient we
might be to reach the wonderful country lying beyond the Pyrenees, we
could but willingly linger in these lovely border-lands.
It was Sunday, and our hearts were yet full of the tender beauty of the
region through which we had come, when we reached Tours, and joined the
stream of church-goers. The Cathedral on that glowing autumn afternoon
was a sight to remember, standing as it did against a bright blue sky,
with a rosy flush of sunset upon its spires. Nothing can be richer than
the façade, and yet so simple is the construction as a whole, that one
comes away with a clear idea of it in every part. We lingered in the
light for a little, and then went in. A mediæval-looking priest, with
shaven head, was preaching to a crowd of reverent peasants--and we
listened, no less reverent, to a sermon that might have been preached
hundreds of years ago. The preacher had a melancholy, monastic face, and
a fervid eloquence that would, perhaps, have stirred up any other
congregation, though none could have been more devout than these
simple-hearted vintagers and farmers. We stayed till the sermon drew to
a close, and then went on by train to Mettray.
It was at Tours that the Saracens were driven back, and it seemed to us
a good starting-point for a journey which had for one of its objects the
study of Moorish monuments in Spain. We amused ourselves with
speculating upon the condition of Europe had the Saracens succeeded at
Tours. But for that defeat, we might have had now--who knows?--a
Caliphate at Marseilles, and, perhaps, a Cordova at Oxford. But, no;
climate, if not Anglo-Saxon spirit, would have driven the
sunshine-loving Moors from our island, so that, even in dreams we cannot
spread Islamism farther than the Rhine,--which is a consolation to good
churchmen and patriots!
I purpose narrating our journey from the very beginning, because on our
way from Paris to Bayonne we made two excursions which I should strongly
recommend to every one; firstly, to the great agricultural Reformatory
of Mettray, and secondly, to the Protestant Orphanages of La Force in
the province of La Dordogne. We reached Mettray in about twenty minutes.
Such a sweet, peaceful, little spot lying in the heart of the
wine-country! The village postman conducted us, through a dusky winding
road that was all a-twitter with the twilight songs of birds, to a large
Swiss cottage that proved to be an inn, where we slept as if we had
lived there all our lives.
The chirping of the birds woke us early, and we hastened to pay our
visit to _la Colonie_, as the great Reformatory is cheerfully and
properly called. For Mettray is neither more nor less than a collection
of farms and factories, carried on by such waifs and strays of society
as its humane founders have been able to snatch from destruction. Once
having entered the gates, the whole system of the place suggested itself
to us. To our right, to our left, peeped from the trees pretty-looking
farm-buildings and workshops, all resounding with the noise of the
wheel, the hammer, the saw, and the turning-lathe, and made sunny and
pleasant with trellised vines and well-kept gardens. Every place was
orderly, quiet, and cheerful; and, as we passed along, the young farmers
and artisans greeted us, if not with blithe, at least with contented
faces. Leaving our letters of introduction at the porter’s lodge, we
made a survey of the place accompanied by an intelligent person employed
as superintendent of the boys. Our first object of interest--for we knew
something of agriculture ourselves--was the farm; and here was meat and
drink to delight the most orthodox Suffolk farmer going. Beautifully
stalled bullocks; pigs, cleanly littered or scampering about, of the
proper breed, small of bone, long of body, sleek of skin; stores
of grain, of root, and of forage; a good supply of modern
farm-implements,--in fine, every accessory to good farming on a
miniature scale.
Then we passed on to the workshops, which were like so many hives, only
a little quiet, considering the age of the bees. Some of these workmen,
in blue blouses and wooden shoes, were mere mannikins of six or seven
years old; but if to a stranger the discipline appears a little hard, it
must be remembered that each and all have been snatched from the
discipline of prison. All these eight hundred boys, whom we saw working
under such kind and pitiful supervision, were, in fact, criminals, and
well for them and for society that the benevolent founders of Mettray
had come to the rescue in time.
The type of physiognomy was strikingly low, narrow forehead, flat skull,
vicious mouth, and deep-set, cunning eyes, which would seem as if the
physiognomy, as well as the propensity, of vice, is hereditary; for most
of these children were the offspring of crime and vagabondage. The
lowest type of face, intellectually as well as morally speaking, was not
that of the Parisian, but that of the peasant; and it interested us to
find that, as a rule, the best-behaved Mettray boys were also the most
intelligent. Each boy is at liberty to follow the trade he likes best,
and, oddly enough, the favourite one seems to be that of tailoring. We
found in the little world of Mettray, as in the great world beyond, that
every one had fallen naturally into his place. The stupid boys loved to
follow the plough, the inventive to handle the carpenters’ tools, the
lovers of nature to tend the cattle, the effeminate to cook the dinners,
the enterprising to manage the farm. All are at liberty, also, to attend
evening classes, and, as a reward of merit, to learn music.
