ALGERIA
_(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved)_
[Illustration]
MOUNTAIN LIFE IN
ALGERIA
BY
EDGAR BARCLAY
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR_
[Illustration]
LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1882
INTRODUCTION.
* * * * *
From the city of Algiers, looking eastwards across the bay, is seen
a snow-covered mass towering above lower ranges of mountains. It
is to the country lying immediately beneath those snow-clad peaks,
inhabited by a people of entirely different race and speech to the
Arabs, and known as Kabyles, that the following pages relate. Though
Algiers has many English visitors, this district remains little
known; the reason perhaps being the want of those accommodations
that tourists look for.
A day spent at Fort National, which is at the threshold of the
region I refer to, is usually considered ample, and exhausts their
interest. But any one making a more prolonged stay in a country, is
apt to look upon it in a different light to the passing traveller;
and I may be pardoned for having taken up the pen, if I should
succeed in inspiring the reader with some of the interest that I
feel for this district and its native inhabitants.
In former days, when the Kabyles were self-governing,
immemorial custom, religion, and tribal laws, rigidly enforced
hospitality. Special funds were put aside by the Jemāa, or
village Commune, for the entertainment of travellers; it held
itself responsible for the safety of the stranger and for that of
his luggage, and each householder was in his turn called upon to
play the part of host.
At present, under French rule, it is obligatory for the Amine,
or headman, to entertain a stranger for one night. If it were not
for this law, it is clear that, as there are no inns, a European
journeying through the country might, by the caprice of the natives,
be forced to pass the night without shelter on the mountain side.
The Amine refuses the money offered him in requital, but some one
can always be found to accept a suitable payment.
The house where the traveller may be entertained, will probably be
constructed in somewhat the following fashion.
A series of rooms is built round an open courtyard, which has a
single entrance, and within which cattle, sheep, and goats are
driven for protection at night. The building is of blocks of stone
roughly plastered together, and whitewashed over. The beams and
rafters of the roof are apparent, and upon them is spread a thick
layer of canes, the crannies between being filled up with earth;
above is a covering of tiles, and on these again heavy stones
help by their weight to keep the whole in its place. The eaves are
broad, and sometimes project so far over the courtyard that they
are supported by wooden columns, and thus form a rude corridor,
which affords shelter for the beasts from the weather.
Is not such a courtyard the model of the rude ancestor of
such refined examples as are to be seen at Pompeii, where the
open enclosure for the protection of animals has grown into
a fountain-refreshed garden, and the rustic corridor into one
decorated with elegant encaustic paintings?
In some parts of the country, large flattened slabs of cork are
substituted for tiles, and are laid overlapping in the manner of
slates; a layer of earth is beaten down on the top, which soon
becomes overgrown with moss and weeds. These roofs are much flatter
than the tiled ones, being just sufficiently inclined to throw
off water when it rains heavily; they thus form terraces useful for
various purposes, such as drying fruit. The rooms are lighted chiefly
from their doorways, which lead from the courtyard, but in the outer
walls are a few windows just large enough to permit a person’s
head being protruded. Rooms are set apart for the women and children
of the household, and on one side of the courtyard is the guest
chamber. On entering this, the stranger is struck by finding it
resemble a barn, rather than an ordinary room at an inn. The roof
is supported by columns and beams, made from the roughly trimmed
trunks of trees, and the floor is of beaten plaster. At one end of
the room is a wall about five feet in height, supporting a broad
platform or stage, on which are placed gigantic earthenware jars,
square in plan, and five or six feet in height. These contain a
provision of dried figs and grain, which is thus secured from damp
and the attacks of rats. The platform is the roof of a stable for
the accommodation of mules and cows. The room has only one door,
which serves also as a passage to this stable. The beasts entering,
turn, and are driven down an inclined plane, which opens between the
outer wall of the building and the wall supporting the platform, and
find themselves in their stalls. The floor of the stable is three
or four feet lower than where the guest reclines, who is startled
at seeing the heads of the beasts appear at large square openings,
on a level with, and facing him.
This singular arrangement has at any rate the merit of allowing the
traveller to observe whether his animals are properly cared for,
since literally they sup at the sideboard.
Thoughts also are likely to arise concerning the Nativity, and how
the infant Saviour was laid in his swaddling-clothes in a manger;
for here is an example, that the most natural course to adopt,
supposing that there should be an extra number of guests, would be
to enter the stable under the same roof.
In one corner is a small hole made in the floor, where live embers
are placed if the weather be cold, the smoke finding its exit as
best it can through a hole above. Rugs are spread on the floor,
and in due time the evening meal is brought, which will include a
Kouskous, the characteristic dish of the country, answering to the
macaroni of Southern Italy.
The Amine and some of his friends, sit by while the guest eats;
but they do not partake themselves, their _rôle_ is, to enliven the
stranger with their conversation, to serve him, and to encourage him
to eat as much as he can. When he has finished they retire, leaving
a guardian who sleeps just within the threshold. The traveller rolls
himself up in his wraps, and disposes himself to sleep upon the
floor. Even if tired, he is fortunate if he wake refreshed in the
morning, for sometimes there may be other animals besides cows and
mules—rats in the roof or about the bins, not to mention fleas,
the dogs of the house bark, and jackals howl outside.
Such being a picture of the native accommodation, it is evident that
a European proposing to remain in the country, away from French
settlements, must travel with a tent. The opportunity to do so,
was offered me by Colonel Playfair, Her Majesty’s Consul-General
at Algiers, who most kindly placed his fine tent at my disposal;
and I take this occasion to again thank him for the shelter under
which I spent so many pleasant days and peaceful nights.
