I here saw one of the boats. It was certainly the great grandfather of

skiffs; the hollow tree, or monoxyllo, is to it a modern invention. It

was simply a bundle of rushes tied together, and raised at the point

like an Indian canoe, with “thwarts,” to keep it hollow: it was open

at the stern, and floated merely by the buoyancy of the rushes. It had

nothing in the form of fastening; no rulucks; and was propelled by a

pole. I now saw _the_ “basket”[214] in which the mother of Moses placed

her child, and which does not exactly tally with the notions of Poussin

and Guercino. The name of the rushes is _scaif_, and that is the Arabic

for ship. When I heard it before, I thought it must have been derived

from the Greek σκάφη [skaphê], which again is derived from σκάπτω

[skaptô], to hollow out; whence also σκαπτὴζ [skaptêr], a digger, σκάφη

[skaphê], a ditch. If this be so, then the Arabs, in borrowing their

word from the Greeks, proceeded to call by the same name a plant spread

over the whole land; displacing the ancient name--which it must have

had, as also the roots made from it, a thousand years--and before the

Greek islands were visited by Cadmus. If this is too absurd, then the

Arabs called the boats after the reed, and the Greeks, adopting from

them the name, constructed out of it this root, their verb _to hollow_,

and all its derivatives. The modern Greeks have not this word, but have

taken the Arabic one for caravan (καράβι [karabi]). The Arabs have the

same word for boat and camel, _merkeb_, not because it is the “ship of

the desert,” but because it is “mounted.”

The Highlander calls a beehive _scape_, the French, _ruche_: the

English “skiff” and “ship,” the German “schiff,” come all from _skaff_.

The Portuguese preserve the old Greek word _naus_. _Bastimento_ and

_bâtiment_ are from _beit_, a house or building; and our sea-terms

generally come from the Arabic. The aloe is called _kordean_, which

applies equally to the plant and to the fibres extracted from it.

Thence we may have got the _Gordian_ knot. At all events, it is good

as an etymon for _cord_. Their word for cord is _kenab_, from which

the Greeks and Romans took their name for hemp. The continental name

for pitch (_alkitran_, Spanish; _goudron_, French) is from _kitran_;

hammock, from _hamaca_ (Hebrew); cable, from _habl_ (Arabic). The Greek

word for boat-fare, ναῦλος [naulos], is from the Arabic _naulbabi_,

mother of harbours.[215] _Frigate_ is mentioned as a Moorish name

for longboats by a writer at the beginning of the last century, who

says, “We call them brigantines.”[216] Brigantine or breck, seems to

come from _coffee-pot_; _ibrek_, a coffee-pot. _Corvette_ is also

Phœnician.[217] An Arab sailor mentioning the different winds, called

the sirocco, shiloh. The same term is applied to the southern Brebers,

which therefore designates the country from which they came, and makes

the sirocco a derivative from the Arabic. Again, _dabét_, which they

give to compasses, their compasses being made like our boats’ davits.

The new French dictionary of the dialect of Algiers has the following

words: _spaolon_, twine; _dmane_, helm; _saboura_, ballast. The Greek

for twine is σπάον [spaon]. The French, Italian, Greek, Spanish, &c.,

for helm is _timon_ or _timoni_, and the common Levant term for ballast

is _savoura_.

After quitting the lake we ascended a hill, and passed by a saint’s

tomb. I had not been so close to one before, and was surprised at their

not leading me away from it. There were quantities of rushes lying

around for sleeping on, and I found that it was a common practice for

travellers to sleep there, as in the Heroa of Greece, where they were

always secure. They even asked me if I had ever slept in one, so that

the fanaticism of the towns is here unknown.

The snow-white saints’ tombs are very beautiful, seen across the lakes,

and reflected in them. The resemblance was striking with the Mussulman

tombs of India. The half-globe is placed on the cube, and within the

spandril the Gothic arch. Whether was the Indian building derived from

the Moorish, or this from the Indian; for as yet, as in the other parts

of Moorish architecture, I had not seen any natural type or human work

from which it could be derived. The tents, however, had now assumed a

new form, and looked like cottages, being closed in at the bottom by

mats of reeds, made into hurdles, over which the tent itself stood,

like a roof. The population is here more stationary. In the centre

of the circle the mosque, instead of being a tent, was constructed

with reeds, like a tall beehive; and, as they have no carpenters, the

entrance was by a round hole, three feet from the ground, to prevent

the entrance of pigs, cattle, sheep, or poultry, which might defile it.

As we advanced, we found numbers of these beehives, sometimes one to

each tent, and used as dormitories for the children.[218] While I was

considering the origin of the tombs, I observed one of these cones,

against which a square hurdle had been placed to close the orifice, and

there was in rushes the perfect model of the stone building.

The round hole is the origin of the horse-shoe arch, which is a circle

slit down. The walls of the tombs are finished off with the ornaments,

to represent the obtruding ends of the reeds in the hurdles. I was

confirmed in this supposition when, on asking the name of the reeds, I

was answered, _Kasob_, which is the name of a fortress, _Kasaba_. The

first fortresses, or stocades, were of course constructed of reeds.

I beheld in these shining edifices on the borders of this marsh, the

rudiment of the swelling dome on the banks of the Tiber, and the type

of the mausolea of Akbar and Jhanju, on those of the Indus. In their

substance they are the very root of all building, as in their forms

they are of all architecture.

[Illustration: architectural forms]

I must refer the reader to what I have said elsewhere on Moorish and

Gothic architecture.

From our early studies probably no more pleasing impressions remain

than those connected with the funereal solemnities of the ancients. The

feeling they convey goes home to the mind, and the manner in which it

is expressed, and the ceremonies, rites, and laws connected with it,

take possession of our youthful imaginations. Indeed, funeral rites

constitute in a great degree our idea of the life of antiquity, as

funeral monuments furnish the largest proportion of its records. But,

if we are thus moved in reading of what existed thousands of years

ago, and are made to partake in the, to us, strange veneration that

consecrated the tomb into a temple[219]--that converted it into a

sanctuary for the criminal--that made it sacrilege to tread upon the

grave[220]--that enjoined the utmost cleanliness in the arrangements

and preservation of sepulchres, and (among the Jews) imposed the yearly

white-washing of them--how much more so, in seeing those very practices

amongst an extant people! Treading the Continent that bears the load

of the Pyramids, the sight of these tombs suggests other reflections:

the connexion of the honour of the dead with judgment on his acts--with

recompense and punishment, and therefore with an after-existence--with

a Creator of man, the Giver of life, the Receiver of the soul.[221]

They prepared for the belief in a future state by creating for

themselves a future here; and in the treatment of their mortal remains

lay punishments and rewards, that surpassed any that present things,

except in this anticipation, could furnish.

In after times there was a superstitious veneration for the dead--not

so in early times. The corpse was judged by those who had witnessed

its life, before it received the _honours_ of sepulture. Until this

sentence was pronounced, the body was an uncleanly thing, and polluted

those whom it touched. And thus the denial of sepulture remained for

ages the direst of misfortunes that could befall a man, and the darkest

dishonour that could be inflicted on his kindred. We have instances

amongst the Jewish kings of both extremes;--a sepulchre raised for a

good king above all the rest, and the ashes of a bad one cast out from

the tombs of his ancestors.[222] And thus those wonderful structures

which, of the earliest ages, will survive all that has since been

constructed on the earth, are but evidences of the reverence paid

to judgment at their death upon the lives of men. The height of the

Pyramids assumed a scale in rating human conduct, and thereby conveyed

the transcendant worth of those whose ashes they concealed.

The first, the greatest structures thus rose, not to shelter the

living, but to receive the dead. I am describing what I see around

me. This land contains no houses but for the dead. The few cities are

formed of edifices that resemble tombs, being built upon their model,

in the forms that mourning piety had devised, and by the arts that

sepulchral edifices have preserved.

So also have the arts sprung from their hallowing and judging the dead.

Painting and sculpture have their origin in the art of embalming.

The covering presented the human form; the resemblance was completed

by colour. The case that contained it was in like manner fashioned

to preserve the likeness; and thus, in the first of solemn duties

and ceremonies, in the cerement (wax-cloth) itself, were united, in

primeval times, painting, sculpture, and carving. A step further was,

to present, instead of the corpse, the man as alive, as reposing on, or

rising out of his tomb. These we have in Etruria, calling into being or

adopting a new art--that of the potter.

In the centre of Africa it is a custom among some of the tribes for

mothers who have lost young children, to carry about with them little

wooden dolls to represent them; and to these they offer food whenever

they themselves eat. Have we not here the origin of the _imagines_

of the Romans, derived from the Etruscans, derived by them from the

Egyptians, as by these from the Abyssinians,--beyond whom we cannot

ascend; and that people was the fellow race to the Lybians. And here

we have uninterrupted the traditions which have floated down the Nile,

crossed the Mediterranean, and flourished so long in ancient Europe.

In a region where Islamism universally prevails, we might expect few

traces of pagan ceremonies, and here Islamism was the successor of

Christianity, so that there had twice been the sweeping away of the

old land-marks; but here, at all events, it is not a thousand years

that have made any difference--the differences are only in so far

as positive change has been effected by some event--there has not

been a perpetual process of change going on. This people is a true

society:--the man perishes, but the society is deathless.

In Barbary there are no longer the judges of the dead, or the scales

and feather. There are no longer the games in their honour, the

embalming of their bodies, or the sacrifices to their manes. No longer

are mountains of granite piled on high, to signify their worth, nor

caverns burrowed in the rock to prevent their dust from desecration;

but still there is on the houseless waste the house of the dead, not of

the common and vulgar, or the mighty and proud--but of the venerated,

the saint by the decree of public judgment, whether misguided or not.

There it stands in the form of ancient days, with its shady olive or

locust grove--the only green spot that greets the eye, with its well or

fountain for the thirsty to drink, where the weary may repose, or the

devout may pray--here are safety for the wayfarer and sanctuary for the

guilty.

And meaner sepultures have not lost their all. Tread not where the dead

repose; it is holy ground! not consecrated for their use, but hallowed

by their presence: there the sorrowing festival is kept, there are

gathered the mourners with the revolving sun; there the feast of the

dead is prepared and left for the stranger to partake, and bless the

memory of the departed. Is not this a record of ancient days?

I cannot dismiss the subject without pointing to the strange contrast,

in merely worldly sense or wisdom, between the careful attention, which

marks all antiquity, to render the dead innocuous to the living, and

our negligence in this respect. This negligence has cost more lives

and suffering than probably all the swords of all the conquerors.

