112 THE TROPICAL WORLD. 



Such is the estimation in which it is held, that the honours 

 and the memory of the purest race are preserved with super- 

 stitious care, the males are sold at a high price, but the females 

 are seldom alienated, and the birth of a noble foal is esteemed 

 among the tribes as a subject of joy and mutual congratulation. 

 A colt at the moment of birth is never allowed to drop upon 

 the ground ; they receive it in their arms, washing and stretch- 

 ing its tender limbs, and caressing it as they would a baby. 

 The tender familiarity with which the horses are treated, trains 

 them in the habits of gentleness and attachment. When not 

 employed in war or travelling they loiter about the tents, often 

 going over heaps of children lying on the ground, and carefully 

 picking their steps lest they should hurt them. They are ac- 

 customed only to walk and to gallop ; their sensations are not 

 blunted by the incessant abuse of the spur and the whip ; their 

 powers are reserved for the movement of flight and pursuit, 

 but no sooner do they feel the touch of the hand and the 

 stirrup, than they dart away with the swiftness of the wind, 

 and if their friend be dismounted in the rapid career they 

 instantly stop till he has recovered his seat. 



The noble steed of the desert pines and languishes in the 

 crowded town. Its head droops mournfully, it seems the very 

 image of despondency and sloth. And as the animal, so its 

 master. He also appears, not as the bold energetic nomad, but 

 as a listless apathetic wanderer ; and, were it not for the glow- 

 ing eye which restlessly rolls and flashes under its thick brow, 

 you might be inclined to prefer the servile fellah to the sullen 

 child of the desert. But now the Bedouin mounts his horse, 

 and, as if touched by an electric spark, they both of them 

 raise their heads and stretch their sinewy limbs. Slowly they 

 leave the dusty streets, and reach the confines of the desert. 

 Now at length both are at home ; now rider and horse melt into 

 one like the fabled Centaurs of old ; now^, first, the real Bedouin 

 and the real Arabian horse stand before you. Like an arrow ' shot 

 by an archer strong' the steed flies towards his master's tent, his 

 light hoof scarcely leaves a print on the sand; the white burnous 

 of the rider flies about in the wind ; with a firm hand he guides 

 the noble animal, and in a few minutes both are lost to sight in 

 the desert. 



Though the Arabs justly boast of their horses, it is a common 



