MOSQUE OF SIDI ZIAD, TUNIS The Auction Day

ALGERIA AND TUNIS

PAINTED & DESCRIBED
BY FRANCES E. NESBITT

PUBLISHED BY A. AND C.
BLACK · LONDON · MCMVI

Contents

PAGE

CHAPTER I The City of El Djezair 3

CHAPTER II The Country-Side 17

CHAPTER III The Gates of the Desert 37

CHAPTER IV The Queen of the Desert 57

CHAPTER V Life on an Oasis 71

CHAPTER VI Timgad 93

CHAPTER VII Constantine 107

CHAPTER VIII On the Way to Tunis 119

CHAPTER IX Tunis 139

CHAPTER X Life in Tunis 159

CHAPTER XI Carthage 179

CHAPTER XII Sousse and El Djem 193

CHAPTER XIII The Sacred City 207 INDEX 227

List of Illustrations

1. Mosque of Sidi Ben Ziad, Tunis—the Auction Day Frontispiece FACING PAGE 2. The Penon, Algiers 4 3. An Old Street, Algiers 6 4. The Carpet School, Algiers 8 5. Mosque of Sidi Abder Rahman, Algiers 10 6. The Leopard Door, Algiers 12 7. Algiers from the Jardin d’Essai 16 8. View from Mustapha, Algiers 18 9. On my Balcony, Algiers 20 10. Bougainvillæa, Algiers 22 11. The Garden Court of an Old Moorish Villa, Algiers 24 12. Friday at the Cemetery, Algiers 26 13. Koubba of Sidi Noumann, Bouzareah 28 14. Stone Pines, Algiers 30 15. The Red Aloes 32 16. The Gates of the Desert 38 17. Spinning 42 18. The Red Village, El Kantara 46 19. On the Edge of the Desert 48 20. Carding Wool 50 21. In the heart of an Oasis 52 22. In the Market-Place, Biskra 58 23. Evening on the Sahara 60 24. Sunset 62 25. The Fruit Market, Biskra 64 26. The Story-Teller 66 27. A Village Street, Biskra 70 28. A River of the Sahara 74 29. A Biskra Woman 76 30. A Nomad Camp 78 31. A Caravan on the Sahara 80 32. The Begging Marabout 82 33. The Palm Village 84 34. A Mozabite Fantasia 86 35. Street of the Dancing Girls, Biskra 88 36. The Arch of Trajan, Timgad 96 37. The Forum, Timgad 100 38. Market Day, Timgad 102 39. Gorge of the Roumel, Constantine 108 40. A Game of Draughts 112 41. The Silent Waterfall, Hammam Meskoutine 120 42. The Arab Wedding, Hammam Meskoutine 122 43. Temple of Celestis, Dougga 132 44. Tunis 140 45. Souk des Etoffes, Tunis 144 46. Souk el Attarin, Tunis 148 47. Souk el Trouk, Tunis 150 48. Souk el Belat, Tunis 152 49. Tunis from the Belvedere 158 50. A Street of Arches, Tunis 160 51. The Zaouïa of the Rue Tourbet el Bey, Tunis 164 52. Souk el Hout, Tunis 166 53. Rue Tourbet el Bey, Tunis 168 54. Rag Fair 170 55. The Fritter Shop, Tunis 172 56. Unlading Wood 174 57. The Ancient Ports of Carthage 180 58. The Old Punic Cisterns, Carthage 182 59. The Carthage Aqueduct 184 60. The Site of Carthage from Sidi Bou Saïd 188 61. Sousse 194 62. The Basket-Makers, Sousse 196 63. The Roman Amphitheatre, El Djem 200 64. Evening, Kairouan 206 65. La Grande Rue, Kairouan 210 66. Carpet-Making 212 67. Mosque of Sidi Okba, Kairouan 214 68. Moorish Gateway, Kairouan 218 69. The Mosque of the Three Doors, Kairouan 220 70. A Desert Afterglow 224 Map at end of Volume.

The Illustrations in this volume have been engraved and printed in England by The Hentschel Colourtype, Limited.

ALGERIA AND TUNIS

CHAPTER I
THE CITY OF EL DJEZAIR

Algiers is such a city of contrasts, of dark memories and present prosperity, of Christian slavery and Christian rule, brilliant sun and tropical rain, of wide modern streets and networks of narrow alleys, with the slow dignity of movement of the old race and the rapid vivacity of their new rulers, that it makes all the difference in the world in what spirit and at what moment you arrive. At times the city is all sunshine, “a diamond in an emerald frame,” as the Arabs call it; at others only a dim outline is visible blotted out by the tropical rain.

When first we saw Algiers, after a dreamy, peaceful voyage from Gibraltar, the city was in its most brilliant mood. Having started in glorious spring weather, we watched the Sierra Nevada actually fulfilling all childish dreams of snow mountains, seemingly suspended in the soft cloudy distance with a suggestion of a double horizon, which some people called a mirage. Blue sky, bluer sea, still and calm,—nothing discordant but the notes of the bugle-calls to meals. By nightfall the mountains had faded away, and all we saw was a long line of blue African coast, mysterious and dim. But in the morning there was excitement and bustle enough, the bugles beginning at dawn—a lovely dawn and sunrise. Then the joy of coming into harbour and seeing the white terraces of the town gleaming in the sunshine. General impression all charm, brightness, and colour. The next time we felt the full force of contrast. Grey drizzling weather at Marseilles, a rolling sea, cold winds and general depression as the keynote of the voyage, to be followed by a late landing on a winter evening, the bright green of the hills dim with rain, the houses looking as grey and chill as ourselves standing forlornly under umbrellas on dripping decks, and almost wet through in the short run from the steamer to a carriage; for a downpour in Algiers is a downpour, just as sunshine is really sunshine, and not the faint flickering of light and shade we sometimes mistake for it at home. So that we could fully sympathise with our fellow-travellers’ distress, whilst remembering the loveliness we knew might return at any moment. In any case landing is rather a disappointment, because the first impression is so entirely French, with scarcely a touch of the East. The harbour, quay, and houses behind are all modern, and might belong to any city of southern France; the only difference at first is the sight of the boys, with their smiling faces and queer clothes, who fight for the privilege of carrying the luggage—such nondescript clothes, half European, half Eastern. Old coats, old boots, the coats generally too small, the boots too large, worn with a variety of Eastern garments and nearly always with a scarlet Manchester handkerchief wound round their heads.