Epidemics, endemics, slow fever or rapid plague, ever present in deep

vengeance or savage fury, are the produce of our enlightened contempt

for superstitions, and mark the imbecility of that intellectual

presumption which blights in our hands the fruits of science, the

impulses of benevolence, and the benefits of freedom. There was no

plague in ancient Egypt, thickly peopled as it was--they embalmed their

dead; elsewhere, when numbers rendered such precaution advisable, they

were burned. But, where neither embalming nor burning was practised,

they took care at once to remove the dead from the dwellings of the

living, in apprehension of the evil consequences, and through respect

for the repose of the departed. The scenes that may daily be witnessed

in the metropolis of England, it would have been impossible for an

ancient to have conceived, save as existing among some race of hitherto

undiscovered savages destitute of the common instincts of nature.[223]

We are now striving to remedy this evil by legislative means. It may

not be cared about, but its enormity no one will dispute, and it fills

with astonishment and disgust those who are induced to examine into

it. But here, as in so many other instances, the work is done and the

evil prevented by some simple and ancient habits, which are entered

in the traveller’s note-book as at best interesting curiosities, or

amiable weaknesses.

The superstition of the Mussulman lies, however, the other way,

and hence the plague that ravages at present most other Mussulman

countries, and which we shall see again in Europe--or rather in

England--unless the condition of our London cemeteries be ameliorated.

They do not, indeed, bury in the towns; but, in making the grave, they

leave a hollow space above the body, in the belief that it has to

sit up finally, to surrender the soul to the angel of death. Boards

are then placed two feet above the body, and over this but a slight

covering of earth. Thus the gases from the decomposing flesh are

collected, and escape; and being heavier than the atmospheric air, flow

around, seeking the lowest level, and pour downwards, so that when the

cemetery is above the dwellings, these are periodically subject to the

plague. I have observed this so constantly, so regularly, that, on

merely glancing at the position of a town, I can tell whether it is

or is not subject to the plague, in what quarters it is so subject,

and, judging by the winds that prevail, at what season. I do not

speak of those vapours as immediately and necessarily producing the

plague, but as favouring its extension. Our typhus, a low plague,

is never wanting in cities peculiarly exposed to the vapours from

overstocked grave-yards. In fact, as decomposed vegetable matter gives

us intermittent fevers, so does decomposed animal matter furnish,

according to the climate and atmosphere, putrid fever, typhus, yellow

fever, and plague.

[212] The iron sand gets a bluish tint from the

yellow.

[213] The plan adopted by Ulysses, as described by

Homer, has the effect of stopping an onslaught of dogs.

Squat down and drop your stick--the dog will crouch

too; but he will immediately rush at you, if you move

or take up your stick.

[214] The rushing of these boats is represented in

tombs of the fourth dynasty.

[215] Marmol, t. i. p. 4.

[216] Boyd’s Algeria.

[217] “Tardiores quam _corbitæ_ sunt in tranquillo

mare.”--PLAUTUS.

[218] Highland cottages are divided into “but,”

and “ben.” The first is the kitchen, the second the

sleeping apartment. They say “Come _ben_” or “I

am going _but_.” I know not whether this usage is

connected with the practice here, but it is singular

that the names should run so close.

The Hayme here assumed the form of the beit, or

house, and the reed hut by it is occupied by the

children--_beni_. It is constructed, like a beehive, of

_scaff_. There are in the Highland home, but, and ben,

and scape.

[219] “Fuit in tectis de marmore templum,

Conjugis antiqui miro quod honore colebat.”

[220] Treasure also was placed in them, and used

perhaps centuries after, as a last resource, in the

necessities of state. Thus in the tomb of David, opened

in the siege of Jerusalem by Antiochus, 3000 talents

were found, which served to avert the storm.

[221] Diod. Sic., p. 17.

[222] Ahaziah was not suffered to be buried in the

tomb of his fathers.--2 Kings viii. 16-21; 2 Chron.

xxi. Joash also was denied royal burial.--2 Kings xii.;

2 Chron. xxiv. Hezekiah had a tomb raised higher than

the rest.--2 Chron. xxxii. 33. The high priest Jehoiada

was honoured with a royal burial.--2 Chron. xxiv. 16.

[223] “It is one of the most odious and

debasing features of civilization, that death is

habitually desecrated, and the grave ceases to be a

refuge.”--ST. JOHN’S _Greece_, vol. iii. p.

430.

CHAPTER II.

SHEMISH, THE GARDENS OF THE HESPERIDES.

We very soon came upon another lake which has no regular opening to the

sea, though the bank of sand is occasionally moved. It must have been

here that Don Sebastian projected making the entrance for his internal

harbour; but the lake with which this entrance communicates is of small

extent, apparently of no great depth, and separated from the long lake

by a neck of land of no great elevation, but which from its sandy

nature it would be a great enterprise to cut through. We passed over a

good deal of flat ground, like Hungary, completely under cultivation,

and the fields perfectly clean: the douars had the look of villages,

and we could scarcely believe that there were not built houses amongst

them.

Towards evening we came upon a country of a new aspect--broken ground,

aluminous shale, covered with a straggling oak forest. Herds of cattle

were pointed out to us, which were said to be turned out there to

multiply without the care of man; and we came upon a douar in the

midst of this forest, where I was very much tempted to bivouac for

the night. It was like a scene in one of the wooded vales of Western

Greece: however, we pushed on for Larache, the gardens of which we

entered long after it was pitch-dark. The road between them was sand:

there was no possibility of getting water either by fountain, stream,

or well--such is the site of the Gardens of the Hesperides! I had to

postpone the satisfaction of my curiosity till the morrow’s light,

and entered the capital of the King of the Giants with that sort

of reverence and awe which I had felt in approaching the ruins of

Stonehenge.

We were led through a labyrinth of strange and precipitous streets,

till we came down to the lower wall on the side of the harbour:

the houses looked like the little tombs at Pompeii by the wayside.

We were received by the English Consular Agent, a Genoese, whom,

notwithstanding his European habiliments, we might have taken for a

Moor by his quiet demeanour, and his unobtrusive attention to all our

wants. A scene rose next morning such as deserved to shine on the

groves of the Danaïdes. Before one sweeps with many a bend the stream,

on whose tranquil breast reposes the wreck of the navy of Morocco--a

corvette, two brigs, and a schooner. A high bank of sand shuts out

the sea, save at the narrow bar. In front of the town a verdant plain

is spread; all round it flows the river, and beyond it rises an

amphitheatre of broken hills of a lively mountain aspect, and with

other forms and other colours than those of the Zahel. Over these were

scattered gardens; but the gardens of Morocco, which, unlike those of

any other land, are embellished by the bank of cactus, that serves them

for a wall, and painted with the leaden green of the aloe.

To the east, and opposite the sea entrance, there is a detached hill,

like that upon which are situated the ruins of Epidaurus, a spot which

must be ever green in the memory of travellers in Greece. Considering

this to be a last chance of finding a Phœnician city, I commenced

inquiries, and was told that the hill was covered with ruins which had

been deserted from the memory of man, and that the hill was called

_Shemish_. I at once determined to delay my journey in order to devise

means to visit it. This was no easy matter, and I thought the best plan

was to try and get into a boat without my guards, and then trust to

chance and perseverance for being able to push on.

Having no suspicion, they allowed me to get into a boat, accompanied

by a soldier of the town. We embarked at a jetty, close to which lay

in tier in a strong tide-way, four tolerably-sized European vessels,

laden with corn, bark and wool, waiting for an opportunity of getting

over the bar. We kept close to the bank of sand thrown up by the sea,

behind which lay the dismantled and perishing vessels I have already

mentioned. The water was much discoloured; and, like that of the Seboo,

bore traces of chalk. I observed something white on the bank: pulling

to the spot, I found it really to be chalk, an outlyer standing on its

edge. It was harder than the common chalk of England. The flints were

large masses, and there was a coating on them of crystals of carbonate

of lime. The masses of flints were evidently the same as those which

had become gasule. Close by there was a hill like an artificial mound,

and on it the regular sheep-walks of our chalk ranges. Under it we

landed, as it adjoined Shemish and was connected with it by a low neck.

The rocky eminence of Shemish is sandstone, not that which encrusts the

Zahel, but a compact and ancient rock, and sometimes approaching to

granular quartz.

From the top of Shemish the prospect is striking, from the

extraordinary windings of the river to the south and east: it turns

back upon itself, more like the windings of a serpent than the

meanderings of a stream. Hence it derives its name of _Elcos_, or the

boa; hence, too, the fable of the dragon. There was no fable in the

guardianship. The protection was not in his folds, but in his foaming

head--the bar that closed the entrance.

In Pliny’s time the little plain was only partially formed. “At

thirty-two thousand paces from this place (Tangier) is Lixos, of which

the ancients relate so many fables, and which was made a colony by the

cruelty of Claudius Cæsar. There was the kingdom of Anteus; there his

strife with Hercules; there the gardens of the Hesperides. An estuary,

with a meandering course, communicates with the sea, over which the

dragon is said to have kept watch: an island is embraced within the

curves of the water, which, though but slightly raised above the

surrounding land, is never covered by the tide. There is a temple to

Hercules, and some wild olives that are found there are all that remain

of its groves, said to bear golden fruit.”

He then proceeds to speak of the “portentosa mendacia” of the Greeks in

respect to this site; and it reminded me of the “quicquid Græcia mendax

audet in historia” of Juvenal, speaking of the canal of Xerxes, which,

disbelieved by the Roman satirist, may be seen and traced at this hour.

So, in like manner, the golden fruit of Lixos blossoms and ripens to

this day, despite the incredulity of the Roman naturalist.

These ruins have not been hitherto described; they will soon be

demolished. Walls which, I was told, had been some years ago

continuous, and much higher than at present, surround the crest of an

irregular hill: the circuit may be three miles. Where I first came upon

them I found walls in tapia and mortar, and stones, having entirely

the Moorish character. I began to apprehend the repetition of the

disappointment I had so often experienced.

The rolled fragments of stone and lime would not alone do. I wanted

some chiselling, and something to resemble the bulwarks which Nonnus

tells us Cadmus (_i. e._ the Phœnician) gave to the hundred cities he

planted in this border:--

δῶκ’ δ’ ἑκαστῇ

Δύσβατα λαϊνέοις ὑψούμενα τείχεα πύργοις.

[dôk’ d’ hekastê]

[Dysbata laïneois hypsoumena teichea pyrgois].

And I did come on evidences indisputable. These were hewn stone,

neither Roman, Hellenic, nor Cyclopic. They were large, not in regular

tiers, nor polygonal, and joined with cement. One stone which I

measured was ten feet by three. The angles were thus constructed. The

walls were in rude work of stone and lime, which, but for the connexion

in which I found them, might have passed for recent. They exactly

resemble the ruins which are called “Old Tangier.”

I now at length did see a Phœnician wall, and knew what it was. On the

summit of the hill a more ancient building seems to have been converted

into a magazine:[224] it is roofed in and terraced over. Near it there

is the circular end of a building, standing about twenty feet in height

and thirty in diameter. There were long, vaulted chambers, in pairs,

like congreve locks, arched and double, twenty feet long, six feet

wide, and twelve feet high. They were scattered all over the place,

within the walls and without. I went into nine or ten of them. There

was no mark of water on the sides. I hardly think they could have been

cisterns. I could not imagine to what use they were destined.[225] This

was all I could make out by scrambling through the thick brushwood for

the greater portion of the day.

