The water which is found here, and which is excellent and plentiful, contributes at the same time in no small degree to increase the attractions of the place; and though the claims of Zaffran might be humble, were it placed in a more favoured country, we may venture to affirm that no traveller who reaches it will ever be disposed to analyze too minutely its pretensions to actual beauty. Zaffran is a place of some note in the district of Syrt; it affords excellent pasturage, and furnishes large supplies of corn, wool, and manteca. The name which it bears would lead us to imagine that this place has been originally famous for its saffron; Zaffran is the Arab term by which that plant is distinguished, and we know that the northern coast of Africa has been noted for the excellence of the saffron which it produced[10]. We could not, however, perceive any traces of the plant properly so called; but the whole neighbourhood of Zaffran is overspread with a species of crocus from which saffron might very possibly be extracted. The best saffron of our own times is that which is made from the crocus, by selecting the pistils and carefully drying them in a kiln; and the colour of the plant which we saw was well calculated to suggest the idea that it might be usefully employed in a similar way: it is a bulb, with a flower somewhat larger than the crocus, and grows to a height of four or five inches. We had collected a few specimens, but the nature of our journey did not allow of our stopping to have them properly dried, and we afterwards found, on unpacking them at Bengazi, that the damp had destroyed them, together with some others which we had collected in passing through the Syrtis. The inhabitants of Zaffran are Bedouins, as are also all those of the other parts of the Syrtis; for there is not a single inhabited town or village to be found between Mesurata and Bengazi. We found them hospitable and obliging, and never entered one of their tents without receiving a cordial reception: their simple fare of milk and dates was always freely offered, and our horses were regaled with a feed of corn which they usually found very acceptable. Fresh milk was not always to be had, but they were never without a good supply of léban (sour milk, or more properly butter-milk), and we were seldom unwilling to alight from our saddles to take a draught of this patriarchal beverage, which a long day’s hard riding through a country without roads, and under the influence of an African sun, made infinitely more palatable than will easily be imagined by those who can spare it for their pigs. We were often much amused on these occasions with the surprise which our appearance created, and at the contest between ill-repressed curiosity and the respect which our Arab friends were desirous of shewing to their guests.