THE PENON, ALGIERS

Driving through the town, the French touch dominates everywhere—very wide streets, high houses, electric trams, motor cars, shops all entirely European; and then, as Mustapha is reached, the white houses, the gardens, even the view over the Bay to the mountains beyond, suggest Italy, the Bay of Naples, not the home of those dreaded pirates who so recently held their reign of terror here. In fact, those who like to do so might imagine they had never left the Riviera. But for those who love exploring strange scenes, there is a great deal more than this: for behind those tiresome modern houses the Arab quarter lies hidden, little altered and yet fast disappearing. The winding Rue de Rovigo cuts through it again and again on its way from the harbour to the Casbah, and yet it is still quite easy to get lost in the mazes of the narrow streets. In old times, when the Dey still ruled and the walls ran triangular fashion from the broad base of the harbour to the great fortress, or Casbah, at the top of the hill, the city must have been charming to look at, however terrible to live in. Now it is possible to go safely into even the darkest and remotest corners—and they are dark indeed. A first visit leaves one breathless but delighted. Breathless, because all the streets are staircases on a more or less imposing scale; the longest is said to have at least 500 steps; delighted, because at every turn there is sure to be something unusual to a stranger’s eye. The newer stairs are wide and straight and very uninteresting. But only turn into any old street and follow its windings, in and out between white walls, under arches through gloomy passages, here a few stairs, there a gentle incline always up, and always the cool deep shade leading to the bright blue of the sky above. Being so narrow and so steep, there are of course no camels and no carts. Donkeys do all the work, and trot up and down with the strangest loads, though porters carry furniture and most of the biggest things. Up and down these streets comes an endless variety of figures—town and country Arabs, Spahis in their gay uniforms, French soldiers, Italian workmen, children in vivid colours, Jewesses with heads and chins swathed in dark wrappings, and interesting beyond all these the Arab women flitting like ghosts from one shadowy corner to another, the folds of their haïcks concealing all the glories of their indoor dress, so that in the street the only sign of riches lies in the daintiness of the French shoes, and the fact that the haïck is pure silk, and the little veil over the face of a finer material, as the enormous Turkish trousers are all alike and of cotton. Still, it is hardly a satisfactory crowd from a picturesque standpoint, as everything seems so mixed up, and so many of the people do not even appear to know themselves what their nationality is, or their dress should be. Bazaars there are none, only the usual Eastern-looking little shops, and the Moorish cafés crowded with men drinking their tiny cups of coffee and smoking cigarettes.

AN OLD STREET, ALGIERS

The architectural peculiarity of Algiers is the curious arrangement of poles, all supposed to be of cedar wood, supporting the upper stories of the houses, which are built to project over and shade the lower, and nearly meeting overhead. Occasionally a fine gateway, rarely a decorative window, breaks the white surface of the walls, which are whitewashed and rewhitewashed continually. Generally the outer windows are mere holes, and the doors are hidden in the darkest corners. To the uninitiated nothing suggests riches or poverty; the walls are like masks. But once inside and through the dark entrance corridor, some of the houses are most beautiful. They are much alike, with their cloistered courts, with delicate, twisted columns and fine capitals. The reception-rooms have wide openings into the court, so that the cool fountain, and the flowers and trees, if there are any, may be enjoyed. The upper rooms open in a similar fashion upon a wooden balcony, generally beautiful with carving. The court and all the rooms are decorated with tiles of old designs, very rich and soft in colour, and many of the rooms have stucco work in the style of the Alhambra, only rougher and coarser in handling. Such houses or palaces or fragments of them are numerous. The Archbishop’s Palace, the Governor’s Palace, the old library, and the curiosity shops are the best known.

Even some of the schools are in fine old houses. The embroidery school was the prettiest, and was a charming sight with the court full of tiny children sitting on the matting and bending over their low embroidery frames—beautiful embroideries hanging over the balcony; and if one chose to climb up to the roof, a fine view of old Algiers, its roofs and terraces. Now the school has moved to larger quarters—another old house, pretty also, but not so interesting. The carpet school is most picturesque: there is a big doorway and the usual dark passage, then the door opens into the court, which is quite a small one with very strong light and shade. Between the pillars all round stand the big looms, and on low benches in front sit the little girls at work. The floor of the court is marble, the pillars are very curiously cut in varying designs, and are all coloured a rich yellowish orange. The balcony of the upper story has some good carved work, but very little of it is visible owing to the carpets of every tone and tint which hang over it. There are carpets on the floor, carpets in rolls, carpets and children everywhere; for upstairs also are more looms, and everywhere little workers, mostly girls, with here and there a very small boy—odd little things, with their long full Turkish trousers, white or in bright colours, their loose jackets, also mostly white, and their little heads veiled in white or else bound round with the gayest of handkerchiefs. The effect is often spoilt by common European blouses and quite hideous check shawls. Carpet-making looks easy enough, and the children seem to enjoy threading the bright wool through the web and tying the knots; for a little while that is, then like a little flight of butterflies they all come in a whirl to see what the stranger is doing in the dark inner room. This was alarming at first, as many are the stories of sketches destroyed and artists tormented by the irate victims of their brushes, and these innocent-looking little people, with their sweet smiles and pretty ways, were said to be most troublesome. But either they did not understand or they liked to be painted, for the smiles never died away till the mistress ordered them back to work, though for a few minutes one little maid propped up her pattern so as to hide her face. However, she soon forgot and things went on as before.