I have been asked, ‘What do you find attractive in this
semi-barbarous Kabylia?’ Before relating my story, it will not
be out of place to mention a few facts relating to the country,
which in my estimation render it interesting for an artist.
Firstly, the landscape combines great beauty with an imposing
grandeur. There is a luxuriance of vegetation which more than
rivals that of Southern Italy; and the glorious mountain masses,
with their scarped precipices, cannot be easily matched for their
form and colour.
The land is highly cultivated, and of a happy and cheerful aspect.
It is thickly populated, and the out-of-door life of the people,
both as regards their agricultural and pastoral occupations,
is picturesque. Not that these are strange in their character,
on the contrary, they have the charm of being simple world-wide
performances, common to all time.
The women, although Mohammedans, expose their faces with the same
freedom as Europeans.
The dress of the men consists of a tunic and burnous.
The artistic merit of this loose and extremely simple dress,
is not in the actual clothes, but in the manner of wearing them,
which is varied. From the arrangements of folds into which these
garments fall being ever changing, the artistic sense of the
observer is always kept alive. A man thus simply dressed, may by
some chance movement fling his cloak about his person, so that its
masses and folds assume a dignity and interest worthy of permanence
in sculpture. Such harmonies unfold themselves suddenly, and are
fleeting, but they are an incentive to endeavour to record them.
I believe this is the only corner of the world, where the dress of
the women is still the same as the Greek dress of antiquity. Though
the Romans dominated North Africa, there is no reason to suppose
that it was introduced by them; because, in a certain condition of
society, it is the dress which common sense dictates.
Gestures can be studied when the people are excited, but only
then. I should describe the ordinary manners of the Kabyles as
gentle and calm; but at times, when their passions are aroused,
they are as vehement as the storms that break the serenity of their
climate. They are not as a rule a fussy gesticulating people;
on the contrary, at the entrance to a village, a rustic row can
always be found chatting peacefully, and sitting very still. Nor
is it only the old who thus indulge in sunning themselves, though
they can be seen there also, who
Wise through time and narrative with age
In summer days like grasshoppers rejoice,
A bloodless race that send a feeble voice.
With us, it is by all classes felt that it is wise for a man to keep
his head as cool as he can, but the Kabyles, in the ordinary way so
quiet and gentle in demeanour, are an impulsive people, careless of
self-control, and a mere trifle is sufficient to enflame them. They
freely give reins to their feelings, untrammelled by considerations
which beset more civilised men; and when passions have unrestrained
play, gestures, which are the pantomime of passion, are born.
Owing to their having remained uninfluenced by strangers, there is
a remarkable harmony between their manners and customs, and the
country they inhabit; and on account of the simplicity of life,
the reason for things being constructed and arranged as they are
is generally traceable, and this gives an agreeable impression. The
villages, for instance, seem to grow naturally out of the mountains,
and the dress of the people accords exactly with their conditions
of life. Their artificial surroundings are very meagre, hard,
unalluring and rude; but at any rate it is satisfactory to find
them free from the qualities of foolishness and insincerity; for
when men seek simply to satisfy their wants, they are sure to act
sensibly, and, according to their ability, adapt means to ends in
the most direct manner possible. There is no place for trick and
sham; moreover, when they decorate anything, they follow a simple
tradition, but keep their personal feeling and invention alive,
and thus they avoid the two sins of vulgarity and insipidity. All
work so done, however rude it may be, is respectable and interesting.
This sense of harmony is felt all the more strongly by glancing
for a moment at one of the new French settlements on the borders
of the same country, where its absence is conspicuous; it is at
once obvious, that such a village belongs to a complicated system
of society.
The Kabyle village is rude and simple, the French is mean without
being simple. It is built on the dusty high road, which can be
seen winding in a serpentine line like a white thread, through the
feverish plains. The road is traced in accordance with military
and strategic reasons, and it will be found that there is little
sign of traffic; a broad mule-track well trodden down, runs near,
following a straighter line though more uneven gradients. This gives
the road the appearance of being a sham. The village consists of a
collection of hideous little houses sprinkled about in the plain,
without shade from the pitiless sun, mean oblong boxes, quite unlike
the model of a _colon’s_ house that was to be seen in the gardens
of the Trocadero at Paris in 1878, which showed a beautiful power of
idealising. A government order has fixed the colony in its place,
which so far as can be seen, might as well have been chosen at any
other point. An ugly little church has been just completed, which the
inhabitants do not appear either to respect or to want. All the wood
used in the construction of the buildings has been brought from over
the seas, from Norway, though the sides of the hills are covered with
trees. The most frequented place of meeting is the dram-shop, where
the heralds of civilisation congregate to tipple absinthe. Speak to
the colonists, you will find that they abuse their homes and their
circumstances; they one and all wish that they were somewhere else,
perhaps the only point on which the natives are ready to agree with
them. ‘Peut-être—oui, peut-être, le pays est joli, mais vu
du loin,’ is the nearest approach to praise that I have been able
to extract from a colonist in such a village.
In England men adapt their lives to the requirements and the
accumulated conveniences of civilisation; but in a primitive society,
there is a forced accordance between man and surrounding nature,
which imposes its conditions upon life.
In Kabylia this agreement is visible in every particular and detail
of life. Those bronzed and furrowed features, those sinewy limbs,
do they not attest struggle and toil with nature? Watch those
girls as they trip down the mountain path; at every step their
movements are governed by the accidents of the ground. What a path
it is! Fit emblem of half-civilised institutions. Year after year,
year after year, it receives the impress of many feet, yet all the
rude asperities of nature remain.
Kabylia has I think another interest, purely fanciful. On seeing
the villages with tiled roofs set on the tops of the mountains,
surrounded by fig-trees; and corn ripening among the fine olives;
one is irresistibly reminded of Italy. But here, though the people
are of a different race and religion, they have retained the
habits of a very primitive age; and in this corner of the world,
more than anywhere in Europe, observation of the manners of to-day,
will picture the rural life of classic times.