The emblem of peace is busily engaged in upturning these precious

remains. The branches of the wild olive are rounded like the oak,

and do not, like those of the grafted tree, adjust themselves to the

form of the buildings in which they have struck root, as in the ruins

of Greece and Italy. They are here thickly planted, and their roots

and branches are so many wedges driven into the walls. I observed a

stone, which could not be under ten tons, lifted up from the top of a

wall, between the branches of a tree, which again was yielding under

its weight. It reminded me of the admired, but false, metaphor of

Lamartine, when he compares the heart, early love-stricken, to a tree

that bears aloft the hatchet-head, which had been buried in its stem.

The rock was covered with a variety of plants, which would have

presented a rich harvest to a botanist: I can notice but some belonging

to the times of old. Hesperus, fresh leaping from the ocean, here found

in every season all flowers for his wreath; the lotus, the myrtle,

and the palm; the pine, the arar, which represents the cypress. The

acanthus covered the ground with its deep green, glossy, and spreading

leaves. The ivy, instead of crawling over stones or trunks, spreads

over the boughs of trees, and hangs in festoons between them, with a

thin cord-like stem, and delicate leaves studding it upon either side.

The berries are in clusters, like diminutive bunches of grapes, and the

image of the vine is completed by spiral tendrils. I now saw why it was

that the ivy had been appropriated to Bacchus; it was the image of the

vine fitted for a crown. I took one of its long shoots, and wreathed it

into a chaplet, and placed it on the head of one of the wine-denying

Moors, a boatman who had accompanied me, and he was no less delighted

at the implied courtesy than I at the real beauty of the object.

Perhaps, however, the connexion of the ivy and Bacchus may be no more

than a pun. To him were consecrated a plant and a bird, and both had

the same name, κίσσα [kissa] and κίσσος [kissos], the magpie and the

ivy. Bochart makes out the proper name of Bacchus to have been nearly

the same, and himself the chief of the first of the wine-growing

countries, the founder of an empire which conquered India, and which

has left behind monuments to substantiate any fable which Greek fancy

could create. In fact, Bacchus is no other than Chus, or _Bar Chusii_,

whom we call Nimrod, and the Greeks Nebrodes, being a great hunter, and

therefore painted with the skins of wild animals--chiefly the tiger, or

_nimra_--the spoils of which cover the shoulders of Bacchus, while the

captive animal is yoked to his car.

The crown for the festivities of Apollo, I now saw was neither our

laurel nor the bay, the branches of which never could have been used

for such a purpose, as any gem or statue will show. At Shemish a

plant luxuriates which possesses all the qualities requisite for this

ornament. It is a bush, standing four or five feet high, which sends

up yearly twigs, round, smooth, green, and pliant. The leaves are set

along it alternately, and these are soft, glossy, delicate in texture

and elegant in form, and yet of extraordinary durability; and the twigs

are just the length required for a chaplet: a red berry hangs to the

leaf by a fine thread, while simultaneously it bears the flower, which

is a small star of six fleshy points, of the palest green, with an

amethyst cup in the centre.[226]

The tree of Minerva, in all its stubborn and unsubjugated vigour,

here flourishes in scorn on Neptune’s border, and the oak of Jupiter,

presenting food for man, completes the assemblage of these leafy

reminiscences of time gone by, veiling the grey ruins that the elements

had not yet destroyed, nor man laid low. Here were the things of

Nature, which they in their time admired, leaf for leaf, and line for

line; bright, gay, verdant, with their shining dewdrops, and their

buzzing insects; and there, after thirty centuries, lay the stones they

had chiselled, and the mortar they had mixed. The air of such a place

breathes of nepenthes,--the poppy of memory, not forgetfulness. It is

covered with a mirage of recollections, on which the spirit floats,

and with which it mingles. Its solitude invited the busy throng of

other times. There was the work of their hands, the place of their

choice, the field of their labour, the haven of their traffic. There

the horizon they looked upon; the plants they gathered, the trees they

cultivated, the sun that awoke the wind that refreshed them. I saw them

in the choice they had made, and lived amongst them, in seeing what

they saw, and feeling as they felt. As an angel that has conversed with

man, they have taken their flight--they have disappeared, as if, like

the sun, to visit other climes. Their western-bound prows, perchance,

followed his course, flying from the Chaldean or the Macedonian; their

last glances may have rested on this height, where I first beheld walls

which their hands had reared. Or this might have been the end of their

pilgrimage. They were beyond the reach of the conqueror and Libya,

which had offered an asylum to the fugitives of Jericho, and Moab might

have yielded one also to those of Tyre.

I had been astonished at finding no fragment whatever of marble. I

cannot say but that this raised some doubt in my mind; but on getting

down to the bank of the river, to the southward, I came upon _nine

lime-kilns_. There was a little commerce established, a landing-place

for the boats, and large sugar-casks for the lime. They have now

exhausted the quarry. The quantity extracted must have been immense,

for they have been at work for two years. The contents of one kiln had

been drawn out, and they were about to slake them. I pulled out entire

one morsel, which resembled the front part of the Egyptian Pshent.[227]

The lime is used for a new palace of the Caïd, for government stores,

and the repairs of the batteries, suggested by the French bombardment.

Thus have been disposed of relics that might have thrown light on the

early history of this portion of the world, and supplied in some degree

the loss of the libraries of Carthage and Alexandria. To add to the

provocation, close by they had an inexhaustible store of material, more

easily calcinable, had they but known. I have been informed, however,

that it was with the purpose of destroying an object of interest to

Europeans that the order was sent. If so, this is one of the effects of

the _journée_ or _déjeûner_ of Isly.

“Sit ne aliqua super spes,” exclaims Eckhel, “fore ut plus lucis his

Phœniciorum reliquiis adfundatur? Aio superesse exiguam nisi ex terræ

sinu proferantur monumenta copiosiora.” How many, alas! since he wrote

have been plastered into walls. Strange fate, that of these explorers

of the land and sea--these instructors in all art and science--every

trace should have disappeared! There remains no shred of their tissues,

no tint of their dyes, no limb of their statues, no corner of their

palaces, no stone of their temples: no annalist has noted for us

their facts; no epic has been built up from their story; no Sophocles

replaced their heroes on a mimic stage; no Pindar prolonged the echo of

their chariot wheels.

But though until I visited this place I did not know even where to go

to look for a wall of this construction, from the scanty fragments that

have been gleaned we learn, that all that Greece and Rome could boast

are nothing more than monuments of _their_ greatness,[228] and of a

greatness in which they have no compeers. All other dominations have

extinguished what it overshadowed, and devoured what it covered.

Is not this the interpretation of the fable of the Phœnix?--a bird

perishing in fire; a new life springing from its ashes. It was not the

procreation of the breed; it was not the colonies that had gone forth

from its loins. The parentage was spiritual, and the type revived in

new matter. There was but one Phœnix. There has been but one Phœnicia,

and all that we have of light and letters to this day has come from

her. Her name, that of a bird, and a tree--the palm of Judæa, and the

wings of her sea-faring sons.

It occurred to me that Larache, as the city of Antæus and the giants,

must have been that belonging to the original population, and

Shemish the Phœnician settlement. This would explain that remarkable

expression, “Libo-Phœnician cities.” It was not Phœnician or

Carthaginian territory: it was their _cities_. It was not their cities

among an uncultivated people; the Libyans had cities too. The cities of

both were linked together, and here they were. Nor is it at this place

alone. At Tangier it is precisely the same: the old city, which now I

know to be Phœnician, is on the opposite side of the bay. At Arzela

there are ruins of the same kind across the river; at Dar el Baida

they are on the neighbouring headland. The still existing cities I, of

course, take to be the original ones. They are in couples: in none of

these cases could the one have supplanted the other. They owe their

conjoint existence to the peculiar nature of the Phœnician settlements:

they lived together, each requiring his own establishment, but neither

encroaching on or displacing the other.

Carthage, in the height of her power, paid ground-rent. It was not

till the latter time, and in her struggles with Rome, that she sought

to govern and possess, according to our present notions; and it was in

Sicily and Spain that she set her hands to this craft, and brought down

her own ruin.

The greatness of Carthage was founded on the confidence that the native

population had in her integrity. _Punica fides_ could not have been

turned to a reproach, had it not at first represented a truth. Had she,

like the English or the French, the Spaniards or the Portuguese, been

even suspected of being a grasping power, she must either have become

mistress of Mauritania, or been expelled from its border, or shut up

in useless rocks upon its coast; and the word “Libo-Phœnician cities”

would never have descended to our time.

We are without any direct and positive information respecting the

internal management, or the external relations of those cities,

or their ties with the parent state; but a city, in every respect

similarly situated, has been described by ancient authors, in a

sufficiently distinct manner to put what I have said on more secure

grounds than that of mere reference. The city I refer to is Emporiæ,

one of the great settlements of Spain; the only one, then, not

Phœnician, but founded by that branch of the Ionic Greeks which drew

nearest to them in character and enterprise, and with whom alone of the

Greeks they had made friendship on the field of battle.[229] It was the

counterpart in Iberia of Marseilles in Gaul, and completed the range of

Phocæan traffic. It was exactly what the Libo-Phœnician cities were, as

its name alone suffices to show; for Emporion is not, as is supposed, a

Greek, but a Phœnician word, and all these cities had the generic name

of Emporiæ, having their proper name besides.

Like Tyre, Emporiæ was originally on an island: on being abandoned,

it was called in like manner _Palæopolis_. The colonists then joined

with the Hispani in the same town, which seems to have been called

Indica; the tribe was called Indigetes. They were received as guests,

and allowed to join their city to that of the Hispani:[230] it was

thence called _Dispolis_. The part belonging to the Greeks looked to

the sea, the other to the land: the first was four hundred paces in

circuit, the second three thousand. Each people preserved its laws and

customs. Intercourse, except for purposes of commerce, was forbidden;

and thence, according to Livy, no dispute ever arose to interrupt

the harmony of their neighbourhood during the ages of this common

habitation. So unwearied was the watchfulness of the Greeks, that

one-third of the male population nightly mounted guard.

This vigilance--the striking contrast between those really living

communities and our heaps of sand--was not peculiar to the Phocæans;

nor was the disposition to grant sites for cities, and the privileges

of self-government to settlers, peculiar to the Indigetes. Here is a

picture of the times; and, with such modifications as circumstances

cast over the delineation, we see all the other Emporia on the coasts

of Libya or Iberia.

I have said that Emporion was not a Greek word. The Chaldæan paraphrase

(Genesis xxv. 3) has _Emporius_ for merchants, _Emporioth_ for

merchandise. Leptis is mentioned, both as one of the Emporia and one of

the Lybo-Phœnician cities.[231] Livy says that Scipio spent his time

between the “_Punica_ Emporia gentemque Garamantum.” He went now to

visit the natives, now the commercial establishments, which, instead of

bolts, had fortresses for their defence.

Scylax couples the cities and Emporia. “The Carthaginians,” says he,

“spread from the Syrtes to the Columns of Hercules.” The words are

singular, and seem to mark a difficulty of expression, such as occurs

when describing habits so foreign: cities along a coast, forming

a nation and government apart--an empire, as it were, standing on

points.[232]

But so far from the πολίσματα [polismata][233] and the Emporia

subjugating the native population centuries afterwards, and when the

Roman sword had been thrown into the scale with the Tyrian trinkets,

it was not the city that overspread the plain with its shadow, but

the people of the wilderness that had assimilated to themselves the

urban system, defying alike the imperial power and the metropolitan

civilization.