THE CARPET SCHOOL, ALGIERS

This was not always the case, for in the garden of one of the mosques the small boys climbed a tree and threw stones at the drawings, because, as they excitedly explained, “The Mosque belongs to us, and no stranger has any business even to look at it.” This is rather a hard saying, as the tomb-mosque in question—that of the Saint called Sidi Mohammed Abder Rahman-el-Telebi—is decidedly attractive to the poor despised foreigner. To reach it there is a good climb up many steps through the old town to a bare and dusty spot on one of the new roads—a most unpromising road to look at if it were not for a glimpse of blue over the roofs below. Until last year there was only a plain white wall and then a gateway, and outside the gateway, squatting in the dust, a sad company all sick or infirm, and all beggars striving and struggling for compassion and un petit sou. Now the gateway is dwarfed and hidden by the domes of the new schools of the mosque, white with an absolutely blinding whiteness, making the importunity of the beggars seem less annoying than this aggressive newness. From the gateway a narrow staircase descends towards the sea, and at the first white domed tomb there is a turn, a door is pushed open, and a strange little burying-place is seen, with many sacred tombs, the most important of which is decorated with tiles and a projecting roof. Many of the smaller tombs are covered completely with tiles, mostly green and blue. There are also bands of old faience round the minaret, which is a very graceful one, having three tiers of slender colonnades running round it. A little grass, a few trees, a great cypress, a budding fig-tree, and the Arab women moving softly, for this is one of their favourite places of prayer, complete the picture. The mosque itself is small, the tomb seen dimly in the darkness, which gives a mystery and charm to the abundance of queer things hanging as votive offerings, and to the rich colours of the tiles and the carpets. It is not an important mosque, but it is a place full of character and attraction, partly from its situation and partly from the irregularity and strangeness of the buildings. The other mosques have none of this undefined charm, being simply large, bare, whitewashed buildings, with, in the case of the great mosque, some fine old columns and a very pretty fountain in the court with a tree shadowing it, and bright tiles as decoration. There is also a tiny mosque in the old town, which is always full of women praying for babies. It is the tomb of another saint, and so small that the best way to see it is to stoop and look in through a window and watch the women, who are not so absorbed in prayer as to prevent their smiling and returning the gaze with interest.

MOSQUE OF SIDI ABDER RAHMAN, ALGIERS

For the rest, there is a sad feeling that most of the Oriental life is dying slowly out, that the quaintness is disappearing, and that the tendency is greater here than elsewhere to cover over and hide the old life and manners with a sort of cloak of modern civilisation. It is even said that all the better-class Arabs have already emigrated to Tunis, Egypt, or Constantinople. The walls have gone, the gates also. Nothing now is left but the great fortress itself upon the highest point of the city, now used for barracks, a few fragments of the walls, and most beautiful of all, the old harbour. It is almost impossible to believe that such a small harbour ever sheltered so strong a pirate fleet that it could ravage the coasts of Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, the ports of Italy and Spain, and even penetrate as far as England. Although Mr. Eaton, an American Consul who was sent with arrears of tribute (four vessels) due from the United States in 1798, did say, “Can any man believe that this elevated brute has seven kings of Europe, two Republics, and a Continent tributary to him, when his whole naval force is not equal to two line of battleships?” Yet these Barbary pirates literally spread terror around from their earliest beginnings in 1390 down to the time when Lord Exmouth brought the Dey to reason by bombarding Algiers in 1816 and freeing the slaves. But that was only a temporary improvement, and the bad state of affairs only came to an end with the French occupation in 1830. The whole history of the Barbary State is very sad and humiliating reading, with its accounts of the bargaining of the various Powers for the release of the Christian slaves, of whom there were often as many as twenty thousand to thirty thousand in Algiers itself. Now the harbour is full of innocent-looking coasting craft with lateen sails, many pleasure-boats and yachts, and a few torpedo boats. The serious business of shipping goes on in the outer harbour, which is full of steamers and merchantmen, whose dark hulls and smoking funnels form another striking but not attractive contrast.

THE LEOPARD DOOR, ALGIERS

The beautiful Moorish tower called the Penon, and now used as a lighthouse, was built in 1544 on the site of the old Spanish fort, and rises from the midst of a group of old buildings, with here and there a fine bit of Moorish work amongst them, though, as they are used by the Admiralty, there is much that is modern and business-like as well. In the wall is a characteristic fountain; a flat surface decorated with inscriptions in Arabic and carvings in marble in very slight relief, with a simple spout for the water. Farther on, rather hidden up in a corner under an arch, is the famous Tiger or Leopard gateway—a very curious bit of work, the chief peculiarity of which is that these two odd heraldic animals guarding a shield are supposed to be of Arab workmanship. Now, as it is strictly forbidden by their religion to make images of living moving things, a legend has been invented to the effect that the decoration was done by a Persian slave, and that his masters found it so surpassingly beautiful that they had not the heart to destroy it. However, it really looks much more like Spanish work done during their occupation of the place, and though quaint, decorative, and rather unusual, is not really beautiful at all. These and many more are the old-world nooks and corners in the city which the modern builder has not yet overthrown, and where it is quite easy for a few moments to dream oneself back into the old life, though the dreams generally end in a sudden shock—the noise of an electric tram, the hooting of a motor, a cyclist’s bell, or the appearance of some thoroughly Western figure who could never have had any sympathy with the Arabian Nights.