Upon observing a phase of life so different from the world one is
accustomed to, it is agreeable to discover that in odd unexpected
ways, it connects itself in the mind, with a past whose beauty
remains recorded for our enjoyment.
Added to these points of interest that Kabylia offers to the artist,
there is the advantage that the climate is healthy and invigorating.
I first visited this country in the early spring of the year 1873,
when I spent several weeks there. I revisited it in the year 1877,
when I remained over a month among the mountains, living part
of the time with Italians at an isolated farmhouse, and part of
the time with the Missionary Fathers. In the beginning of 1880,
I again returned and stayed a month at Fort National, and in April
started on the expedition recorded in this narrative. On this last
occasion I kept a diary. On my return home, I found that my notes
were too concise to conjure up scenes to others; nevertheless they
elicited so many enquiries, that I resolved to expand them in my
leisure hours. The following is the result. In the hope that it may
interest a wider circle than my personal friends, I with diffidence
submit it to public criticism.
_LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_
DRAWN BY THE AUTHOR.
* * * * *
PHOTO ENGRAVINGS.
GOING TO THE FOUNTAIN _Frontispiece._
POTTERY _To face p._ 32
THE FOUNTAIN „ 40
A MARKET „ 60
THE RETURN HOME „ 82
PLOUGHING „ 96
WOMAN MOULDING VASES „ 102
THRESHING „ 104
WOOD ENGRAVINGS.
MEN MET AT AN OAK _To face p._ 1
As man conversing man,
Met at an oak.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxii.
GATHERING OLIVES „ 16
Like some fair olive, by my careful hand
He grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xviii.
MEETING „ 22
The season now for calm, familiar talk,
Like youths and maidens in an evening walk.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxii.
SOWING „ 44
And naked sow the land,
For lazy winter numbs the lab’ring hand.
DRYDEN’S _Virgil_, Georgic i.
JEWELLERY „ 56
HEWING „ 58
’Tis more by art than force of numerous strokes,
The dexterous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxiii.
AMONG THE TOMBS „ 120
As when ashore an infant stands,
And draws imagin’d houses in the sands.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xv.
HEADINGS TO CHAPTERS.
PAGE
SHAKING AN OLIVE-TREE 1
SHEEP AT A MARKET 24
GOATS AT A MARKET 45
SICKLING 59
BINDING SHEAVES 86
[Illustration: MEN MET AT AN OAK.
As man conversing man,
Met at an oak.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxii.]
[Illustration]
MOUNTAIN LIFE IN ALGERIA.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
BEFORE leaving Algiers, my friend Muirhead and I engaged a Frenchman
as a servant, who undertook, in accompanying us, to guard the tent
during our absence, and to cook.
This matter being arranged, he went with us on a shopping expedition,
when we purchased the necessary kitchen utensils, and got them
packed in a conveniently shaped box. We filled our empty tins
with provisions, and supplied ourselves with a few medicines,
a precautionary measure that happily proved superfluous.
Muirhead bought an excellent folding camp-bed at Attaracks’,
the army purveyors. For myself, I took an Indian bullock-trunk,
containing clothes, books, and a store of photographic gelatine
plates; and a box with painting materials and a camera. Folding
irons by uniting these two packages formed a bedstead, upon which
a cork mattress could be spread. A carpenter made for me a flat
case to hold canvases, which served also as an easel, having pieces
of wood so arranged on one side that they could be slipped down to
form leg supports. This proved convenient; it was strong, so simple
that it could not get out of order, and it could be adjusted so as
to stand firm however uneven the ground.
Our preparations completed, we took places in the diligence leaving
for Tizi-Ouzou, a French settlement on the borders of Kabylia. We
started April 6, 1880.
The diligence left at the inconvenient hour of eight o’clock
in the evening, and arrived at its destination at eight the
following morning; we had a very uncomfortable, sleepless ride,
and at Tizi-Ouzou only remained long enough to breakfast, after
which we took the omnibus for Fort National.
The fort is built in a commanding position, at the top of a mountain
3,153 feet in height. The road at first passes through a plain,
crosses the river Sebaou, which is not bridged and is liable to
freshets after rain, when it becomes impassable.
The omnibus, on account of the snapping of one of the springs, made
unusually slow progress as it toiled along the zigzag road leading
up to the Fort. We consequently got out and walked most of the way,
taking short cuts, and greatly enjoying the deliciously fresh air
and fine scenery, and arrived at our destination between one and
two o’clock, when, having refreshed ourselves, we took a turn
outside the ramparts for the sake of the superb view from this
point. There was a grand tumble of mountains, range beyond range;
but what riveted our attention chiefly were the great peaks and
rocky masses of the Jurjura to the south.
As I already knew something of the country, and Muirhead saw it
for the first time, he said, ‘And what do you propose doing?’
I accordingly suggested that we should go in the direction of the
high mountains, where we should be most likely to find points of
interest. There were two roads in front of us, both leading to places
suitable for camping. The first was on the crest of a mountain range,
studded with many villages that lay between us and the peaks of the
Jurjura, the seat of the Beni Ienni, one of the best-known tribes
in the country, where native jewellery and cutlery is chiefly
manufactured. The second was the home of the Aïth Ménguellath;
their mountain was not actually visible, being hidden by the spurs of
the one on which we were standing; it was farther off, but more easy
of access than the Beni Ienni, being skirted by the French road to
Akbou, the only one leading out of the country in the direction of
Constantine, Kabylia being otherwise an ‘impasse.’ The latter
tribe have in their midst a school under the direction of three
missionary Fathers, and the former a school superintended by three
Jesuit Fathers. We anticipated that the presence of the good Pères
would be of service to us, considering our ignorance of the language.