Severus, on attaining the imperial purple, sent for his sister from

_Leptis_, and was much ashamed of her that she could scarcely speak

Latin.[234] Was it, then, Phœnician she spoke?--not at all. Sallust has

told us, in his time, that the language was changed by _intermarriages

with the Numidians_.[235]

Was it a disadvantage to Rome that there was no uniformity? Had Rome

been possessed with the mania of uniformity, she could at best have

remained only a small state on the Tiber.

The Carthaginians kept their cities distinct from the cities of the

Lybians: the Romans kept their laws distinct from the customs of

the country. Rome could even _unite_ provinces, strange as it may

seem with our experience, without convulsing them or throwing them

into rebellion, for the union was judicial, not administrative or

legislative. This reserve, which was the secret of the power of

Carthage, became the source of the prosperity and tranquillity of Roman

Mauritania, amidst the convulsions of the rest of the empire down

to the invasion of the barbarians, which--in Africa at least--were

uninvited by the provincials.

THE HESPERIDES.

A garden is not hot-houses to force fruits, or conservatories to

preserve flowers: it is forest and fountain, affording shade and water;

to these you may _add_ flowers and fruits. An Eastern goes to his

garden to enjoy nature, not to study art[236]--goes to it for shelter

in the sultry hours, or to regale himself in the even-tide. Thus says

Solomon:--“A garden enclosed is my sister, a spring shut up, a fountain

sealed. I am come into my garden, I have eaten my honeycomb, and have

drunk my wine and my milk.”

The world began with a garden. Of the first one, it is said, “the Lord

planted it.” The botanist, who considered that the greatest compliment

ever paid to his science was, when Christ said, “Consider the lilies

of the field,” must have forgotten the workmanship of the first of

orchards, for it was trees which constituted that garden. “Every tree

that is pleasant to the sight or good for food,” and immediately after

there are the rivers enumerated that spring in it. The garden was the

first special work of Providence: it was the habitation appointed

for our undefiled nature. Its culture was the first task allotted to

man,--and it is sometimes the last, when all that life can yield or

fortune bestow has been tried and exhausted. Tamerlane, when he had

conquered the world, turned gardener at Samarkand.

They can fit up any place into a garden. I have spent an evening

amongst a bed of leeks, which had suddenly assumed all the pretensions

of a parterre and kiosk; a few plants to lay the cushions and carpets

on, a couple of glass balls for the lights, a little tin wheel, on

which a jet of water was conducted, some jessamine plants detached from

a wall to form a canopy over our heads, the leeks pulled up in front to

open a way for the supper. This kind of garden is a sort of out-of-door

existence, and essentially belonging to a people with tents, and has

its conveniences and luxuries adapted for transport.

There is no botany, no horticulture; their taste is ignorant. Their

love of flowers is not as they are arranged in classes, multiplied

in leaves, or varied in colours--it is for themselves--their natural

forms, their pure colours, and their sweet odours. It is unobtrusive

and silent, or vocal only as in the verses of Solomon and the songs

of the Troubadours. “A man may be a good botanist,” said Rousseau,

“although he does not know the name of a single plant.”

The Easterns do not like to come empty-handed, and the commonest, as

the fairest, flowers suffice. But it is not a _nosegay_ or a _bouquet_,

but a _flower_ that they present. The leaf and stem are to them just

as beautiful as the blossom; and a bundle of heads of flowers would

appear to them much like a heap of human heads. In the numerous

Chinese figures and ornaments that encumber our tables and rooms, it

may be observed that, wherever there are flowers, they are single,

each by itself in a vase. A piece of pottery has recently been brought

to England from the Greek Islands: it is unique, and no description

has been discovered of its uses. It is a vase about four inches in

diameter, surrounded with two circles of very small vases, which stand

out from it: it is evidently for flowers, and so placed that each

should have its own stalk and vessel. The Moors also have a flower-dish

for the room: the top in pierced pottery, so that each stands by

itself. One of the things which in Europe have shamed me most in the

presence of an Eastern is the bouquet, or painted cauliflower head, in

the hand of a lady. Alas! that perversion of taste should always fasten

on her fairest subjects!

Their weeds, stunted in our hot-houses, are their chief embellishments;

the cactus, for instance, and the aloe. Here the one bears flowers like

a standard, and the other fruit like a flower. Without science, numbers

of plants, or skill in rearing and combining delicate and diverse

natures, a garden rises to something infinitely beyond our ideas,

whether of use or grandeur. So may it be traced on the Nile in the

palmy days of the Pharaohs, on the Xenil in those of the Abderachmans,

no less than at Jerusalem and Babylon.

The Hanging Gardens were the least like what a European would expect:

the authenticity of the concurrent testimony of Diodorus Siculus,

Quintus Curtius, and Josephus has consequently been questioned. There

was no assortment like Kew--no show like Chiswick. Flowers are no more

mentioned than cabbages or carrots.

The land was intersected with canals, carrying water field by field

over the Doab of the Tigris and Euphrates; beyond this region spread

dead levels, which, as Xenophon says, resembled the sea. From the

city’s lofty walls stretched on all sides, far as eye could reach,

flatness and luxuriance. What, then, could taste divine and power

accomplish--if not the rivalling of wild nature--to transport thither

a primeval forest, and to pile up coctile mountains to place it on.

Such was the design of the Hanging Gardens; and, when accomplished,

doubtless they were a wonder.

The forest-crowned battlements of Lucca, diminutive as they are, and

in the midst of wood and mountains, nevertheless please the eye. A

palm-tree on one of the towers of Arta often recurs to my memory as one

of the most attractive and picturesque features of that lovely region.

The sculptures of Nineveh present the same thing: on the towers of

cities are planted palm and other trees, confirming the accounts of the

Hanging Gardens. They afford, no doubt, protection; for, if not useful

in time of war, they would have been cut down.[237] The walls of these

ancient cities were broad enough to bear a forest band, and might have

had a stream or river running along for their nourishment.

In the gardens of Azarah[238] we have the same theme in a different

mode. Around were mountains; these were all planted with fruit-trees

and cultivated with flowers. The palace, as it were, walked forth

into the garden, and its glory consisted in Mosaic walks, fountains,

kiosks; and there, of course, in their excellence were to be seen those

peculiarities of gardening we can still trace in Morocco and in Spain

and Portugal, which I have already mentioned in describing Kitan and

Ceuta, and which those who visit the Peninsula get some idea of by the

fortress of Lisbon, and especially by the courts of the convent of

Bellem, and--though travestied--in the Alcazar at Seville.

We know more of the domestic manners of the Egyptians than of those of

any people who have preceded us; and I should imagine that the pictured

walls of the Memnons furnish the best delineation, however unsuccessful

the Egyptians were in painting flowers, of what those gardens were[239]

which the Saracens constructed in Spain, and how they arranged and

assorted together verdure and architecture, flowers, trees, land, and

water. In the Middle Ages, nothing more excited the wonder of Europe

than the gardens of Andalusia; and that that exquisite gardening is of

the highest antiquity is clear, from “heaven” in all languages being

called “paradise.”[240]

The Hesperides, the seats of the blessed, were orchards.[241] A

garden being the abode of the dead, a tree came to be the symbol of

death in that of life. On the sepulchral monuments, the tree of the

Hesperides and the strigil are the most constant emblems--the one

representing immortality, the other purity. At Nineveh, the tree of

life is associated with the living, not the dead. As the sun set in

the west, and as the west was considered to be the place to which the

spirits repaired, their abode, Hezperi, came to mean the evening,

or Hesperus. The site of the Hesperides can admit, therefore, of no

doubt or ambiguity; and the name given to another part of Africa in

the neighbourhood of Carthage can only be understood as figuratively

expressing its excellences and beauty.

Their gardens may still be described as copses of fruit-trees, as is

naturally to be expected in the country of the orange, lemon, and

citron, when flower, foliage, verdure, shade, and fruit were all

combined--not evanescent in an hour, or exchanging their merits, but

combined in one, and enduring nearly throughout the year. The orange,

in a hot country, is the very excellence of fruit; and, if we were not

familiarised with its form and flavour, the aspect of a Moorish garden

of that description would prompt all that the same sight prompted to

the Greeks of old.

A peculiarity of their gardening is, that they do not mix the different

kinds. The Jews were forbidden to mix the olive and the vine; and

Solomon speaks of a garden of nuts (it should be almonds). This is the

fashion here: the garden is a square--it is again laid out in squares,

in the way that we dispose a farm for rotation crops. Thus, the gardens

of the Sultan at Morocco are divided off into almonds, pomegranates,

figs, pears, cherries. The square divisions are separated by alleys of

the dimensions of streets, but some greater than others. Columns run

along; and above these, and partly down the sides, there is a fret-work

of bamboo; over these are trained vines, the clusters depending through

the trellis (as seen in the Egyptian tombs). Jessamine (the large white

and yellow flower) and other plants are trained up the columns, and

festooned around them. Through these alleys you ride on horseback; and

at the intersections there are vast halls, like that I have described

at Kitan, of bamboo fret-work: the portals and openings imitate

windows, and are twined and matted with various creepers.

On both sides of the alleys flow the rivulets for irrigation; and,

there being no weeds or under-verdure, you have the refreshing coolness

without the effects of rank vegetation. The style of the private

gardens is the same.

Oranges and lemons are, however, classed by themselves. They are

planted together, and in certain proportions, viz. the orange sweet and

bitter, the lemon sweet and bitter, the citron large and small--in all,

nearly a dozen varieties. A garden of this kind is called _quorce_.

The common orange has evidently been a graft from the East, for it is

called _chin_: in _lim_ and _rungh_ may be found the root of our lemon

and orange. To the eastward, the Arabs call the orange _Berdkou_.

_Portugal_ is so called by the Greeks, &c.; and probably that general

name which it has acquired in the Levant comes from the Portuguese

traffic when they were in possession of the ports of Barbary.

So recent is the introduction of these plants in the East, that I have

been shown the stumps of the two trees first planted in the island now

most celebrated for their growth, and where the gardens resemble those

of Barbary, having the three varieties mixed together. This island is

Naxos: the two trees are called Adam and Eve, and they say they were

brought by the Venetians. That, of course, is a mistake, but it shows

that they came from the West.

Throughout the country the trees are generally evergreens--the olive,

wild and cultivated, the cork, oak, the arar, the locust, the palm, the

palmetto, the orange and lemon, the lotus and myrtle, and, finally,

the Barbary fig and aloe, which give to the land its tropical and

ideal character. The whole country is covered with what are our garden

flowers; so that now, in the depth of winter, there is no sign of the

hoary monarch save in the gardens, where the fruit-trees are naked;

but these leafless copses did not suffice, under a glowing sun and

with a verdant landscape, to cool, even in thought, the summer breath

into a winter chill. They merely looked like withered trees, and the

gardens were the only spots that did not smile. I speak of those that

were scattered along our road, not of the septs of pale blue fantastic

vegetation enclosing the dark shining groves of _quorce_ (orange and

lemon) that grace the banks of the Lixus.