ALGIERS FROM THE JARDIN D’ESSAI

CHAPTER II
THE COUNTRY-SIDE

Whatever people may think of Algiers itself,—whether they are most attracted by its old-world side, or its up-to-date would-be Paris quarter, with the wide, handsome boulevards and quays, the arcaded streets, the crowded squares, or even by the endless pleasure of treasure-hunting in the many curiosity shops, and the yet more endless bargaining that this entails,—still it is generally with a sigh of relief that they turn from the noise and clatter of the stone-paved streets, and wind their way towards the heights of Mustapha Supérieur and El Biar, where most of the foreign visitors and residents live.

At first the way is weary, up-hill as usual, and along a prosaic street, almost the only interest being a few fragments of the city wall near the English church, which till only a few years ago stood at the meeting-place of town and country, and is now quite swallowed up by the ever-growing town.

But though the ascent may be steep, the way long, and the streets not very interesting, these little matters are soon forgotten as the road passes quite suddenly at last into a region of shady trees and gardens, and winds on and up past hotels and villas till at last the heights are gained, and lovely, ever-varying views open on every side. It is a joy to live in one of these white houses half-hidden by a mist of green, to stand on the sunny terrace in the early part of the day and look out over the sea—a joy which is new every morning and which increases day by day.

In the distance, above the exquisite curve of the bay, is a long line of mountains, imposing enough, and fine in form, sometimes dark and gloomy with storm cloud, at other times so faintly blue that their outlines barely show against the pale lightness of the sky. These nearer mountains are things of every day, and their changing moods are always visible, but above and beyond these come and go, for a few fleeting moments, like a vision, the great snow mountains of Kabylia. Mysterious, delicate, elusive, hardly to be distinguished from cloud masses, and yet grand and majestic in outline as any in Switzerland—a strange, unwonted sight to those who only know North Africa as it appears in Egypt. For though we all know better, snow mountains on this scale will suggest a northern landscape with pines and fir trees, and not the sort of vegetation this garden land supplies as a foreground. As far as one can see, a rich plain and softly wooded heights, olives and almonds, palms and pepper trees, sycamores, stone pines in endless variety, and closer still are tropical flowers, strange to see with a snow background. It seems wrong, somehow, and the fact of its being January adds to the oddness of the feeling.

VIEW FROM MUSTAPHA, ALGIERS

But the view cannot be said to be all charm and dreamy beauty, for unfortunately, or fortunately, there is a great deal more. Lower Mustapha also lies spread like a map before you—a prosperous town, with factories, government and otherwise, smoking chimneys, and barracks. This is why early morning is the best moment, for then the veil of smoke and mist hides the ugliness, and prevents the counting of those odious chimneys, and leaves Upper Mustapha alone to act as foreground, where it is still country, in its own way, the hills covered with trees and gardens, and the endless houses simply showing as sparkles of light. Still, it is one of those places that makes the new-comer long to have seen and known a few years ago, before this sudden great prosperity; for in those days when the factories did not exist, the villas were all beautiful, and few and far between, and it was possible to walk through fields, and over the hillside, gathering wild flowers all the way, to the very gates of the city. And all this is a question of a few years, so rapid has been the success of the colony when once it really started; before that, the old descriptions of the place held true and still do so, if only a little judicious shutting of the eyes is used occasionally, such as the glowing picture, drawn by one of the English officers of the squadron that came to Algiers in 1674, of the beautiful country, houses white as chalk on either side of the town, with gardens and vineyards abounding in all kinds of fruit and vegetables. Oranges and lemons had only lately been planted, but they produced so abundantly, that “he bought sixty for a royal”; although it was Christmas they had apples, cauliflowers, roses, carnations, and “most sorts of ffruights, flowers and salating.”

It would now take an immense catalogue, as large as any of the bulky volumes issued by our English seedsmen, to sum up all the trees, flowers, and fruits that can be found not only in the beautiful gardens, or in the great Jardin d’Essai, but also growing wild on the whole country-side. In January the trees and hedges along the roads and by-ways are festooned by masses of white clematis growing like our traveller’s joy, but with flowers whose petals are at least an inch long. A little later there are irises everywhere: a dwarf kind with large lilac-coloured flowers, and also, but rarely, a white variety has been found. Then comes one of the chief pleasures of spring—drives far out into the country, where the rolling hills, the coombes, and the rich, red soil bring memories of Devonshire (memories a little disturbed by the vineyards that clothe the hills, and the distant snow-clad mountains). The object of these drives is to gather the wild narcissus, which is found growing in marshy hollows on the wildest parts of the hillside beyond Dely Ibrahim. They grow in such quantities, that large bunches can be made in a few minutes at the expense of a little agility and some rather muddy boots. Later on, the asphodel covers every waste space with flowery spikes and ribbon leaves.

ON MY BALCONY, ALGIERS

The roads, as is the way of French roads, are wide and good, with gradients suited to military needs; but the lanes of Mustapha and El Biar are a feature of the place—narrow, sometimes very steep, often more like the bed of a torrent than a path, with stone walls full of plants and ferns, overarched by trees, with aloes and prickly pear crowning the banks; shady and cool in the heat, damp like a tunnel in the wet, lonely and not always very safe—a point which perhaps adds something to their fascination.