“If it were not for that,” said the good-natured superintendent to us,
“we should fancy Mettray a prison. The boys are summoned to work by
music every day, and sing at chapel on Sunday. Oh! if you only knew how
they enjoy it!”
We could easily understand this, for when the little band of musicians
was summoned to give us a concert, nothing could equal the alacrity with
which the summons was obeyed. There was a good deal of shyness and
excitement at first, but a real, hearty relish of the music as soon as
it began, perfectly delightful to witness. The superior intelligence, I
might almost go so far as to use the word refinement, of these boys from
their fellows, was quite remarkable. Not one of them had a brutish or
brutal look. When the concert was over, we went into the chapel and the
class-room. The latter was decorated with pictures, maps, and
“honourable mentions,” of former Mettray boys, who had fought in the
Crimea, in Algeria, in Mexico. Portraits of the Emperor were not
wanting, nor, indeed, anything to encourage these poor little outcasts
to love their country, to go out into the world and to make men of
themselves. I was pleased to find the wards and dormitories also
decorated with pictures and medallions, the highly-prized rewards of
good conduct; while the outside of every building was trellised with
grapes, a more material reward, not of special good conduct, but of
indiscriminate industry.
“The grapes belong to the boys and are divided when ripe,” said our
guide; “it’s very pleasant to see that not a bunch is surreptitiously
touched, and that every one gets his share at the proper time. But only
consider what a saint we have at our head! Who could help growing better
with such an example as Monsieur De M---- before him?”
The gentleman in question is the founder of Mettray, and spends all his
time and thought among the outcast children of his adoption. It was
quite touching to find how he had leavened the whole lump of this little
society with his own goodness; and very proud and happy we felt at
receiving an invitation to breakfast with him and his daughter the
Countess B----. But before speaking of this pleasant breakfast, I must
mention one of the most curious features in the _Colonie_ of Mettray.
Every one has seen in _The Times_ the advertisement of some persistent
and philanthropic clergyman, who undertakes to make unmanageable boys
perfectly tractable and gentlemanly in a few months’ time. But they
manage these things better in France, as will be seen by the way in
which the benevolent supporter of Mettray has effectually supplied the
want of such obliging clergymen.
Monsieur De M----’s pet project is what he calls, “La maison
paternelle,”--in other words, a refined sort of prison for the
refractory sons of gentlemen. The prison is attractive enough outwardly,
and looks like a pretty Swiss house, but, in spite of carpets and
curtains, the interior is gloomy. We were conducted all over the
building, and our guide was at great pains to give us a clear idea of
what was, evidently, his pet project. Unruly boys are sent here under
the charge of a tutor for terms of one, two, or more months; they are
kept to hard study, and during their hours of work the key of their
cells is turned upon them, and their behaviour is watched by the tutor
through a tiny pane of glass let in the doors. As a reward of good
conduct, more cheerful kinds of cells looking on to the garden and
adorned with pictures are given, but the peep-hole and the key are never
wanting.
“It is an admirable institution, this _maison paternelle_,” I said, a
little doubtfully; “and must relieve parents of a good deal of
responsibility; but it would never do to lock up English boys, and watch
them at their lessons through a peep-hole.”
The superintendent smiled.
“We had one English boy here once----” he said, and then stopped short.
“Well, and how did it answer in that solitary case?”
“Very ill, I assure you. He burst open the lock, refused to work, defied
his tutor,--in fine, all but created a mutiny, and heartily glad were we
to get rid of him.”
It was now ten o’clock, Monsieur De M----’s breakfast hour, and we were
conducted to the simple yet elegant house which he inhabits among his
adopted children. We found a man past middle age, exquisitely polished
in manner, enthusiastic almost to the pitch of inspiration, kindly,
grave, cheerful. It was worth the journey from Paris to make such an
acquaintance. The Countess, too, was charming, and seemed almost as
interested in the little world of Mettray as her father. But to talk
with Monsieur De M---- was like being transported into a new and purer
world. He seemed gifted with unselfishness as with a sixth sense, and
handled sin and the sorrow born of it tenderly and trustfully as none
but the Apostles of humanity can.
But even good and great men have their hobbies, and the hobby of M. De
M---- was his _maison paternelle_.[1] So earnest and eloquent, indeed,
was he in the cause that he all but converted us to the belief in bars
and bolts as a cure for naughtiness. He gave us a prospectus of the
establishment, which I transcribe below, and which will give the reader
a truer idea of its spirit than any comments of mine. It is
incontestable that, however antagonistic such a system may be to our
English notions, it has hitherto worked well in France.