It is not without reason that the cactus is called the Barbary fig.

It grows so abundantly and luxuriantly, and is so well adapted to

the soil and climate; flourishing in the arid sand, covering it with

a grateful shade, fertilizing it with its thick succulent branches

as they fall, fostering other plants by its shelter, and furnishing

in abundance a healthy and refreshing crop of fruit, which fringes

or studs its gigantic leaves.[242] The fig has a thick rind, which

is pared off: this, in Spain, is treasured up for the pigs. Like the

Turkey, the prickly pear, though cherished, is repudiated, every people

calling it by the name of some other people: we call it Barbary fig,

the Moors call it Christian fig--_kermus ensare_. The Spaniards call it

_Tuna_, as having been imported from Tunis; the Shillohs of Sus call it

_Tacanarete_, as if it had come to them from the Canary Islands. There

is but one people who have boldly adopted it, and that is the Mexicans,

who have taken it as their national emblem, and have associated it upon

their coins with the shashea, or Barbary cap, intended to represent

Liberty. It is doubtless from the word “karmus” that we have taken

“kermes,”[243] the name of the insect growing upon it, and one variety

of which furnishes the cochineal. The people of the Canary Islands

call it “alcormas,”[244] which, in fact, is the kermus, the common term

of the Arabs for fig. This, I think, suffices to vindicate the claims

of Barbary to its prickly pear; for the people of the Canaries were

driven from Africa at a remote period, and were of the race of the

Shillohs, as their language, names, and customs, noted at the time of

their discovery and conquest, can leave no doubt.

The aloe bears no fruit: the stalk of the blossom serves for the

purposes of light timber. It blossoms about the seventh year, and then

dies: it rises from the seed that falls. They are not acquainted with

the liquor, like soured milk (yourt), which the Mexicans draw from

it (pulke) by tapping. The Moors do not convert its fibres into the

same beautiful work as the Mexicans, or the inhabitants of the Eastern

Archipelago, but they use them for sewing. An Arab woman, when she has

needlework, goes into the garden to gather her thread: the thread, like

the plant, is called “gorsean.” I have been told that some of the very

old lace made by the Jews is of this fibre.

The kitchen-gardens surround every town like a suburb, and in them we

have, no doubt, the “gardens of herbs” of the Jews. The distribution

of land for a town under the Jewish system required a space

sufficient for a garden for each household; and, beyond the ground so

appropriated, there was the common land or pasturages. The same rule

prevails here; and there is a common shepherd and cowherd who comes for

the cattle in the morning and brings them home at night. The gardens

are small squares, divided off internally with rows of tall reeds.

There is a plank door with lintels; all the rest of the enclosure is of

growing plants. The soil is generally sand: here in the gardens above

the town, and through which I passed last night, it is nothing but

sand, and its fertility depends on the shelter afforded it. The tall

reeds fence it round; there is then a path on the four sides, on the

inner side of the path fruit-trees; and the centre, between the trees

and the path adjoining the reeds, is covered with a trellis, over which

vines are trained. The smaller ones are without trees; so that, as you

peep into them, they look like large rooms or corridors.

They say that the smell of the cistus cools one: I fancied I

experienced the same effect in looking at the mirage-like colours

of the cactus and aloe. But what is to be said of their forms?--can

anything be more antithetical than the straight lines and the sharp

points and daggers of the aloe, and the distorted contorted lobes and

projections of the prickly pear? Mingled together, as they generally

are, they keep the mind occupied with their strangeness and their

contrasts. More than once I have heard Europeans express themselves

angrily about them, and revile their “monstrosities.” As seen in our

hot-houses, the form may be known, but that is all; no idea can be

formed of the cavern-like alley with which, when they rise fifteen or

twenty feet, they cover the ground. The aloe is the outer fence, or

_chevaux-de-frise_, the cactus rising higher within: through these are

mingled the tall slender reeds, as if to unite in one bond the three

most dissimilar things in nature. Together, they form a fence which

might delay an army, and present to the archer Phœbus a testudo which

defies his shafts.

On the coast, the heat is tempered by the sea-breezes at the hottest

times of the year and day; but the influence of these winds is lost as

they pass inwards, and in three or four miles they become themselves

heated. Along the Zahel their cooling breath is expended on the barren

sand. Here the sands cease and the rich soil commences. There is no

languid autumn and benumbing winter, no trying spring or scorching

summer, but unceasing verdure and ever-springing plants.

To the south fertility is wanting; to the north there are the heavy

vapours of the easterly wind. Sheltered from the blasts of the sea,

though inhaling its health and freshness, and from the damp wind that

sweeps through the Gut of Gibraltar and infects the shores of Spain and

Morocco,--this region enjoys the richest soil, the most fortunate site

in a clime where barren sand upon a mountain-top can bear the choicest

fruits and the fairest flowers; a clime which combines the charms of

every other, and preserves throughout the year the luxury of every

season.

This climate is adapted to pulmonary invalids. During the latter days

of November, the whole of December, and the half of January, we have

had but three bad days: there has been but one day not splendid during

our excursion. The want of trees along the coast--whatever the effect

in summer--leaves in winter no masses of decomposed leaves to affect

the air. The trees, where abundant, are evergreens; and the vines had

not lost their leaves, which were coloured a deep red. The new figs

were formed, and some of them as large as walnuts; the flowers were

all in blossom; and, though it was cold at night, it was hot during

the day. We have here the latitude of Madeira, without the exposure to

its storms or sudden changes; nor does the barometer fluctuate even

in storms. It has not fallen below “change.” I have seen pulmonary

diseases, but it has been in the Jewish quarter, where they live in

blocks of houses with the passage for the air below; sleeping on the

floor, or even below the level of the court, twenty sometimes in a

room, and with barrels of fermenting raisins in every house, from

which they distil their spirits. Except under such circumstances, I

have observed no trace of affection of the lungs; and, to all these

advantages for a pulmonary patient, there would be added the bath.

[224] The Spaniards occupied Larache under Philip

II., and lost it under Philip III. (1689).

[225] It has since occurred to me that they might

have been baths.

[226] The _Ruscus aculeatus_. It is the plant which

the Spaniards prefer for adorning their patios, or

courts; but in Spain the growth is not so luxuriant.

[227] At the moment that I discovered this trace of

Pharaotic sculpture, I was struck with the attitude of

the men around me. The Moors do not squat down like the

Easterns, tailor-fashion, but they sit with their knees

up, and on them rest their arms; and shrouded in their

Gilabras, they are exactly like the sitting figures of

Egypt.

[228] The Phœnician coins found in this

neighbourhood, or in Spain, present the originals of

the whole of the mythology and the arts of Greece. The

plates to Don Bathagin’s (infant of Spain) edition of

Sallust’s Jugurtha alone present the following list.

Laurel crowns. Ivy crown, with the bunch-like

grapes. Ceres crown of corn-heads. The Mural crown. The

star and crescent. The trident and dolphin. The sun

and the sun and moon. Winged Pegasus. The palm-tree.

The palm, lion, and the horse’s head. The Zampti,

represented by four columns surmounted by a pediment.

The winged Cupid and the winged Genius. The Genius and

torch. The diadem and circlet. The helm and galley beak.

The art of coining they borrowed from the Greeks,

and it seems to have been the only mention of that

people; but the emblems represented were the ancient

ones.

The mythological terms and names of Greece, in like

manner may be cited.

Æolus, עעול, _aol_, storm.

Elysium fields, עליז, _aliz_, happy.

Erebus, the west, as used by Homer, Odyss. μʹ 12.

Chaos, כהות ערב, _chaüth ereb_, evening darkness.

Myth, מות, _muth_, death.

Pan, פן, _pan_, “attonitus stupet.”

Thyrsus, תרזה, _thyrza_, pines.

Phallus, פלצות, _phallasuth_.

Orgy, רזא, _rza_, wrath.

Mystery, _mistur_, a thing hidden, Landseer.

Siren, שיר, _sir_, to sing.

Hero, חורים, _horim_, princes (Eccl. x. 17).

Hades, חדס, _hades_, or _hadasso_, myrtle, whence

Edessa, &c.

Satyr, _satur_, disguised.

Faun, פנים, _phanim_, a masque.

Tartarus, _tara_, warning (redoubled).

Cyclops, _chem slub_, lay of Selab (Chon. l. i. c.

80).

Hephæstos, _ab_ father, _af_ fire, whence also

Vesta, usta, &c.

Persephone, _peri_ fruit, _sophon_ lost.

Triptolemus, _tarop_ break, _tel_ earth, _telens_

furrow.

Golden apples, μήλα [mêla], golden fleece, μάλλον

[mallon], _malh_, riches.

Toison (French), _tson_ sheep.

[229] The most desperate sea-fight ever known. The

whole of the vanquished fleet was destroyed, and if I

recollect right, only three of the victors escaped.

[230] “Jam nunc Emporiæ duo oppida erant muro

divisa: unum Græci habebant a Phocæa unde et

Massilienses oriundi, alterum Hispani.”--LIVY.

[231] “Emporia vocant eam regionem ... una civitas

ejus Liptis.”--LIVY l. 34.

[232] Carthage when it fell, was the richest, the

most peopled, and strongest city in the world. It had

seventy thousand citizens, and three hundred cities in

Africa.

[233] Ὅσα γέγραπται πολίσματα καὶ ἐμπόρια ἐν τῇ

Λιβύῃ [Hosa gegraptai polismata kai emporia en tê

Libyê].

[234] “Viro latine loquens, ad illa multum

imperatore rubesceret.”--SPARTIANUS.

[235] “Ejus civitates lingua modo conversa connubio

Numidarum.”

[236] “Inelegant as they may appear to the

cultivated taste of an Englishman, they afford a

voluptuous noon-tide retreat to the languid traveller.

Even he, whose imagination can recall the enchanting

scenery of Richmond or of Stowe, may perhaps experience

new pleasure in viewing the glistening pomegranates in

full blossom. Revived by the freshening breeze, the

purling of the brooks, and the verdure of the groves,

his ear will catch the melody of the nightingale,

delightful beyond what is heard in England; with

conscious gratitude to heaven, he will recline on

the simple mat, bless the hospitable shelter, and

perhaps, while indulging the pensive mood, he will

hardly regret the absence of British refinement in

gardening.”--DR. RUSSELL.

[237] Layard’s Nineveh, vol. ii. p. 393.

[238] These gardens have been the occasion of

preserving a trait of Moorish character: an old woman

having had a portion of ground taken from her to

complete the enclosure, appealed to the caïd,--

“The magistrate mounted his ass, taking with him

a sack of enormous size, and presented himself before

Hisham, who happened to be then sitting in a pavilion

on the very ground belonging to the old woman. The

arrival of the caïd, still more the sack, which he

carried on his shoulders, surprised the caliph. Ibn

Bechir having prostrated himself, entreated the monarch

to allow him to fill his sack with some of the earth

on which they then were. The request was granted, and

when the sack was full, the caïd desired his master to

help him to lift it on his ass. This strange demand

astonished Alkakem still more, and he told the caïd

that the load was too heavy. 'O prince,’ replied Ibn

Bechir, 'this sack which you find too heavy, contains

but a very small portion of the earth which you have

unjustly taken from a poor woman; how then at the day

of judgment shall you bear the weight of the whole?’”