The real delight of the whole place lies for most people in the possession of a villa, Moorish or otherwise, and a garden—and the garden is the thing. This is why there are many who cannot feel the indescribable charm which makes Egypt what it is. They talk of the monotony of sand and hill, palm and river, and miss those months of winter passed amidst the flowers and trees, and can hardly realise that the still water, and the sunsets which seem to open the very gates of heaven, can ever compensate even slightly for their loss. Naturally they have sunsets too; only to enjoy them properly you must dwell on the heights of El Biar and arrange to have a western outlook across the plain. Then and then only can you sometimes feel that the glories, and now and then the calm of the East reach even here. Flowers are better is their cry, and perhaps this is true; at any rate it is good to live all through what should be winter with the white walls of your house aglow with colour, draped with purple Bougainvillæa, or, as in one well-known, well-loved garden, with a fiery cross of the more uncommon terra cotta variety upon that same fine whiteness, with the blue sea far beyond, and peeps of mountains, plain, and harbour as a background, whilst all around comes the scent of violets, sweet peas and roses, not to speak of calycanthus and other fragrant shrubs. Here there are irises and narcissus, and all the old-world English flowers, mingling in friendly fashion with strange companions: cactus and aloes of every variety, arum lilies, the white hanging bells of the datura, the birdlike brightness of the strelitzia, the gorgeous scarlet of the Indian shoe-flower, all flourishing happily together. The very fountains bring thoughts of Egypt and Greece—full as they are of waving globes of feathery papyrus. There are bamboos from Japan; eucalyptus or blue gum from Australia; oranges, lemons, and bananas of the South; apples and pears from the North; and stately groups of stone pines, a purely Italian feature. Strange fruits are also to be found in this dream garden; the strangest of all, one that rejoices in the name of Monstera deliciosa. It has large thick leaves, slit somewhat like a banana, flowers resembling the wild arums of our English lanes magnified exceedingly, the fruit a cross between a pine-apple and a cone in appearance, and having a taste of the former mixed with something quite its own.

BOUGAINVILLEA, ALGIERS

Other gardens give lovely “bits”: in one a long border of arum lilies, growing as freely as Madonna lilies in a cottage garden, backed by flames of montbretia, and small queer aloes with paler flame-coloured flowers edging the path before them. The great scarlet aloe is the centre of many pictures, either solitary on a terrace, with trees and the bay, or in an old garden amongst cypresses, its red-hot pokers contrasting brilliantly with the rich green, or, better still, perhaps in masses on a long border under an open avenue of olives on a hillside, seen in the glow of evening, standing gemlike in the still blueness of sea and sky. Roses may be seen everywhere, festooning walls and forming hedges. The eye will rest with pleasure on some Moorish doorway surrounded by goodly bushes of pomegranate, their bright orange-red blossoms harmonising with the tones of the old building and with the violets; for here even they come into the picture, as Algerian violets are not occupied modestly hiding under their leaves, for they raise their heads proudly on long stalks, carpeting the ground with their fine purple, and the scent rises to the terrace far above them.

The old Moorish villas are all built on much the same plan as the houses in the town, collections of white cubes from without, and within a two storied arcaded court, on to which the various rooms open. In some there is also a women’s court, and occasionally a garden court as well. One of the most beautiful of these houses contains, under a glass let into one of the walls, a most remarkable record, said to be the only contemporary one of Christian slavery known to exist in Algiers. It was discovered during some repairs done by its first English owner, when a flake of plaster fell off and disclosed this writing roughly scratched as if by a nail on a wet surface:—

John Robson
(wi)th my hand this 3rd day
Jany. in the year
1692.

This John Robson is known to have been released and restored to his family and friends by William Bowlett, who paid £11:2s. for his freedom—not a very high value for an Englishman even in those days. This same villa has a beautiful garden-court, which as you walk into it makes you feel as if you stepped backwards through the ages into a world of old romance, solemn and stately; and as you look from the cool shadow to the cloister arches and white twisted columns covered with bright creepers, you hardly realise that old tiles upon the wall, old red pavement at your feet, trees laden with oranges, a fountain covered with maiden-hair, and surrounded by a square pool of water, like a mirror reflecting the papyrus which grows in it, are the details that make up the picture, so entirely do the stillness and the peace throw their enchantment over all. Then with the opening of the great doors comes a vision of sunlit paths and brightest green, formal almost to stiffness in its lines—the old Harem garden. Many of the villas have beauties such as these, though few so perfect as a whole; often only a doorway or a window remains that still tells its tale of olden days.

THE GARDEN COURT OF AN OLD MOORISH VILLA, ALGIERS

The pride of Lower Mustapha is the Jardin d’Essai, not properly a garden at all, not even a park, though it is big enough for that. It is a home for numbers of rare trees and shrubs of a more or less tropical character, a sort of school where they are trained to stand another climate, and from which some go forth and travel again to northern lands; for it is said that the culture of palm trees alone brings in at least £4000 a year, and that most of those sold in London and Paris come from this garden. India-rubber trees, bananas, and oranges are on the useful market-garden side, and to these might also be added its ostrich farm; but from the scientific or artistic point of view usefulness is a smaller thing than rarity and beauty. There are also trees of the most rare kinds with imposing names to rejoice the learned; and for the satisfaction of beauty lovers, long avenues of palms of every type, cocoa trees, quaint alleys of yuccas, and lightest and perhaps most graceful of all, the bamboo. Then for a change, just by crossing a road, there is a real oasis of ordinary palms, making a delicious shade for the little tables of two bright cafés; and from this spot, at the water’s very edge, is a peep of old Algiers, the “white city,” the harbour and the boats glowing in the soft afternoon light, and reflected in the calm opalescent water.

