Storms delayed us in the Maltese waters, and we only just missed being on the spot on the very day when an eruption threw up an island and a volcano from the depths of the sea, to which they have now returned.  After a long passage, the frigate anchored at Algiers, which in 1831 was still the city of the Deys.  Not a street had been widened, nor a European house built.  It was still inhabited by a numerous native population.  The Rue de la Marine, which was like a narrow winding staircase, was crowded with negro women street sellers, the cafes filled with Moors wearing huge turbans.  To increase the picturesqueness of the situation, there was fighting going on at the city gates.  Berthezene, the Governor-General, had just been forced to beat a retreat from Medeah.  I could see the firing on the slopes of Kouba from the frigate, and a column had to be sent out to revictual the Maison-Carree!  Under these circumstances, the Governor bethought himself that it would be a good thing to show “the King’s son” to the troops, and settled to hold a review the next day.  The troops were to be withdrawn for the moment from the line of defense, and the review was to be held at Mustapha.  I had ventured to suggest that I might go and see the soldiers in their own lines, hoping thus to get near the firing, a natural desire enough, seeing I wore a volunteer uniform in spite of my thirteen years, but nobody listened to me, and to Mustapha I was taken, mounted on the ex-Dey’s white mule, which an artilleryman persisted in leading by the bridle, in spite of all my indignant protests.

A real downright review that was!  The men had been fighting all the morning, and Zouaves and linesmen alike looked fierce indeed, with tanned faces, eyes reddened by the smoke, and a black mark at the corner of every mouth, from biting off the ends of the cartridges.  The Zouaves had only just been raised, and were not a bit like the Zouaves of the present day.  The ranks consisted mostly of Arabs, who wore almost the same uniform as the present one, only with bare legs and slippers on their feet, mingled with Parisian roughs, drafted out of the “Regiments de la Charte,” most of them wearing blouses and caps.  Many of the non-commissioned officers had come from the Royal Guard, and still wore their blue cloaks.  The excessively whimsical get-up of the officers put the finishing touch to this motley show.  Most of them had adopted the Mameluke dress—­white turbans, huge trousers, yellow boots, a sun embroidered on their backs, and a scimitar.  After the Zouaves I saw the squadron of “Chasseurs Algeriens,” the nucleus of the future “Chasseurs d’Afrique,” march past.  They wore Turkish dress and turbans too, all but their commanding officer, a big bearded artillery captain, who wore a burnous and Arab pistols over his uniform.  His name was Marey-Monge, and he was a general of division when he died.