[239] The valley of Jordan was like the garden of

Eden and the land of Egypt.--Gen. xiii. 10.

[240] “The Assyrians were probably also the inventors

of the parks or paradises which were afterwards maintained

with so much sumptuousness by the Persian kings of the

Archimedian and Sassanian dynasties. In these spacious

preserves various kinds of wild animals were continually kept

for the diversion of the king, and for those who were

privileged to join with him in the chase. These paradises

were stocked, not only with some of every kind, but with

various trees, shrubs, and plants; and were watered by

numerous artificial streams. The Persian word has passed into

various languages, and is used for the first abode of man

before his fall, as well as for the state of eternal

happiness.”--LAYARD’S _Nineveh_, vol. ii. p. 432.

[241] Hebrew: עז פרי _hez peri_, fruit-tree.

[242] The leaf, besides, is one of their great

specifics in medicine; it is used for hæmorroids. It

is applied as a cataplasm for every kind of external

disorders, and even to the buboes of the plague. The

thick leaf is roasted in the oven, and then laid on hot.

[243] We have borrowed from them many other words.

Botany, from _batmore_, turpentine-tree.

Herb, _erbie_, which signifies not only plants, but

their season of appearance.

Wood, _wood_.

Lozenge, _loze_, almond, whence also Lusitania.

Bane, as in hen_bane_.

Wort, as in cole_wort_, from _wurde_, rose; whence

also “order,” the rose being the emblem of the order,

whence, “under the rose.”

Lupin, signifies bean.

Artichoke, _korshof_.

Flower, _flour_, cauliflower.

Dalia, this is their word for vine.

Cabbage; they call a bunch of vegetables as brought

to the market, _habba_, from it a portion may be

_snipped_.

Truffle, their name is _terfez_.

[244] Vide vocabulary in Glass’s History of the

Canary Islands.

CHAPTER III.

ARZELA.

It was evening before we returned to Larache. The city, which looked so

beautiful under the morning sun, was concealed from us as he set behind

it; but the gardens on the opposite hills received his declining rays.

The ancient cities, which I had visited at these outlets, are placed

on the western side, and therefore with the evening sun at their back.

At Constantinople it is considered in the rent of a house whether its

view of the Bosphorus is with or against the setting sun. A garden was

pointed out to me which, it was said, produced the finest oranges in

the world: its produce was reserved for the Sultan. I afterwards had

time to visit the Spanish fortifications from the land side, which

present the peculiar features of that age--sharp angles, lofty bastions

and curtains, massive walls, and deep moats. I saw some beautiful jars,

quite antique, the manufacture of Casar, ten miles from this.

When I was passing the gate, a Moorish gentleman accosted me in

good English, but with a strong Scotch accent; he volunteered

information about mines, and promised to visit me in the evening.

He came accordingly: he had been three years in Gibraltar, and had

been on board our fleet during the war. He began to expatiate on the

advantages of European civilization, and expressed his anxiety to have

it introduced into Barbary. I said to him, that would be all very well

if they could discriminate, but that men were like Adam in Paradise;

that they had to balance their present state with all its evils against

change with all its chances; that for them change involved one of two

consequences--slavery or pauperism.

He asked me, to my great surprise, for news about Nadir Bey. This is

an adventurer of Russian origin, who has been going about Europe and

Turkey representing himself as cousin of the Sultan, and claiming his

throne. He had come to Morocco, where he had succeeded better than

elsewhere, obtaining money and honours, and a firman recognising him

as legitimate sovereign of Turkey! I took occasion from this incident

to show him how perfectly unqualified they were for dealing in any

foreign matter, being so shamefully hoaxed in such a case as this; upon

which he abruptly jumped up and took his departure. I thought he had

been taken suddenly ill; but I afterwards learnt that he had been Nadir

Bey’s patron, and had introduced him to the Sultan.

The baggage having been sent across the river in the evening, next

morning at day-break we found the horses ready laden. The beach-road

is practicable only when the tide is out, and in any case only for

persons well mounted. The tide was not very favourable, and we were

very ill mounted, but I insisted on going by this road--the sea was so

grand, and I wished to look out for _architectural_ phenomena. But the

bank of sand is here interrupted, and the cavernous and stalactitic

effects were not to be observed. There were, however, the patterns of

the coloured sands. The river of Larache brings down the bluest-black

iron sand, which indeed is strewed all along the coast from Meden to

Cape Spartel. The distance to Arzela is only five hours; but, what with

the drag of the sand on the beach, and getting bogged when we struck

into the interior, and wandering backwards and forwards from the hills

to the beach, and from the beach to the hills, we made it a long and

fatiguing day’s journey.

The country was here as unlike as anything could be to that which

we had passed: it changes suddenly in appearance and character. At

one moment it would be completely bare, being either cultivated or

fallow, and a few miles on it would be covered, hill and valley,

with brushwood; at one time the palmetto and ordinary brushwood, and

presently a crop of broom occupying every inch of ground within sight,

covering it with a mantle of brilliant yellow, and perfuming the air

with its sweet odour; then it would be all as if under snow from the

white broom, that most airy and delicate of shrubs; then would succeed

the gum cistus, with its mingled flowers of white and red, and its cool

refreshing scent.

The odour from the cistus does not lose its savour: by being

exposed to it, it is a gentle refreshing breeze, of which the nose

is conscious, rather than an odour. The gum from it, the ladanum, is

much esteemed as incense, and is also mixed with mastic to flavour the

breath by chewing it. It is not collected in this district. The ancient

story of its being scraped from goats’ beards does not seem improbable;

for in breaking through the copses one’s head and clothes become quite

clammy.

The odour is not from the flower, but from the leaves of the plant:

the flowers are of the slightest texture, but make a lively show,

bespangling the bushes with stars of white or red. They look like

roses, and I was constantly reminded of York and Lancaster. These

flowers live but for a day; and, constantly tempting the eye and

inviting the hand, the prize is relinquished as soon as reached, and

never was a cistus blossom twined into chaplet or gathered for a

nosegay. Yet, when it clothes the rocky steep, or mantles the swelling

slope, there is no plant can rival it in the pleasure it gives and

the attention it awakens. It is shrub and flower; the frailty of its

blossoms, the down of its waxy leaves, the balm of its fragrance, are

so unlike the glancing foliage of other shrubs--the hot-house forms,

the dyer tints, and perfumer scent of other flowers,--that it makes

them look children of art and care: wild and tender, it is to other

flowers as a shepherdess among women, and to other shrubs as an Arab

among the races of men.

Shrubs with their sturdy life, flowers in their fleeting passage, serve

to embellish the scene, and to adorn the actors. This one rather shares

in our humanity: as our generations go to the grave and are renewed

again, so it knows vicissitude, and joy, and mourning. It spreads forth

its birth of blossoms with the early dawn, and strews with the fallen

leaves the earth of eve. Was it from this that the Greeks called it

“flower of the sun;” because, like the rainbow, it drew its being from

his rays? Like the peri, its life was in a charm, and it died when that

charm was gone.

The name “flower of the sun” (_helio-anthemum_) reminds me of the

grossest of Flora’s daughters--a garden Cleon, too gaudy for a

vegetable, too meagre for a shrub, too thick and hard for a flower.

And to this--the very contrast of the cistus--do we abandon the name

selected for it by the Greeks!

There is a variety of the broom which might be esteemed a garden

flower; it is a miniature plant, eighteen inches or two feet, and--so

to speak--one incrustation of yellow blossom. While underwood is

reduced to the size of a garden-flower, the common daisy is raised

to the pretensions of one, with its large head on a stalk of twenty

inches. All the plants were our garden tribes, or what would be wild

with us, and were well qualified for a garden--the broom as I have

said, the ivy, then the ranges of cactus and aloe, hyacinths, jonquils,

irises with the petals coloured green.

About five miles from Arzela, upon a rising ground close to a douar

(here they begin to be stationary), the palmetto occurred in a new

form. It is a bush two or three feet high, and showing no stem. Here

it rose to ten feet, with snake-like stems carrying the sharp spicular

masses of fans of glossy or glittering green. I several times made an

endeavour to stop, that I might pass the night in one of the villages,

as I should now call them; not only seduced by the amenities around,

but also partly out of consideration for our jaded cattle and scarcely

less exhausted self: but guides and guards were inexorable. It was a

settled thing that that night we should sleep at Arzela; so we pushed

or dragged along, as it seemed, in chace of it, for it never could be

in the map the distance we found it by the road. At last we descried

its lines, tinged by the last reflected light, against the leaden

mass of the Atlantic. We soon after entered “The Gardens,” and then

approached the castellated gate, where, to our infinite surprise, an

anxious people awaited us.

For several days we had been expected. Rumour had preceded us, and

dealt kindly by us; and we were gazed at with eager countenances

and smiling eyes, and some of them bright ones. By some process,

strange and capricious, we were no strangers, and the denizens vied

with each other in doing us any good turn which fell in their way,

in expressing their delight at our arrival, and in welcoming us to

their town. The crowd was hurrying us in a direction which they had

evidently settled in their minds we should take. I having some voice,

as I thought, in the matter, made bold to ask, “Whither away?” “To

Abraham’s! to Abraham’s!” was shouted. On this I reined in--I mean,

I ceased thrashing; for the memory of sleepless nights among those

conversational Jews, and some other discomforts which need not be

repeated, and a habit of looking somewhat higher than an Israelite’s

abode, with a disinclination to step down in the world, came all upon

me, and prompted the emphatic declaration, “We will pitch without the

walls.” No sooner had the words passed my lips than I could have bitten

my tongue off. My eye had fallen on a countenance of singular amenity,

and--although that of an aged man--of grace: a long white beard hung

down his breast, giving to the figure the patriarchal cast, which his

lineaments vindicated as legitimately their own by blood as well as

bearing. A cloud passed over his features;--the impress was so slight

that I cannot say I saw, but I felt it. So recovering, as it were, my

sentence, and inclining to him, I added to the interpreter in Spanish,

“unless we are to go to my father’s house.”

We entered a small court: the floor was red, the walls were pure white.

There was no window. Four Moorish arches opened to four separate

chambers: two sons with their wives occupied two, his brother and

uncle the third, and himself the fourth. Whether these were houses or

apartments it was not easy to determine: our words cannot explain.

Notwithstanding many attempts at description, no one who has not seen

these houses has any distinct idea of them. The same holds with respect

to the descriptions left us of ancient dwellings. The one explains the

other: perhaps, by making them serve mutually for this purpose, I may

be in some degree successful.

This court and hall, for which we have no word, is the _patio_ of the

Spaniards, the _woost_ of the Arabs, the _hyroob_ of the Hebrews, the

μέσον [meson] of the Greeks, and the _impluvium_ or _cavadium_ of the

Romans.