At our feet, between us and the Beni Ienni, was a deep gulf. The
Kabyle road before us, rough and steep, led down into it, apparently
ending in the blue distance in a fine example of the perpendicular;
the other wound round to the left at a high level. After a
little talk over the matter, we decided to follow the civilised
line as the easier, and to start for the Aïth Ménguellath the
following morning, provided that we could find mules. We soon found
there was no difficulty on this point, and five were promised
to be ready at an early hour. When several mules are engaged,
each belonging to a different owner, a considerable amount of
excited talk and gesticulation has to be got through before the
traveller sees his luggage finally packed and ready to start, for
each mule-owner naturally does his best to get the heavy pieces
put on his neighbour’s mule and the light pieces on his own. In
the midst of all this dispute and fuss, the mules stand patiently,
but they have a trick of striking out their legs, as if it were only
just as much as they could do to support their burdens; more luggage
is heaped on their backs, their expression of countenance grows more
wistful and dejected; but when everything is adjusted they prick up
their ears and start jauntily. We had three beasts, heavily laden,
and two riding-mules. It was a glorious, perfect morning; the sun
warm, the air brisk; and the great range of lofty mountains tipped
with snow looked most sublime. We caught the country in the very act
of bedecking itself with its spring mantle, for the mountain slopes
were covered with the bright fresh green of the young corn, and
the ash-trees in abundance were just opening their delicate leaves.
On the way we passed one or two small villages, and some charming
wooded gullies with falling streams. At such a spot was a scene
that caught my fancy. A party of girls had placed some clothes on
smooth rocks, in the run of the brook, and, barefooted, were merrily
dancing upon them; others were flopping about a crimson dress,
previous to wringing it, while more clothes lay drying in the sun on
the grassy slope. Above them, offering shade for a noontide repast,
rose an elegant ash, with a great vine mazily tangled up with and
depending from its branches. The eastern end of the mountain was
not so verdant as the country we had already passed, the ground
being naturally more barren; but no square foot of land capable
of cultivation had been neglected, and it was matter of wonder to
see corn growing on slopes so steep that no one could stand on them
without some caution lest he should roll to the bottom of the ravine;
as, moreover, it was by no means obvious where the bottom might be,
and pretty evident that anyone rolling down would have no sound
bone left in his body by the time he reached it, one could not but
admire the plucky industry of the Kabyles.
The house of the Missionary Fathers at length appeared in the
distance on a well-wooded ridge, the higher points of which were
crowned by three or four large villages.
The road now became unfit for carriages, and dwindled to a mule-path,
winding in an irregular fashion. We passed one especially picturesque
place, crowned by the white tower of a mosque, with a fine group
of evergreen oaks shading the rocky corner of a cemetery. As we
approached the Aïth Ménguellath, and made the final ascent to
the Mission House, the path was shaded by avenues of ash-trees.
On knocking at the door of the school-house, we found only one of
the Fathers at home; he received us very politely, and refreshed
us with excellent wine, made on the lands of the fraternity at
the Maison Carrée, a few miles from Algiers, where is their mother
establishment. Their Superior is the Bishop of Algiers. Any young man
desirous of entering the society commences with a course of study
in Arabic, at their house at the Maison Carrée. They have four
other schools in Kabylia, besides this in the Aïth Ménguellath,
which is the latest founded, and the Jesuits have two establishments.
On the road, we had seen no level piece of ground suitable for
camping. In answer to our inquiries, the Father thought that nowhere
in the neighbourhood could be found a better place than beside a
small cemetery just beneath the school-house, where our animals
had that moment halted; we therefore lost no time in unlading the
mules, and dismissing our attendant Kabyles. We had never before
pitched the tent, which was a large and fine one, unusual in its
arrangements, and it took us some time to put it up; we were much
embarrassed by tombstones, these encroached so near that it was next
to impossible to peg down the tent. However, when once it was up,
with the lining, and our camp-beds and luggage disposed within,
it looked very comfortable. We determined that while we remained
dwellers beside tombs, however much the ghosts of the departed
might be perturbed at the unwonted presence of the unfaithful,
our peace should remain secure.
A few men had collected to watch our proceedings, and boys from the
school gathered round. They were a nice-looking set of lads, bright
and gentle-mannered, and we were glad to find that they possessed
a stock of French, slender though it was. The fire flickered up,
in preparation for our evening meal, the school-lads in their white
burnouses stood round, whilst through the trees the Jurjura peaks
grew dim in the fading light.
Our man, Domenique, came from the Pyrenees on the Spanish frontier;
he called himself a Frenchman, but he did not look like one, nor
had he the lively French manners. He was spare, of about forty, with
black straight hair and moustache, black eyes, under-cut mouth, with
marked lines about the jaw. From the beginning, Muirhead declared him
to be a man with a temper, which proved to be too true; time also
proved him to be a man of a bilious temperament, utterly incapable
of understanding a joke. ‘He is quite the Spanish type,’ said
Muirhead. I know not, but if Spaniards are apt to resemble him,
I hope I may never travel in their country.
We both of us marvelled greatly at the wonderfully meagre preparation
he had made for his personal comfort. He carried with him nothing
but a striped cloth, and a very thin green cardboard box, done
up with string. To the last, the contents of this package were
a mystery to us, but we believe that it contained a shirt-front,
and one or two collars.
Such unpreparedness, such despising of all worldly comfort, should,
we thought, be surely viewed from above by the saints with approving
smiles, and Saint Joseph especially should have regarded with favour
this extreme scantiness of scrip, which, judging from pictures,
should have reminded him of his own ‘Flight into Egypt.’