But a breakfast--even a French breakfast of twenty dishes--soon comes to
an end, and we found ourselves compelled to quit our hospitable
entertainer, just as we were fairly seizing the spirit of his great
undertaking. Reluctantly we bade adieu to the peaceful asylum of
Mettray, and sauntered through the vineyards to the railway station. It
looked a lovely land to live in, especially now, when it lay bathed in
the rosy splendour of autumn. Here and there, a stately old chateau
peeped from amidst the chestnut-trees, or we came upon a grave peasant,
who might have been one of George Sand’s heroes, driving his team across
a sweet-smelling beetfield. As we passed the village church, a wedding
party issued from the gate. The bride, who was a brunette, looked very
handsome in her bright purple dress and orange-wreath, and the
bridegroom and whole happy party saluted us. We ought to have stopped to
wish them joy, but we didn’t think of it in time; and when we turned
back, ashamed of our English shyness, the white ribbons of the last
bridesmaid were disappearing round the corner. “Mon Dieu, those English
are cold-hearted people!” I can hear these honest peasants say over
their wedding-feast. “They meet our Jeanne and her Jeannot coming from
church and never stop to utter a blessing!”
Pretty Jeanne! I hope that our negligence may prove no ill omen to her
after-life. It was downright shyness, and not ill nature, on our part,
after all.
From Mettray we proceeded by rail to Tours, and on to Libourne, a
pleasant and picturesque bit of rail, spoiled in this instance, however,
by the late inundations of the Loire. One reads of these inundations,
and laments over them at home, but is far from realising the actual
state of things without personal experience. Horace’s ode on the
overflowing of the Tiber gives a more approximate idea of the prevailing
ruin and dismay than anything; and my fellow-traveller (we don’t intend
quoting Latin all the way) broke out with:--
“Piscium et summa genus hæsit ulmo,
Nota quæ secies fuerat columbis;
Et superjecto pavidæ natârunt
Æquore damæ.”
We travelled all the way from Tours to Libourne with an English
gentlemen, who gave us horrifying accounts of the Spanish inns.
“Sleep at Cordova!” he uttered, with a positive shriek of dismay; “sleep
at Cordova! I warn you not to attempt it; I forbid you to attempt it.
It’s awful! it’s disgusting! it’s impossible! I was travelling in Spain
with my wife a year ago, and we stayed a night at Cordova. The beds and
floors were alive with vermin, and, as a last resource of sleeplessness
and disgust, we betook ourselves to arm-chairs and railway rugs.
Whatever you do, don’t sleep at Cordova.”
And so kindly anxious was he for our comfort that, when he alighted at
some half-way station between Tours and Libourne, he ran back to the
carriage just as the train was moving off and called out, “Don’t sleep
at Cordova.”
We took the diligence to St. Foy next day, that being the nearest
post-town to La Force. It was not a comfortable journey; the road was
cut straight through a monotonous country, and the conveyance was
terribly overcrowded. One of the passengers was a heavy-looking priest,
and one a peasant woman with a week-old baby she was carrying home to
nurse. I put one or two questions to M. le Curé about the Orphan-Idiot
Asylums of La Force. Did he know the pastor B---- by name? Had he seen
his Orphanages? But M. le Curé, though living in the next parish, seemed
alike ignorant of both La Force and its founder. “Pasteur B----, a
Protestant? I don’t know him at all,” he said. We then talked of the
little fosterling, asked if it were customary to put out all infants to
nurse in La Dordogne. On being answered in the affirmative, we said,
“You ought to preach against that, Monsieur le Curé: it is a cruel
custom;” and then we questioned the nurse as to the parentage of her
little charge. All at once the Curé’s face lighted up, and he looked at
us as if he were revealing an astounding piece of intelligence.
“Why,” he said, “it’s the child of Madame George, my parishioner, and I
baptized it myself.”
Yet he had never heard of La Force nor of Mettray!
St. Foy is an old-fashioned town, charmingly situated on the banks of
the Dordogne. The road to La Force wound along the river side, and had
in some places been rendered impassable by the late inundations. As we
proceeded on our way, sometimes on foot, sometimes in the crazy old
vehicle we had hired, we caught glimpses of scenes so sunny, so full of
tender beauty, so poetic, and so peaceful, that we felt as if we would
fain escape to La Dordogne whenever the troubles of the world might lie
heavy upon us. River, vineyard, hill and wood, all softened and
illumined by the autumn sunshine, made up a little rural world very
fresh and sweet to live in; one wonders, can any one be very unhappy
here?
