Brighter by far than my North sisters own;
Mine, yon grey pillar that the sea uprears.—
Climb to the lonely temple on the hill,
Where stood Segesté once, when I am there,
And ye shall see above that ruin fair
I can hang grief so solemn, that a thrill
Of ancient awe the blood of health shall chill,
As though departed Gods were weeping dark in air."

AMONG THE ARABS.

THE Souvenirs Intimes d'un Vieux Chasseur
d'Afrique, by M. ANTOINE GANDON, combine
solid information with entertaining narrative.
They are truthful and vivid military reminiscences
of an epoch— the settlement of French rule in
Algeria— which is passing fast from contemporary
news into the domain of history. Nearly
thirty years— a generation— have slipped away
since the great Arab chief submitted to the
force of his European foe. But besides their
historic value, the Souvenirs possess a simple,
serious, and sympathetic charm of their own.
We have had, M. Paul d'lvoi observes, plenty
of memoirs of courts, and to spare. Here we
are offered the memoirs of a nation. For, the
soldier who has subdued and who still holds
Algeria is more than a mere army soldier: he
is the peasant son of the energetic country who
has planted her foot, in the name of agriculture
and civilisation, on an uncultivated and savage
land. This soldier, a rustic in endurance, a
cavalier at heart, a hero and a martyr when
occasion requires, is painted by the Chasseur
d'Afrique with all the affectionate accuracy
we should bestow on the portrait of a bosom
friend.

That which gives to old African soldiers their
peculiar physiognomy, is not their complexion
bronzed by the sun, but the intelligence which
illumines their countenance whenever there is
danger to be foreseen or annoyance to be
avoided. Warfare with the Bedouins is a rude
school; it requires of those who wage it, not
only the courage indispensable to every good
soldier, but also an individual disposition,
enabling them to compete in skill and cunning
with the boldest marauders and the most finished
thieves in the world. Few will believe that
Arabs have penetrated, during the night, into
the midst of an army of ten thousand men, and
have thence stolen horses that were guarded and
watched by hundreds of sentinels. As these
delightful tricks did not always succeed, and a
culprit was occasionally caught in the fact, it
afforded the means of ascertaining their modes
of proceeding.

The Arab who is projecting a masterstroke,
and intends selecting the handsomest out of a
thousand steeds, usually comes in the course of
the day to inspect the bivouac, although he is
obliged to make his preliminary observations
from a distance— from a very considerable
distance, it may be. The natives, in fact, are
allowed to penetrate easily into the middle of
an encampment; but they are almost always
people of the neighbourhood who form part
of the expeditionary columns, such as camel-
drivers, herdsmen, and pack-horse leaders, who
have been hired for the transport of provisions.
In the latter case, the Arab thief will be
mistaken for one of the men employed; lie will
take good care that no one shall see him enter.

His choice made, the rogue disappears till
night. In order to return to the middle of the
bivouac, he habitually divests himself of every
item of clothing, and retains no other arm than
a well-sharpened knife in a leather sheath slung
with a strap across his body. He is also
provided with a long rope of camel's hair, which is
twisted round his head, like a turban. As soon
as he has passed the first sentries, the thief is
metamorphosed into a serpent; he crawls on
continually, without hurry, without noise, without
any perceptible rustling. With his eyes
fixed on the living objects whom he wishes to
avoid, he stops short if he perceives in the
sentinels the slightest sign that their attention
has been attracted. He will take three hours,
if need be, to clear a distance of a hundred
yards.

At last he gets near the coveted object, the
horse intended to be stolen. There, his
movements are more deliberate than ever, in order
not to frighten the animal, who must not be
allowed, for several minutes, to perform any but
very natural motions, capable of deceiving the
eye of the most vigilant sentinel. At first, he
cuts the shackles with which the horse's fore-
feet are tied together, he fastens his rope to one
of the horse's feet, and retires, crawling all the
while, as far as the length of the rope allows
him. The distance between himself and the
animal then varies from twelve to fifteen feet.
If, during these preparations, the horsekeepers
appear to have heard any noise, the thief again
remains motionless; the horse remaining quiet,
and the sentinels resuming their former tranquillity,
the process of stealing is continued.

The Arab slightly pulls the rope; solicited
by this mute appeal, the horse rises and sets a
step; but the movement is so perfectly similar
to that which the animal is in the habit of making
when he wants to reach a wisp of hay or a blade
of grass a little way off the stake to which he is
fastened, that, by night, nine sentinels out of
ten would be deceived. The robber repeats the
same manœuvre as long as possible. As he has
carefully studied the ground, he will continue it
while no alarm is given; but generally, once out
of the immediate reach of the men whose duty it
is to keep special watch over the stolen horse, he
leaps on the animal's back and sets off at full
gallop, well knowing that gun-shots by night are
only dangerous for the comrades of those who
fire them. Sometimes the thief covers his entire
person with leaves, but he will commit no such
foolish act in a country denuded of shrubs and
bushes. On naked ground, he is as naked as a
snake; in a bushy country, he transforms
himself into a living bush: in short, he assimilates
his person to the aspect of the country he is
traversing.

From the general to the private soldier, every