_Friday, April 9,_ 1880.—We paid an early call at the school-house,
and saw the three Fathers. I found the Superior, Père Gerboin, to
be a friend. Two years previously, I had spent a week at his house;
he was then conducting a school in the tribe of the Zouardia, and
I was indebted to his hospitality for the opportunity of seeing
something of the tribes away from French settlements. He is a most
excellent, kindly man, devoted to his calling. One would take him
rather for an Italian than a Frenchman; short but strongly built,
he has a handsome head, with a deep brow, and a flowing black
beard, his bronzed features are set off by his white dress, which
is something between that of a Carmelite friar and a Kabyle burnous.
The second, Père Voisin by name, whom I had not met, is almost
a giant, over six feet in height, and fair; a true Norman, from
Calvados, a jolly, lively fellow, his face a picture of good nature,
and he speaks Kabyle with the ease of a native.
Père Gerboin teaches the elder boys; Père Voisin takes in hand
a class of quite little fellows. About thirty scholars attend
regularly, but the numbers are increasing.
The third, Père Mousallier, we had spoken to on our arrival; he
is called by the natives Père Baba. He was busy making up and
distributing medicines, for he said there was much disease and
sickness about—not to be wondered at, considering the lack of
doctors, and the hard life led by many of the people. He spends
a good deal of his time in gardening, but does not take part in
the teaching.
Our visit was but short, for we started on a walk of exploration,
first directing our steps towards the highest point, at the back
of the school-house, where there are two villages, separated by a
small open piece of flat land. These are named Ouarzin and Taourirt
en Taïdith, meaning the Ogre, and the Mount of the Dog. They are
of the usual quaint character, narrow alleys, running irregularly
up and down, innocent of paving, though rich in stones; in wet
weather almost impassably muddy. The stone walls of the houses,
on either side of these alleys, are only pierced here and there,
with the smallest of windows, and the entrances. The wooden doors
are often ornamented with rough notchings and carvings. In walking
through these villages, attention is chiefly occupied in looking
out for dogs, which are apt to come dashing out of the houses,
barking in a most vicious manner, looking very much as if they
would relish a piece out of one’s leg. Taourirt boasts of a Jamâ
or Mosque. Its tower crowns the highest point of the mountain,
and forms an effective feature in the landscape, though it is a
modest structure both in size and style; moreover, the building
is greatly out of repair and falling to pieces, being little used,
for the Kabyles are not a mosque-going people; in this, as in other
respects, their character presents a strong contrast to that of
the bigoted Arabs.
I once asked a Kabyle why their mosques were abandoned. He replied
that, before they were conquered by the French, they used to attend
them very regularly, and that if Allah had cared about their conduct,
and paid attention to it, He would not have allowed them to receive
the kicks and cuffs of a too hard fate, such as they had been subject
to ever since. This man was clearly of a practical bent of mind,
and his God was the God of Battles. This is a proof of ancient
and respectable theological views, that have the merit of being
intelligible; their scientific notions seem to be equally primitive.
On one occasion a group of Kabyles was standing round, when I
abruptly left off working, and began gathering my painting traps
together, for, said I, ‘I see the wind is blowing the clouds
in this direction, it will rain.’ ‘The wind does not push
the clouds,’ said one, ‘you can see them moving in different
directions at the same time.’ ‘But surely,’ said I, ‘you can
perceive any day that it is the wind that moves them.’ ‘Does the
wind move the sun?’ said he. ‘No, of course it doesn’t.’
‘God said to the sun, Move always in one direction, and to the
clouds He said, Move about as you please.’ ‘Is that not so?’
said he, appealing to his companions. They nodded gravely, and
clicked assent without speaking. This clicking with the tongue,
the same peculiar noise that a coachman makes to urge his horse,
is a habit with the Kabyles; it seems to be a sign of assent. For
instance, when painting, some men would come to see what I was
about. One would say, ‘See, he paints the cows!’—click! would
go all the others, like so many pistols being cocked. ‘See, he
paints the houses also!’—click! they went, all round again,
but no report followed—a feeble style of criticism.[1]
I have often noticed that in asking some simple question concerning
the weather—for instance, whether it was likely to turn fine, or
be wet—they seem to consider it presumptuous to hazard an opinion
on such a subject, that we should leave such matters alone, and not
think about them, they being no concern of ours, but God’s. Their
manner implies that we should bear ourselves with a composed spirit,
above a petty, fretful, unmanly prying into the works of the Lord. I
have immediately dropped my eyes from the clouds to the earth,
feeling quite abashed and inclined to say, ‘Bless my soul! why,
so it is, now you mention it, I will not meddle with the subject
any more, and never, oh, never look at telegrams in the “Times”
concerning the wind, whence it cometh or whither it goeth.’
Each village has usually three or four outlets, where there are
covered resting-places called Jamâs. These, like the houses, are of
rough blocks of stone, and have tiled roofs, they are thirty or forty
feet in length, and some twenty feet in breadth. The gangway passes
through the centre, and on each side are broad stone benches where
people can sit, or recline at ease in the cool shade. Men are always
to be found at these places, chatting, smoking, sleeping, or may be
stitching; for the men do all the tailoring, even to sewing together
lengths of cotton stuff, to make dresses for their wives; the women
weave but do not use the needle. These covered resting-places may
be considered as the centres of village politics, for every village
is divided into different parties, each anxious to elect the Amine
or chief, who has power to inflict fines up to a certain amount.