The patio is covered with an awning, which the Moors call _clas_; they

have also a covering for the floor, which they use on festivities, and

which they call _yellis_: the _clas_, the same as the _velum_, which

the Romans spread over their atrium--in Greek it was τέγη [tegê]. The

roof was τέγος [tegos], hence the confusion respecting the paralytic

man being let down “through the roof” τέγη [tegê], which was simply

the removal of the tent or awning to let him down, not into the house,

but into the court. They ascended to the roof among the tiles,[245]

and unroofed the roof,[246] and so let down the bed into the middle.

Here are all familiar words, and nothing can be plainer than the words,

however incomprehensible may be the thing conveyed; for how should a

roof be unroofed (ἀπεστεγάτην τὴν στεγὴν [apestegatên tên stegên]), and

how should the people below have remained quiet under the tiles and

rafters? But, translate the passage by the aid of the Moorish house,

and all difficulty is removed: “They ascended to the top of the house,

among the tiles (ἀναβάντες ἐπὶ τὸ δῶμα διὰ τῶν κεράμων [anabantes epi

to dôma dia tôn keramôn]); and then, removing the awning which was

spread over the place where he was, they let him down into the patio.”

The tiles were for flooring the terrace-top, and coping the parapet

walls. Thus the centre of the house remained, as it were, the tent,

and explains the passage, “the tabernacle of my house;” as also that

one, “Thou spreadest out the heavens as a curtain;” and again, “He

stretcheth out the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a

tent to dwell in.”

The French word _maison_ comes from the Greek μέσσον [messon],

_architecture_. The French house is a solid figure, the ancient house

a hollow one. The building of the house in Greek is οἶκος [oikos]: the

court in the middle is called μέσσον [messon]. The families of the

poor inhabit different apartments: the court becomes the common place

of resort, and its name will stand for that of the whole dwelling, as

“hall” in English is, in the country, used to designate a gentleman’s

seat. But here it is the abode of the lower orders, which would undergo

the change, and the word would become vernacular: οἶκος [oikos]

becoming μέσσον [messon], we have at once _maison_. In Spain, common

courts are called _meson coral_. _Coro_, _coral_, _corte_ came, in like

manner, to signify residence of the monarch: thus, the Court of Madrid.

(“_Solo Madrid es corte._”)[247]

Architecture spread in France from the Phocian colony of Marseilles,

and through Europe from the peninsula, and so the one word spread

in France, the other through Europe. It is curious that the French

word for a house should mean the same thing as the English word for

a chamber, both being in direct contradiction to the thing conveyed,

which is not “space,” but “enclosure.”

This form of Canaanitish building is preserved in our monasteries,

cloisters, and colleges. Spain and Sicily preserve some beautiful

specimens of the passage of Moorish into Gothic forms, where the luxury

and gaiety of the _woost_ is associated with the sombre severity of the

cloister,--the stone-framed and fretted Gothic arches and windows--the

Moorish tiles--the gloomy corridors around, and flowers smiling in the

centre amidst water and refreshed by fountains.

To the apartment of the chief of the establishment there was an

entrance-hall twelve feet square and sixteen to eighteen feet high; the

floor red like the court, and the walls white. A balcony at one side,

reached by a ladder, served for two or three persons to sleep, and

gave entrance to a small “chamber on the wall,” such as that of Elisha

in the house of the Shunamite. The “upper chamber,” such as David’s,

“over the gate,” judging from what we at present see, was a building

on the roof, being reached by a ladder or external staircase:--a

ladder is a common domestic instrument. The chambers built there are

strictly _beit_; but to the westward it receives the name from the

Arabs of _olea_, which is the word in the Old Testament translated

“upper chamber.” It was the _hyperoon_ of the Greeks, in which Homer

places Penelope to _avoid_ her suitors. The Lacedemonians called the

same apartment _oon_; and Athenæus explains by it the fable of Helen

born from an egg. The _gynaicum_ of the Greeks was the upper story;

and at present, amongst the Moors, who have no harem for the women,

the tops of the houses are appropriated to them, and no man can ascend

to make repairs, or for any other purpose, without proclaiming aloud

three times that he is going up to the roof. David, in the story of

Bathsheba, was clearly where he ought not to have been, and where no

man was expected to be, and had neglected to give the customary warning.

But this door, or archway, led to the inner apartment,--one of the

ordinary long Moorish rooms, about seven feet wide and thirty feet

long, and receiving light only from the door. The floor was covered

with their beautiful mats, and the walls all round, to the height of

four feet: the rest was white. The entrance to these rooms is by the

centre, and they thus form separate apartments to the right and left,

at the end there being generally a raised bed divided off by hangings.

When I first saw the bedsteads, I took them for an imitation of us, for

they are altogether repugnant to Eastern ideas. In the East a bed-room

is unknown: even in the harem there is no apartment so appropriated,

far less is there a bed-stead. Where “bed-rooms” are mentioned, what

is meant is a place for stowing beds. Large presses are filled at the

“lower” parts of rooms for this purpose. The bed, when made, is taken

out and raised three or four mattresses, one over the other. In the

centre of the _oda_ it looks like a long ottoman. The pillows are

composed as a “formation” of very thin, broad flaps or cushions of

cotton, so that you get exactly the required height, and they fit into

the neck, and do not require a head-board to keep them in. No standing

post is required; and all this is from the matrix of the tent. Here it

is exactly the reverse, and might well surprise at first. The matrix

here is the fortress, the walled cities of Canaan. Here every apartment

is a bedroom: not only are the beds composed of standing posts, but

they are the standing parts of the rooms, divided off by hangings, like

those of the Temple, for it is not curtains round them, but hangings

that are before them. The room is built of the width requisite for

them. There is sometimes a standing top, which serves as a balcony, and

also to sleep on. The bed is called _farash_, the hangings _numasia_,

and there are generally behind two square holes through the wall, for

light and air.

_Mittah_ is the word used in Scripture: it is spoken of as a standing

thing, and the expression _going up_, exactly corresponds with what we

see here. The standing bedstead of Og King of Bashan is referred to

in testimony of his gigantic dimensions. At a feast the Moors place

the honoured person in the bed. On marriage-feasts the bridegroom,

amidst his party, and the bride amidst hers, recline on the bed. When

a _fête_ is made in honour of any person, he is placed on the bed,

looking down on the parties assembled round the trays, the whole length

of the room. It might, in fact, be translated rather throne than bed.

So also at a Jewish wedding, you may see in one bed three tiers of

blooming virgins, sparkling in gold and jewels, with their shot green

and red silk handkerchiefs--and within the hangings of one curtain, one

bouquet, presenting more beauty than you could select from any European

court.

In the Highlands a strange piece of furniture is the bedstead, which

is of wood, with doors like a press, and standing enclosed and against

the wall: it is, doubtless, derived from the customs I describe. The

Highlanders used to make these bedsteads themselves, as Ulysses did his.

A peculiarity of the Moorish room is, that the beams are visible,

being ornamented with either carving or colour, or both: this we have

preserved in the grander Gothic architecture. So it was among the Jews:

“Ceiled with cedar and painted with vermilion.” Vermilion is the ground

of their patterns, and predominates. The colour is neither laid on with

oil, nor in fresco, but with white of egg; it works well and lasts

long. The beams are of the arar, which in ancient and modern times has

been confounded with cedar.

In the Roman and Greek house, as in the Hebrew, the rooms were entered

from the centre court; but the former had their greatest extension in

the length, that is from the court; the latter, in the breadth, that is

parallel to the court. The same contrast holds between the Turkish and

the Moorish. The former has not the _Impluvium_, but the _Divan houé_,

or central hall of the house, corresponds to it; out of this you pass

to the rooms, which are squares, exactly as Vitruvius describes the

_Triclinium_, with a rectangle added, the top being opposite the door

and giving the light, being nearly an unbroken side of window.[248] The

Moorish is the most complete antithesis, having an extensive breadth;

having two “tops” opposite each other; having no window, and receiving

its light from an enormous door. An apartment may be thirty feet by

seven feet, or in length nearly five times its breadth. We have had

at Nimroud the perfect confirmation that this was the ancient form

in the East: the same proportions are there observed in far grander

dimensions.[249] Mr. Layard accounts for the form by the want of timber

to construct wider roofs; but that would not give the inordinate

length; and, besides, they were acquainted--as he shows--with the

arch. The form being adopted to suit the settled manner, and with

reference to the bed, then of course the heavy roof could be laid

on with short beams; and that the same masses of pounded earth for

the terraces were there employed as in Barbary, the condition of the

Assyrian ruins plainly shows. The Greeks had a mixed architecture.

They had the Phrygian tombs; and they must have had also roofs made in

this fashion--at least, at an early time--as is recorded in the story

of Melampus; who, being confined by Iphiklos, for attempting to carry

off his cattle, heard the worms in the roof discoursing on the unsafe

condition of the beams.

They have such gates as Samson carried from Gaza, or Lord Ellenborough

sent for to Cabul, and are traced on the sepulchre of the kings at

Jerusalem: they do not fit into the wall, but lie against it. They are

not shaped to the arch; they close, but rectangularly and folding; they

cover it as the hurdle did the orifice of the rush mosques I saw along

the lake. There is no hinge, but the joints of the door descend into a

socket in the stone, and in like manner the door is secured above in a

projecting bracket of wood. In the smallest buildings it is colossal.

To exclude the air or the cold they close the folding doors, and open

a small wicket as in the gate of a fortress; above it there are small

apertures through the wall to let in the light when it is closed, and

these are arranged in a figure or a pattern. Every corner of a Moorish

house is ornamented, although merely in the form that is given to the

whitewashed wall: there is no glaring oil paint upon the doors; they

are scrubbed with ochre, which is left upon them.

In the apartment of a single old man there was but one farash at one

end; a European sofa occupied the other. The floor was flush; and as I

was examining and admiring the building, he said to me, “It is of my

own construction. I don’t mean that I made the plan, but that I hewed

the stone, and carried the mortar with my own hands.”

I paid a visit to this patriarch’s uncle; he was, of course, very old,

and though bedridden, had lost none of his faculties. The whole family

and a good many of the neighbours were soon assembled around us, and

he unlocked the stores of his memory. He recollected the accession of

Soliman, the uncle of the present Sultan, who reigned half a century.

He then went back to Mahmoud, whom he claimed as his “friend.” I

launched out in praise of the dignity of his reign, and the justice of

that of Soliman. He related various anecdotes of both.

A governor brought presents of one hundred of everything that the

country contained: horses, oxen, mules, sheep, slaves, quintals of

silver, packets of gold-dust (about a pound weight each), measures of

corn, oil, butter, &c. The Sultan asked him whence came this wealth. He

said from the government which his bounty had conferred upon him. He

asked him if the people had not paid their tenths. The governor said

they had. The Sultan then said, “I sent you to govern, not to rob,”

and gratified him with the bastinado and prison.