Quite near to the Jardin d’Essai is another garden, the Arab cemetery, very wild, and badly kept, its interest lying not in its own beauty, but in the fact that Friday after Friday all the year round it is the place of pilgrimage of the Arab women. It contains the tomb of a celebrated saint called Sidi Mohammed Abder Rahman Bou Kobrin, who came at the end of the eighteenth century from the Djurdjura mountains, and founded a powerful sect or order, second only to that of Sidi Okba. His body was brought to Algiers and buried in the Koubba, but his followers in the wilds of Kabylia became furious until they discovered that all the time the body was still in its first resting-place as well. Now all is quiet and calm once more, as a wonder has been worked, so that henceforth he is Bou Kobrin, the man of two tombs. At noon the gates are closed to all men, and until six in the evening it is crowded with women and children. Here they come, in carriages and on foot, in big parties in special omnibuses, veiled, mysterious forms; but once inside they form laughing groups on the various family tombstones, take off the veils that cover their faces, showing glimpses of gay colours under the shrouding white. Here they picnic and chat and pay each other visits, and return with great interest the gaze of the European women who come to see them. The Arab ladies of Algiers live such secluded lives that this is often their only opportunity of going out, and it is quite their only chance of being free and unveiled out of their own homes, so that naturally they make the most of their time, and think as few sad thoughts as may be; so that although we have seen tears and passionate kissing of the tombs, and offerings of evergreens, the symbol of immortality, smiles and sweet glances are much more common. Some of them are really beautiful with their dark eyes and heavily painted eyebrows, some most surprisingly fair, and, though it is hardly polite to mention it of such carefully veiled dames, some are as surprisingly ugly. Often they talk a little French, and though most of them are horrified and turn their backs when they see a camera, sketching does not seem to be half such a terror, and they smile, and point, and say something that sounds like m’lyeh, and means pretty.

FRIDAY AT THE CEMETERY, ALGIERS

From cemeteries to tombs and shrines is a natural step, and here, as in Italy, there are endless places of pilgrimage. Mohammedan saints simply abound. In this part of the world they go by the name of Marabout, and the tomb-mosques built over their graves are called Marabouts also—a most confusing arrangement, so that it is quite a relief when Koubba is used as a substitute in discussing tombs. These tombs are mostly built on a very simple plan—a small cube surmounted by a dome, the whole as white as frequent whitewash can make it.

It is a delightful drive to the shrine of Sidi Noumann, at Bouzareah, through some of the prettiest scenery in the whole neighbourhood. Passing through Mustapha Supérieur and reaching the Colonne Voirol on the top of the hill, and then keeping at a high level along a country road, almost English with its high hedges, though most un-English in the glimpses that come every now and then of Moorish villas, stone pines and cypresses, with the deep blue sea on the one side, and on the other the rich colour of the plain. After passing the busy little town of El Biar it is all real hill country, up and down, and round through vineyards and cornfields, smiling and prosperous, which bear witness to the untiring industry of the Colons or Colonists. Year by year the moorland is disappearing, larger and larger tracts come under cultivation, till soon there will be nothing but vines and corn as far as the eye can see, the vines especially being an enormous success. Farmhouses of European character nestle in hollows, or stand well sheltered by pines or eucalyptus, and these buildings contrast oddly with the Moorish houses, which resemble forts. Sometimes both styles of architecture are as mixed as the races who toil in these same fields and vineyards. French, Italians, Spaniards, men from the Balearic Isles, Moors and Kabyles, work together, talking strange-sounding tongues, a sort of patois at best, distinguished from each other by little touches in their dress, mainly in their headgear, the size of their hats, or its material, every sort of turban and handkerchief, and, ruling over them all, a pith helmet in hot weather. At last, after many turns and twists round wooded, waterless coombes, the carriage reaches the village of Bouzareah, and turning up a shady lane stops at a small enclosure. Arab boys promptly appear and insist on acting as guides, telling in very broken French that here the great Saint was buried, and making every one peep in to see the tomb itself in the dark interior of the Koubba.

KOUBBA OF SIDI NOUMANN, BOUZAREAH

Another Marabout lives near by, and there is a minaret and small mosque, another tomb or so, and a well-house which almost looks like one. Groups of minuscule palms, whose heads of fan-shaped leaves seem too small for the size of their trunks, throw flickering shadows over the white walls, as the wind blows them to and fro. Outside the sacred place lies wild moorland, broken by simple stones, marking other graves scattered far and wide, pale purple iris growing half-hidden amongst them. Splendid aloes fringe the sides of a little lane which separates the tomb of the saint from the wind-swept lonely hill where his followers are buried—aloes whose soft greyish-blue leaves form delicate contrast in colour with the green of cactus and palm and the red of the crumbling banks. In the evening the view is beautiful from any part of this ridge, some 1300 feet above the sea, though too panoramic perhaps for a picture. Miles and miles of plain, shimmering in the heat, tone after tone of rich colour fading gradually into the blues and purples of the long range of mountains which enclose it all, and stretch in a fine curve far out into the sea, Djebel Chenoua stands out dark and fine against the brilliance of the setting sun, a scene beautiful as the Bay of Algiers itself. On a clear day may be seen many places noted in ancient times, such as the “tomb of the Christian,” supposed to have been the great sepulchre of the Mauritanian kings, built about 26 B.C., a great circular building standing on a hill, with a sort of pyramid on the top of it, and with long passages and vaulted chambers within; but it must have been ransacked in bygone times, for when opened by modern explorers in 1866, nothing remained but bare walls. You may see also Tipaza, founded by the Emperor Claudian, and Cherchell, originally a Phœnician colony, but later on known to the Romans as Cæsarea, and to the Christians as the place of martyrdom of St. Marcian and St. Arcadius.

Nearer on the sea-shore the French landed, and the great battle which gave freedom to the seas and Algeria to France was fought and won at Staouëli on the 14th June 1830, under the command of General de Bourmont. Staouëli is now best known for its great Trappist Monastery, another favourite place for picnics, though it is a moot point whether it is better to do a formal maigre lunch in the solemn room of the monastery, or to escape from its shadow and feed on forbidden things under the trees. The Trappist colony is large and prosperous. The French Government gave them a large grant of land, and they settled down soon after the war, the foundation stone of the Abbey being laid on shells found on the battlefield. The monks are celebrated for the wines which they make and export in great quantities.