The word Jamâ, the Arabic for mosque, means simply the place of
assembly. Friday is el Jemāa, the day of assembly, the Mohamedan
Sunday. The Aïth Ménguellath market is called Souk-el-Jemāa,
Friday’s market. The native name for Fort National is l’Arba,
or the fourth day, a market being held there every Wednesday. Before
French rule, the duty of the Amine in times of peace was to maintain
the tribal laws, in times of war he commanded the fighting men,
but only to carry out some plan previously determined on by the
Jemāa. When schemes of war on an extensive scale had to be executed,
the Amines of a tribe chose a President, who commanded the united
tribal force. Communal laws were collected into a complete code,
called Kanoun; these varied in different tribes, but only on points
of detail. In certain cases when these laws were unable to deal
with new circumstances, the Jemāa was called together and a decree
elaborated. An account of the Kanoun is given by C. Devaux, also by
le Baron H. Aucapitaine (‘Etude sur le passé et l’avenir des
Kabyles’). The latter says: ‘The Kanouns, the repositories of the
laws and customs of the Kabyles, are interesting specimens of the
political constitution of the democratic Berbers. We have searched
history in vain for the origin of this democratic system, forming
to-day the base of Kabyle justice.’ Several writers have thought
that the word Kanoun is derived from the Greek word κανών,
an opinion justified, says Aucapitaine, by the name still given
to codes in vigour among the Greek Christians of Albania. Among
the Miridites, justice is still administered after the ‘Canounes
Sech’ preserved by tradition.
The village chief is still chosen by the majority of votes of the
heads of families met together in council. He is responsible to
the Kaïd, or President of the tribe, for the orderly conduct of
the village, and the President again is responsible to the Bureau
Arabe stationed at Fort National. The administration of the country
is on the point of being changed from the military to civilians,
a vexed question about which I have nothing to say. There is no
police of any sort among the tribes. On asking a native what happens
should a disturbance occur at night, or should a robbery take place,
he replied: ‘All the men in the neighbourhood turn out of their
houses to assist in quieting matters and in securing the suspected
party; the following day there is a general talk and investigation
into the matter before the Amine.’
At the season when the figs are ripening, men keep watch in their
fields by night. Constructions of cane in the trees, looking like
huge nests, are to be seen, where men at that season pass the night
guarding the fruit.
In some parts of the country daring robbers, over whom the Amine
has no control, invade the plantations—Barbary apes, which live
among the high cliffs.
There are no shops in the villages. Were a man to open one, I take
it the Kabyles are too suspicious of being overcharged to go in
and buy. All the business of the country is done at the markets,
where there is a lively competition and everything is open and
discussable. Husbands, when at work, have the satisfaction of knowing
that their wives cannot squander their money in riotous shopping;
at any rate, they like their system of doing things, and mean to
stick by it. Though the markets be distant, they like the walk
to them, the company, the talk by the way, the concourse of many
tribesmen, the news from distant quarters, the eager bargaining,
the comparing of notes, the greetings of friends, the disputes with
enemies. Is it not all lively and amusing? Above these merits in
my eyes, is it not extremely picturesque?
From the open bit of ground between the villages of Ouarzin and
Taourirt the view of the Jurjura is magnificent. With the early
morning sun behind, the rocks throw great blue shadows, and are
superb in colour, their formation is limestone, moulded in the
grandest forms, the loftiest peak is 7,542 feet. The village of
Taourirt is a trifle above the level of Fort National. Owing to
the absence of glacial action, the general character and form
of the highest mountains recurs in a curious way throughout the
country—more or less obliterated, however, by the action of
water. As some peal of thunder may re-echo until the softened
reverberations die in silence, so do the forms of the lofty
crags repeat, until with elegant lingering curves they finally
plant themselves with quiet precision upon the dead level of the
plain. On this open ground, just mentioned, are four or five mills
for crushing olives. These are very simple in construction. A
basin about twelve feet in diameter and three feet high is built
of masonry, into this the olives are poured. A heavy cross-beam
supported at its extremities by two others fixed vertically in
the ground, passes over the centre of the basin, and its object
is to keep the grindstone in its place, which is accomplished in
the following manner. The stone, in an upright position, works
like a wheel round a pole placed in the centre of the basin; this
pole revolves, turning in a socket at its lower extremity, and in
another above, attached to the overhanging beam. To the centre of
the grindstone a long handle is fixed, men and women, pushing and
pulling at this, run round and round the basin, and making the stone
roll in the trough, which is lined with flat slabs; it crushes the
olives which are placed in its way. It is about a foot in thickness,
with the edge slightly bevelled, to cause it to roll easily.
One of the mills had its stone dislodged and lying on its side. This,
of a reddish tinge tipped with bright light, looked like a mass of
porphyry against the amethyst colour of the mountain shadows.
When olives are plentiful the gathering lasts for several months,
beginning in October nor ending till February, and it is a charmingly
picturesque sight. Men standing round a tree beat down the fruit
with long wands, then they climb up to beat and shake the branches,
till all the berries have fallen. ‘As the shaking of an olive tree,
two or three berries in the top of the uppermost bough, four or five
in the outmost fruitful branches thereof,’ is a Biblical simile for
a small remnant. Upon a Greek vase in the British Museum, an olive
tree is depicted being stripped of its fruit in the manner described.
Meanwhile the women are busy, working side by side, picking up the
fallen fruit and putting it into baskets, which are emptied on to
cloths spread on the ground. At close of day the heaped berries
are poured into sacks, and carried up to the villages on mules.
The olive is the chief wealth of Kabylia; it grows in the greatest
luxuriance. The lower slopes of the mountains are covered with
it, and some miles distant from Borj Boghni, at the foot of the
Jurjura, there is an especially grand old forest. The berries
are left lying in a heap for some days, during which time they
undergo a certain amount of fermentation. They are next poured into
round shallow depressions in the ground, made in an exposed spot,
sometimes they are placed on the roofs of the houses. Here the sun
ripens and softens them to the uttermost, extracting by evaporation
water contained in them, and allowing the pulpy part to be easily
disengaged from the kernel. They now look all shiny with oil, are
of the deepest purple colour, and ready to be carried to the mill,
where they are crushed in the manner I have described:
Then olives, ground in mills, their fatness boast.