We brought letters with us from English friends, and the good pastor and
his wife received us with more than kindness. Two or three pastors from
Geneva were staying in their house, so that we found ourselves in quite
a little Methodist community; and not being Methodists ourselves, though
full of respect for all that is good in Methodism, it startled us a
little to be catechised thus:--“The great and good Spurgeon, what is he
doing at this moment?” “How many believers are gathered every Sabbath in
his temple?” &c. &c. It was so new, too, to feel, in a world where the
spirit of inquiry had not yet penetrated, and to know that here, if
nowhere else, the authors of _Ecce Homo_ and _The Pentateuch Explained_
were all but unknown.
Naturally the conversation fell upon the present aspect of
Protestantism, or rather Methodism, in France.
“It is very difficult to be a Protestant in France,” said Pastor B----,
and sighed. “When I think of the reception I had in England, and of the
precious friends there whose prayers are ever with me, I compare myself
to some solitary exile in a hostile land.”
He went on to tell us much that was interesting and unexpected. It seems
that the Protestant population decreases in France, on account of the
disinclination or disability of the young men to marry, and, in some
places, the little communities threaten to die away altogether.
After dinner and coffee, one of the ministers from Geneva gave a little
religious discourse, our kindly host extemporised a prayer, and we were
conducted to our rooms. But long past midnight we heard earnest voices
in discussion, and by daybreak the sounds commenced afresh. It was the
Pastor B---- and his friends who sat up late and rose early to discuss
the prospects of the Church, as their time of intercourse was drawing to
a close. When we came down to breakfast the visitors had gone.
The asylums of La Force are well worth the study of any one interested
in the lowest forms of helplessness and suffering. Nothing can equal the
cheerfulness and orderliness of the buildings both within and without.
The rooms are spacious, well ventilated, and looking on pleasant
landscapes of corn-field and vineyard; a pretty church is in
construction close by; and both boys and girls have large gardens in
which to play or work. The climate of La Dordogne is mild and sunny;
snow is almost unknown; and on this November day when we found
ourselves at La Force, the temperature was very nearly that of summer.
Fortunate, indeed, are these poor idiots who rejoice in such material
and moral sunshine; for the loving care and sympathy with which they are
surrounded is, I should say, quite unequalled. We have read of the
Crimean soldiers kissing Florence Nightingale’s shadow as it fell on the
wall; and as the good Pastor moved along, there were looks of love and
gratitude following him that did the heart good to witness. The most
touching feature of Pastor B----’s Orphanages is the way in which the
blind are taught to lead the blind. We saw an idiot boy acting as
writing-master to a dozen children more or less imbecile, and idiot
girls tending upon the paralysed and the epileptic. In one room there
were about twenty poor things all more or less personally and mentally
deformed; and the distorted faces, bent limbs, oblique eyes, and
soulless grins and gesticulations, were horrible. Pastor B---- shuddered
at the accustomed sight, and told us that most of these children were
born of sin and shame too horrible to mention. With very few exceptions
all have been taught to read, to write, to sew, and to labour in the
fields; the great hindrance to the good minister’s scheme is want of
money.
“We have many kind friends and supporters both in England, France, and
Switzerland,” he said; “and yet we have hard work to pull through. Many
people seem to think they do us good service in sending a poor orphan or
idiot; we take all in, but at a cost far beyond our present means.”
We were glad, and yet sorry, to leave La Force and its generous
supporters--glad to escape the sight of so much physical and mental
deformity, and sorry that we could not effectually aid the noble efforts
made in its behalf.
From La Dordogne to Bayonne extends the dreary desert of the Landes,--a
desert only broken by pine-forests and shepherds’ huts, and offering no
enticement to the impatient travellers bound to Spain. We did, however,
spend a day at Arcachon near Bordeaux, for the place had been praised in
our hearing as a second and more attractive Biarritz, and we wanted to
know how far we might recommend it to friends at home.
I don’t think I can recommend any one to go to Arcachon, quiet and
pretty as it is. In the first place, the air is so oppressively soft
that we both felt stupefied by it, much as if we had taken morphine; and
in the second, the houses are all built in such gimcrack style that one
feels to be living in a sixpenny peep-show. But, on the other hand,
there are sweet-smelling forests of young pine very refreshing to the
sight and sense (if people preserve their sight and senses in soporific
Arcachon), and salt-baths, and the pleasant feeling that here, if
nowhere else in the world, it would be quite possible to become
oblivious of every care and responsibility under the sun!
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