STONE PINES, ALGIERS

These and many more are the sites pointed out with eager fingers by the small Arabs, either from the little burying-ground, or, still better, from the Observatory on a higher point just beyond the stone gourbis of an Arab village. One of the roads runs along a ridge between two bays with water almost all round, and there are many ways back to Algiers, winding down amongst trees and villas. In fact driving, riding, walking, and now motoring are a constant pleasure, for though the main features of the sea and the Sahel, or great plain, with its encircling mountains, are the foundation of each view, the effects are constantly changing, and the views from the Bois de Boulogne, the Château Hydra, the village of Koubba, Notre Dame d’Afrique, and the Casbah have all a distinct individual beauty notwithstanding some sameness. Other reasons besides the view take one to the two last. Notre Dame d’Afrique itself stands finely on the top of a hill. It contains a wonder-working black Madonna, and the walls are covered with votive offerings of every sort. Over the high altar is the unusual inscription, “Notre Dame d’Afrique priez pour nous et pour les Musulmans.” But it is the poetic service of the blessing of the sea which draws multitudes up the steep hill on Sunday afternoon. A procession crosses the terrace to the edge of the cliff, where stands a cross to the memory of all those who have been buried in deep waters. The priest wears a funeral cope, and the realistic detail of a pall is not forgotten. Then there are prayers and singing, and holy water is scattered out towards the sea on all sides. The whole is very simple and quiet, not a pageant at all, but beautiful in the idea and in the surroundings, city and sea seen through and over a mist of almond blossom, white and pink—the emblem of hope, according to the Mohammedans.

With the Casbah the attraction lies in its historic interest and mingling memories—memories almost ludicrous when we remember the episode of the fan: how the Dey in his anger used his to strike the French Consul, forgetting that times had changed, and that it was no longer possible to insult a European with impunity, thus commencing the war which ended so disastrously for himself and so well for France; humiliating, when we think of the bargains driven there for the freedom of Christian slaves; ghastly, as we see the chain across the throne-room, where heads of victims were once exposed after execution. Memories of gallant knights toiling here as captives, and greatest among them, as we reckon greatness nowadays, Don Miguel de Cervantes, the author of Don Quixote. He was made prisoner by the Corsairs after the battle of Lepanto in 1575, and brought to Algiers with his brother Rodrigo. Their father made every effort to save them, but only succeeded in releasing the less valuable Rodrigo. The Corsair captain considered Don Miguel far too important to part with. He and his friends made many dashing attempts to escape, which were invariably discovered or betrayed, when he always chivalrously took all the blame himself. In 1580, just as he was being sent in irons to Constantinople, Father Juan Gil managed to effect his ransom for the sum of a hundred pounds in English money of the period.

THE RED ALOES

Bitter memories mostly, but redeemed from sadness by the heroism of Christian slaves, and by stories such as that of San Geronimo (or, to give him his right title, the Venerable Geronimo), told by the Spanish chronicler Hædo. He was an Arab child captured by the Spaniards, baptized and brought up by the Vicar-General at Oran. Later on he fell again into the hands of his own people, who made the boy a Mohammedan; but when he grew older he determined to live and work for the Christian faith, so he returned to Oran, became a soldier, and married. Then after ten years, in 1569, he was unfortunately made prisoner by pirates and carried to Algiers. The Mohammedans were furious that one of their creed and race should be a renegade, but no threats or persuasions had any power to move him from his faith. By the Governor’s command, he was buried alive in a block of concrete in the walls of the “Fort des vingt-quatre heures,” his last words being, “I am a Christian, and a Christian I will die.” This happened on the 18th of September 1569, and the story was long looked upon as a legend, but has now been proved to be true by the discovery of the skeleton in 1853, in the very situation where tradition had always placed it. Those who care for such sights may go to the Museum and see a cast of the body, made from the original block in which he was buried; a grim relic to be placed amongst Roman antiquities and inscriptions. But the block itself, that “noble sepulchre” as the old chronicler calls it, has now found a fitting shrine in the Cathedral, where the bones of the saint rest after his stern warfare, his faithfulness unto death. The marble sarcophagus bears the inscription, “Ossa venerabilis servi Dei Geronimo.”

CHAPTER III
THE GATES OF THE DESERT

During the winter on the coast of Algeria no one can complain of a deadly monotony of cloudless skies or of a too burning sun. There is no cause to grumble over dazzling light, nor any reason to wish for smoke to veil an ugly object in the landscape, for often the rain does that—indeed, not content with merely veiling, it blots it out entirely for a time, though in the end the sunshine is sure to win. Yet truly the winter of 1903-1904 did give an excuse to the grumblers, who had enough to do in comparing notes on the number of inches in the rainfall, in discussing their own woes, and worrying over gloomy prophecies; for they could count fifty-five consecutive days on which rain had fallen. Then the weather brightened, and the sun came out for a while before the clouds settled down and it all began over again.

This does not mean steady rain, night and day, merely that rain fell at least once in every twenty-four hours—a most unusual state of things. Two or three weeks are to be expected, but this had never occurred before, and for once it seemed reasonable to believe even the oldest inhabitant; for who would choose to come winter after winter to such a scene, though for once in a way it had its interest? For the rain is rain that can be seen and heard. No gentle all-enwrapping mist, when it is hard to tell whether drops fall or no. On the contrary, it waked us at night with a noise that seemed prodigious, torrents of water streaming down roofs and terraces like diminutive waterfalls. Sometimes in the evening whilst sitting cosily over a wood fire there would be a sudden rush for the door to see if anything unwonted was occurring, but with a cry of “Only the weather again!” the little excitement would subside.

Local genius, in the shape of gardeners both French and Arab, put it all down to the moon, which each month appeared sitting on its back. Djegudé as they called it. The moon would not amend her wicked ways, and month after month she continued djegudé, with at times disastrous results.