The oil is extracted from the mass by pressure. A square block of
masonry about a yard in height, contains a stone basin at the top
of it, and a hole at the bottom of the basin allows the oil running
out to be collected. Flat bags of alfa grass, filled with the crushed
olives, are piled in the basin, a heavy flat piece of wood placed on
the top, and pressure is brought to bear, by means of a wooden screw,
which passes through a strong cross-beam, supported by two stout
upright poles. The remains of the pressed mass are carried to some
stream, where holes about three feet deep are arranged so that water
from the stream can enter and afterwards be allowed to run off. When
the holes are filled, the remains of the olives are thrown in, the
women tuck up their dresses and jump in too, beating and knocking
the mass about, and the refuse dirty water is allowed to escape.
Soap is manufactured from the oily residue, by mixture with wood
ashes.
But to return from this digression. We went from Taourirt to Tamjoot,
about a mile distant and somewhat lower, on one of the arms of the
mountain. The rocky pathway passed through a little open cemetery,
where a beautiful group of cork and ash formed a leafy bower
above. In the background, the little village appeared perched on
a prominence, and the picture was completed by the magnificent
outline and precipices of the mountains.
[Illustration: GATHERING OLIVES.
Like some fair olive, by my careful hand
He grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xviii.]
We stood watching for some time groups of picturesque peasants
issuing from the shade, and making their way to the market below;
some, bearing goods done up in skins; some, earthenware pots netted
together with twisted grass cords; others driving sheep and goats,
asses and cattle. There is not much to be gained by entering the
villages; they look best from the outside, and Tamjoot was not
an exception to the rule. We halted at the Jamâ at the entrance,
and a friendly Kabyle brought us clotted sour milk and figs, with
which we refreshed ourselves. We returned by another path, overhung
the greater part of the way with ash; the land was well cultivated
with corn, and bore besides a profusion of fig-trees and evergreen
oak. On arrival at the tent, we were glad to find that Dominique had
not been inactive, and we did justice to his first ‘déjeuner.’
Each mountain has its tribe—Qabïla is the Arabic word for
tribe, Qabaïli, a tribesman—and the villages are all built on
the crests. The reason for this is apparent from a mere glance at
the country, the slopes are so extremely steep that there is no
other place where they could easily be built, and the gorges are
occupied only by the stony beds of torrents; the springs also are
found generally not far from the summits. Such situations have the
advantage of fine healthy air, free from fevers; and in unsettled
times, before the French introduced regular government, they no
doubt to a great extent afforded the inhabitants immunity from the
attacks of their neighbours.
From all accounts, in the good old days, the tribes were constantly
quarrelling, and thus found distraction from the monotony of a too
uneventful existence.
The area of country enclosed between the sea and the Jurjura,
is about 3,850 square miles. The number of armed men at the time
of the conquest, has been estimated at 95,000. Reckoning a little
less than three times as many women and children, gives a total of
350,000 souls, or the high rate of 90 per square mile.
No village shows any signs of fortifications, or preparations for
defence. The deep gulf fixed between the mountains, practically
keeps the different groups of villages far more separated from
each other than if they were built on islands. Before the French
occupation, the people used always to go about armed. C. Devaux,
a captain of Zouaves, has thus described a fight in the old times;
it is full of picturesque suggestion:—
‘In the case of a village not having a sufficient number
of fighting men to hold the field, when about to be attacked
by superior forces, the defenders hastened to arrange means of
resistance. Trenches were dug and mounds raised, according to the
position of the ground to be defended, the outlets of the streets
were closed by walls of piled stones, and at the moment of attack,
each man occupied the place assigned him.
‘The women, young and old, joined in the fray; in their gala
dresses, bedecked with their jewellery, and holding each other’s
hands, they chanted a war-song, and from time to time raised
thrilling cries to inflame the courage of the defenders. These songs,
these war-cries of the women, heard in the midst of the fusillade,
produce a most vivid effect. Having many times been called on to
conduct Kabyle contingents at the defence of a village menaced by the
enemy, I have felt, when I heard the exciting cries of the wives and
mothers, how greatly they touch the fighting fibre of the combatants.
‘Things are managed differently when the French attack; then the
women are sent into the mountains with the children and the flocks
and herds; for in case of the village being taken they would be made
prisoners, whilst between Kabyles the women were always released,
and in no instance was any insult offered them.’
I am afraid that when the French attacked, the women were not
always so comfortably sent out of the way as this officer describes,
and that they fared badly. One day an old soldier was abusing the
Kabyle women to me. ‘C’est incroyable,’ said he, ‘comment
sont méchantes les femmes Kabyles.’ I asked him to be kind
enough to descend from generalities to particulars. He thereupon
described an attack on a village, at which he had been present,
when the women had assisted the men in the defence. He told me
how, when the bullets were flying, he and a comrade had rushed
at the doorway of one of the houses; his friend, a few paces in
advance, killed a Kabyle just as he was levelling his gun to fire;
but vengeance was instant, there was the flash of a pistol, his
comrade fell dead; rushing on, he made a plunge with his bayonet,
and on withdrawing it, behold! he had run it through the body of the
Kabyle’s faithful wife. ‘Vous voyez, monsieur,’ he concluded,
‘comment sont méchantes les femmes Kabyles.’