The grandfather of Ben Abou, the present Governor of Riff, when Caïd of

Tangier, made a great feast at the marriage of his daughter. One of his

friends, Caïd Mohammed Widden, observed a poor man in mean attire in

the court, and ordered him out; and, he not obeying, pushed him so that

he fell. That same night the keeper of an oven (there are no sellers

of bread, every one makes his own bread at home and sends it to the

oven) had barred his door and retired to rest, when some one knocked

at the door. He asked, “Who is there?” and was answered, “The guest

of God,” which means a beggar. “You are welcome,” he said, and got up

and unfastened the door; and having nothing but some remnants of the

koscoussou from his supper, and the piece of mat upon which he lay, he

warmed the koscoussou in the oven, and after bringing water to wash his

guest’s hands, he set it before him: he then conducted him to the mat,

and himself lay down on the bare ground.

In the morning when he awoke, he found the door unbarred, and the poor

man gone; so he said to himself, “He had business and did not wish to

disturb me, or he went away modestly, being ashamed of his poverty.” On

taking up the mat he found under it two doubloons; so he was afraid,

and put the money by, and determined not to touch it, lest it had been

forgotten, or lest the poor man had stolen it, and put it there to ruin

him.

Some time afterwards an order came from Fez for Mohammed Widden and the

baker to repair thither. They were both conducted to the place before

the palace to await the Sultan’s coming forth. When he appeared they

were called before him, and, addressing the first, he asked him if he

recollected the feast at the marriage of the daughter of the Caïd of

Tangier, and a poor man whom he had pushed with his left hand, and

kicked with his right foot. Then Caïd Mohammed knew whom he had thus

treated, and trembled. The Sultan said, “The arm that struck me, and

the leg that kicked me, are mine: cut them off.” The baker now said to

himself, “If he has taken the leg and the arm off the caïd, he will

surely take my head,” so he fell down upon the earth, and implored the

Sultan to have mercy upon him. The Sultan said to him:--“My son, fear

not; you were poor, and took in the beggar when he was thrust forth

from the feast of the rich. He has eaten your bread, and slept on your

mat. Now ask whatever you please; it shall be yours.” The caïd returned

to Tangier maimed and a beggar, and his grandson was lately a soldier

at the gate of the Sicilian consul. The baker returned riding on a fine

mule richly clothed, and possessed of the wealth of the other; and the

people used to say as he passed by, “There goes the oven-keeper, the

Sultan’s host.”[250]

The old man, however, went further back than Mahmoud, and spoke a great

deal of Ismael, who, though doubtless a sanguinary monster, was one of

the most extraordinary men that has sat upon the throne of Morocco.

He constantly said of him, “Govenaba mucho,” he governed much; and

illustrated this disposition as follows: “If a man spoke to a woman in

the streets he was immediately put to death.”

The conversation falling on the Brebers, I asked if they were really

the people of Palestine driven out by the Jews; upon which there was a

general exclamation of surprise, and even of anger. “Must not we,” said

the old man, “who are Jews, and the Brebers, who are sons of Canaan,

know what we are and they are?” and then they all vociferated together:

“Have we not known them, and do we not know them--the Yebusee, the

Emoree, the Gieryesee, the Hevee, the Perezee, the Canaanee, the

Hytee, the Hurchee, the Sunee, the Aarvadee; and are they not known

amongst their tribes to the present day? and of the seven nations

driven out, are there not four still here? and did not Joshua drive

them out, and did not Joab the servant of David pursue them even to the

mountains above Fez?” And then one ran for the Old Testament, and they

commenced reading passages, and giving names as used by them and the

corresponding names as used to-day amongst the Moors, and explaining

how the nations that had been lost, had remained in the Holy Land and

been confounded there with the remnant of the other people.

I must not here omit the honourable mention made of the late British

consul at Tangier, Mr. Hay. They spoke of him with enthusiasm: his

integrity and affability were illustrated by anecdotes. Nor was less

said or felt towards Mrs. Hay,--her charity to the poor, her attention

to the sick. Repeatedly, when Moors have been expressing to me their

indignation at England for inciting them to resist the French, and then

betraying them, they have paused to say that it brought Mrs. Hay to her

grave.

We spent a great portion of the night in conversation on these

subjects; but my host was constantly turning to a matter that had

the mastery of his thoughts. He had two daughters-in-law: both were

barren. As I had been questioning him about the hashish, and various

other plants, nothing would satisfy him but that I was deeply versed

in such matters, which the people of Morocco believe Christians to be

thoroughly acquainted with, and to be able to control by charms.[251]

He brought down a volume on physics, by Tudela, a Jew of Adrianople,

and insisted on having my opinion on various fragments, which he

translated. Familiar as one is in this country with the longing for

children,[252] I never saw it so exemplified. Next morning he called

his two daughters-in-law, and presenting them, said, “Now, look at

them, and tell me if they will have children.” I turned away to relieve

them, saying, “I know nothing of such matters;” but they had no mind to

be so relieved, and came themselves right round before me.

[245] Luke v. 19.

[246] Mark ii. 4.

[247] Ford, in the “Hand-book of Spain,” quotes this

sentence as if it were a presumption of the Spaniards, that

there was no other court in the world save their own.

[248] See the chapter on “the Oda,” in the “Spirit of

the East.”

[249] “The great narrowness of all the rooms, when compared

with their length, appears to prove that the Assyrians had no

means of constructing a roof requiring other support than that

afforded by the side walls. The most elaborately ornamented

hall at Nimroud, although above one hundred and sixty feet in

length, was only thirty-five feet broad. The same disparity is

apparent in the edifice at Konyunjik. It can scarcely be

doubted that there was some reason for making the rooms so

narrow.”--_Nineveh_, vol. ii. p. 255.

[250] An oven-keeper of Tangier, from whom I sought the

verification of this story, told me that it was not an

oven-keeper who had received the sultan, but a worker in iron

named Mallem Hamet. Mallem designates his calling, an

honourable one here, but so despicable among the wandering

Arabs, that a conquered foe has his life spared if he

stretches out his arm as if beating

with a hammer: degraded by the act, his enemy will not

condescend to shed his blood.

[251] The women will try to get a bit of a

Christian’s clothes, or a button, to wear as an amulet

to confer fruitfulness.

[252] “He which that hath no wif, I hold him lost,

Helpless, and all desolat. He that hath no child,

Like sun and winde.”--CHAUCER.

CHAPTER IV.

THE JEWS IN BARBARY.

The conversation reported two or three pages back respecting the

origin of the Brebers, was among the most interesting incidents of my

trip. What would it be to open a tomb, and find the sling of David or

the arrow of Jonathan, the bones of Joshua, or the sword of Gideon?

But what is it to find the very people, firing as they spoke of the

Jebusite and the Hittite--not the traditions of the Holy Land, but of

what were ancient days to Jeremiah and Ezekiel!

The Jews that inhabit the sea-ports are the remnants of those expelled

from Spain at successive periods during the last twelve hundred years,

and they are but a step by which to approach the Jews of the mountains,

who have undergone less change, but have become savage and illiterate.

Amongst them lie concealed treasures of ancient lore, and by them are

presented varieties of human existence worthy of inviting adventurous

research.

A lady at Tangier told me of a Jew who some years ago had come to

inquire his way at the door, and who was quite unintelligible to

either Jews or Arabs. He was from the mountains above Tâfilêlt, wore

a different dress--which she could not describe, but said it was

black--and had upon his feet sandals, tied in the antique fashion, the

cords passing between the toes. I found in the journal of Mr. Davidson,

sent here after his death, and who crossed the Atlas to the south of

Morocco, and spent six months in Sus, some slight but interesting

details.

“I went in the evening to dine with the Jews, here called the sons

of Yehúdi: they are a most extraordinary people. I never met with

such hospitality, or such freedom of manner in any Jews. They had

dancing and music, and the ladies mixed in society without the least

restraint.”--(p. 58.)

“I received a visit from some Jews, who stated, that they have here

the tombs of two rabbis who escaped from the _second_ destruction of

Jerusalem. Over the mountain opposite there is a valley equal to the

plain of Morocco, where dwell, say the Jews, those who escaped from

Nebuchadnezzar.”--(p. 61.)

“In both Riff and Sus the Jews go armed; they are, however, the

property of the Moors, who arm, and send them out as a sort of

substitute, and by whom they are supported, and allowed a greater

liberty than at Tangiers. In the mountains in the neighbourhood of

Tangiers, the Jews act as guards to conduct the Moors. They have a

master, whose shoe they carry, which serves as a protection. They pay

tribute, not in money, but in work, the Moors finding the former. The

principal trade is in grain and oil. The masters are Brebers, all of

whom ride mules. Every douar has its sheikh and caïd, who are Moors,

and possess each a jurisdiction, but not the power of punishing in all

cases. Their religious worship is the same as the other, but little

cared about. In the whole valley there may be about five hundred.

They have their sacred books, synagogue, and rabbis; and they make a

pilgrimage to the tombs, distant two and three days’ journey. All the

douars have large vineyards, and manufactories of haïks, carpets, &c.,

which are sent to Tangiers. They do not speak Arabic, but Breber or

Shelluh.”

“He (a rabbi) informed me, that in this place (Coubba) there are no

less than 3000 or 4000 Jews living in perfect freedom, and following

every variety of occupation; that they have mines and quarries, which

they work; possess large gardens and extensive vineyards, and cultivate

more corn than they can possibly consume. That they have a form of

government, and have possessed this soil from the time of Solomon; in

proof of which he stated, that they possess a record bearing the signet

and sign of Joab, who came to collect tribute from them in the time of

the son of David; that the tradition of their arrival here runs thus:--

“‘_Crossing the great sea to avoid the land of Egypt_, they came to a

head of land with a river; that here they landed, and following the

course of this, leading westward, but going towards the south, they

came to a spot where they found twelve wells and seventy palm-trees.

This, at first, led them to suppose that they had by some means got

to Elim; but finding the mountains on the west, they were satisfied

that they had reached a new country. Finding a passage over the

mountains, they crossed, and took up their dwelling in this valley,

first in caves, which exist in great numbers, then in others which they

excavated; and after this began to build towns. That, at a distant

period, they were driven across the mountains by a people that would

not acknowledge them, and that some remained at Diminet, Mesfywa, and

other places on the western side of the range.’

“Looking at the map, and following this man’s observations, it is

perfectly easy to trace them. They must have reached the Gulf of

Tremesen, and taking the river Muluwia, or Mahala, have reached

Tâfilêlt, where, to this day, are twelve wells, planted round with

seventy palm-trees, and which many of the Jews call Elim; and from this

they must have taken the pass, to which I attempted to get.

“I was most anxious to know the meaning of the names of some of the

towns. He told me, that what the Moors call Mesfywa is Oom Siwá, the

mother of Siwá, one of their families which crossed the mountains; that

Ouríka of the Moors, distant thirty miles, was Rebka (Rebecca), founded

by one of their daughters, and that most of these places had originally

Hebrew names. At Ouríka he left me. I continued for eight days to visit

the towns inhabited by the Jews, to the number of above one hundred,

and I should say, that on this side there are more Jews dwelling with

the Brebers in the mountains, than resident in Morocco. They have all

the same account of Coubba, and have a great belief in the Cabalists,

who, they say, still exist, and who receive direct communication from

heaven.”--(p. 193.)