The harm done was considerable. Roads, houses, bridges and railways were washed away; many people lost their lives; and in the mountain districts there were many landslides. Nothing extraordinary happened in Algiers itself, nothing so sensational as the story which is still told (with how much truth it is difficult to say) of a villa which, while its owners slept, slid down the hillside at least a hundred yards, as they found to their amazement on going out next morning and measuring the track left behind. The villa is standing in its new position to this day, and is not that sufficient proof? Part of the hillside is said to be formed of a sort of sliding clay, and in those parts of Mustapha land is sold for a ridiculously small sum; but houses built there have a habit of sliding a little or collapsing, so that, as a rule, notwithstanding the most scientific building, it is more comfortable and indeed cheaper in the end to pay more and build on the rock.

THE GATES OF THE DESERT

In consequence of all this, and of the tales of woe which filled the papers, travellers were solemnly warned by their friends before starting on a railway journey, whether East or West, that though they might not be fated to be carried away by a landslide, yet they would almost certainly be forced to walk miles in the night over precipitous paths (in the scantiest attire, if they added to their folly by going in a sleeping-car), and that they would have to try and sleep in impossible places, with no food of any sort to sustain them. Travelling was actually quite difficult owing to the railway lines being washed away so often, and in some places the damage done was so great that it was more than six weeks before trains could run straight through again. One adventure is worth telling, as it was such a wonderful escape. It happened by daylight; if it can be called daylight in a tunnel. A rock fell and blocked the line, the train was just stopped in time to prevent a serious accident, and the passengers waited two or three hours in the dark. At last they were all moved into another train on the other side, where they established themselves only to find, after three minutes more waiting, that an avalanche had just fallen ahead, so that had they not encountered the first obstacle, they must inevitably have been swept away to the gulf below by the second. This put them in better spirits for a weary scramble to comparative comfort and safety.

However, the final result of the wet has been a phenomenal harvest, with corn and wine in abundance. The visitors may have suffered, but the colonists have gained in the long run. Even the visitors did not have such a bad time, for it was not really winter, but rather a wet, rainy summer, with bursts of warmth and sunshine, brightened by summer flowers and the singing of birds.

Still, on the whole, it seemed wiser to many of us to make a dash for the desert instead of lingering to watch the clouds roll up again and again in a place where the dampness of the soil prevented any advantage being taken of intervening hours of sunshine. Notwithstanding all forebodings, our own journey was as uneventful, dull, and wearisome as so long a journey can easily be. The choice is given you of going by a train which crawls all day, from about seven in the morning till seven at night, and sleeping in a tiny inn at a bleak, bare station, El Guerrah, with no town or village near it, or of doing the same thing at night, and going straight on without a change to your destination. We chose the latter on both our visits, and the first time had an amusing experience. The whole winter in Algiers had been fine, really typical, and the beginning of March was hot,—warm enough to wear summer muslins. Friendly warnings had prepared us to take wraps for the colder atmosphere of the mountain region; but what was our surprise when morning dawned to find a snow landscape all round us and snow falling steadily. When the train stopped at El Guerrah for breakfast, the scene was comical in the extreme. Every one had to get out and wade through three inches of snow and slush to the hotel on the other side of the station. Very few of the passengers had any wraps or umbrellas, and most of them had only the thinnest of shoes, so that it was a damp and shivering company who crowded round the fire, and tried to make the most of bad coffee, poor bread, and impossible butter. Our cloaks and umbrellas were objects of envy, which we in our turn felt towards those provided with suitable boots. Now the inn and breakfast are quite good, but then the whole effect, the open wayside station, the snow-covered plain, the uninteresting desolate hills, the slush and mud, the wet, cold Arabs struggling with the luggage, the few passengers growling and shivering, and exchanging condolences in French, English, German, and Italian, made an odd picture of the joys of travel, only to be thoroughly enjoyed by people with a Mark Tapley spirit. As a final touch, all the small luggage had been deposited in the snow, and remained there for an hour, until the other train came in, when it was hoisted into the carriages, and put on the clean linen-covered seats, with the result that a rapid thaw set in when the foot-warmers arrived, so that a general pushing of bags and hold-alls outside the window for a good scraping was the first consideration, after which the drying of shoes on the burning hot bottles proceeded gaily. For some hours longer the snow kept with us, but as we came towards the desert it disappeared, and Biskra itself was warmer than Algiers.

In 1904, notwithstanding the wet season, and that we started a month earlier, there was no sudden change of temperature. El Guerrah was as bright as it can ever be, for at the best it is a desolate spot, even when later on the plain is carpeted with flowers, orange and gold. There is already a sense of loneliness, of wide spaces unbroken by towns or villages; just a few houses here and there, strung on the single line of railway like a thread; a few stone gourbis, or native huts; then dark Bedawin camps, flocks of sheep and goats, and now and then a horseman or a camel.

For a long time the line skirts a salt lake, which at times lives up to the worst that Pierre Loti says of such places, “Morne, triste et désolé”; at others the surrounding hills seem to grow in dignity, to glow in soft reds and purples, rising straight from the still water, and mirrored with the absolute fidelity of a Norwegian fjord, a haunting stillness over all. Batna is the only town of much importance passed, and already the hills are growing wilder. Gradually they close in and excitement begins to grow, for soon will come the first sight of the desert. There is but little cultivation, the mountain-sides are dry and barren, a few tamarinds grow along the sides of a stream. Suddenly the jagged ridges of high mountains block the way, like a veritable wall. Precipitous crags of warm reddish colour, stern and rugged as the Dolomite Peaks, rise without a touch of green, from low rolling hills which are equally arid in character, or when the gorge itself is reached, straight from the river-bed.

SPINNING