The extreme timidity of the women to this day, running away, as
they often do, in the most idiotic manner on the first sight of
a European, arises of course from their fears at the time of the
war. It seems clear that in former times the fighting that occurred
among the Kabyles was, as a rule, of a much milder nature than a war
against an invader. They fought about points of honour, or personal
dignity. When a tribe thought itself insulted by another and sought
vengeance, it would send the young men to attack the flocks and
herds, the animals taken in a _coup de main_ were slaughtered and
the meat distributed among the tribe.
From that moment they made ready for war. Skirmishing would
begin; the marabouts, or priests, would then enter the field as
conciliators, but as they knew from experience that by reasoning
they would not succeed in extinguishing animosity, they tried to
calm matters by making conditions, such as, that they should not
fight at night, or that on such and such days fighting should be
suspended. However, if one of the parties was greatly irritated by
losses or insults, the voice of the marabouts was not listened to,
and matters often became very serious; they would attack day or night
at any hour, all communication was interrupted, they dug trenches,
houses were burned, trees cut down, and, in short, they did all the
harm they could. In the ordinary way the warriors of both sides
betook themselves to the spot set apart by custom for finishing
quarrels, and there fought in the manner of sharpshooters. Each
combatant sought to approach as near as possible, gliding from
bush to bush; and when within easy range, his gun resting on the
branch of a tree, or a stone, he would fire and then retire without
troubling to see if he had hit.
When two Kabyles fight without weapons, they claw like wild cats,
a disgusting way of fighting. Once during my stay in the tribe of
the Zouardia, two men, close to where I was painting, began to fight
about a boundary. A herdsman had driven his cows on to a pasture
which he believed to be communal property; another man, meeting him,
told him to walk off, because he himself only had a right over
the land, having rented it of the commune. They forthwith began
mauling and clawing at each other’s faces; matters were becoming
serious, and I had just sharpened my pencil to try and sketch them,
when a third party at work near, separated them; they calmed down
almost immediately, each rather pleased with himself at having shown
that he was game to fight. On coming up to me, I tried to explain
that in England men fought with the fist; thereupon they grinned
good-naturedly. I have been shown an iron claw that is sometimes
worn on the hand when fighting, a very nasty and dangerous weapon,
answering to the American knuckleduster. The wagmuck, an iron claw
fixed upon the hand, is an historical weapon of the Deccan. Sivajee,
the founder of the Maharatta Empire, murdered Afzul Khan with it—an
incident introduced by Colonel Meadows Taylor into his novel of Tara.
So on the confines of adjoining grounds,
Two stubborn swains, with blows, dispute their bounds;
They tug, they sweat: but neither gain, nor yield
One foot, one inch, of the contended field.
All the world has heard of the fighting qualities of the Kabyles
under the name of Turcos. I have often talked with natives who
took part in the Franco-German war, who have recounted to me their
experiences of Sedan, their long journey into Germany, and how they
nearly died of cold.
Though each mountain extends over a large area, the summit is very
limited; this is especially the case in the tribe of the Aïth
Ménguellath. In the afternoon we took a walk of exploration down
the backbone of our mountain, we had gone but a few minutes, when
we faced an eminence covered with clustered houses, and a short
distance beyond was a second village-crowned knoll. A curious effect
was caused by the shadows of trees cast in straight lines downwards
upon the corn-covered slope, looking like reflections in a liquid
sea of green, the extraordinary freshness of the colouring was
heightened by the deep blue ranges beyond. Farther, we came upon
an open space covered with tombs and evergreens.
At one end of this cemetery was a little white Kouba, or chapel,
built over the tomb of a celebrated marabout, with coloured tiles
round the doorway. It was shaded by a group of oaks, while on one
side we caught a peep of the village set on the hill; one of these
trees, which overhangs the path, has a quantity of little dirty
bits of rag tied to the branches by women. It is not uncommon to
come across some insignificant-looking bush covered with tatters;
sometimes alongside is a niche made for a lamp, where simple
offerings, such as a few handfuls of figs, are left. Certainly
the bits of rag cannot be called offerings; they are left in
recognition of the holy man buried there, equivalent to leaving
a card in passing, an act at which no offence can possibly be
taken, and which perchance may be regarded by the deceased as a
pleasing attention. Hard by lives a marabout known to the people
as Uncle Zaïd, an old man who looks after the chapel, and does a
great deal of praying. We now found ourselves upon a grassy space,
where shepherds pasturing their flocks were sitting under the shade
of ilexes. Before us rose a steep ascent, crowded with a mass of
lichened tombstones, of a beautiful warm grey; and growing among them
were ilexes, corks, and figs trained into leafy canopies above the
graves, and pomegranates crimson with budding leaves. The hill was
crowned by Thililit. Skirting the cemetery was a path among rocks, up
and down which charming groups of women and girls, with pitchers on
their heads, passed to and fro from the fountain; unfortunately they
were timid as deer, and on seeing us, fled in a scared way behind
the shelter of trees, from which they peeped out spying, till we had
passed. We walked through Thililit, and the path continued with equal
interest beyond. Passing a little plateau, we arrived at the second
village, that we had seen at a distance appearing above the first;
this was Aourir-Amer-ou-Zaïd. The ridge continued in a straight
line half a mile further, and led to Iril Boghni, but we postponed
a visit thither. We felt that another walk in this direction was
imperative, if it were only for a chance of catching sight of a
girl who was talking merrily with her neighbours at the door of her
house in the village of Amer-ou-Zaïd. She certainly was the most
beautiful girl we met in the country, rich-complexioned, dark-eyed,
with handsome features, and a supple graceful figure. Alas! we never
saw her again. ‘O maiden with delicate features, thou resemblest
Stamboul, for thou hast many admirers.’
[Illustration: MEETING.
The season now for calm, familiar talk,
Like youths and maidens in an evening walk.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxii.]
[Illustration]