built all at one time, but grew, like a Gothic cathedral, under the
hands of different monarchs and dynasties. These dynasties of Tlemçen
were continually changing; their outlandish names cumber the
guide-books, but they have less interest for us than the vicissitudes of
the Guelphs and Ghibellines. The first stone of the mosque was laid in
the year 530 (you must add 605 to bring it to the Christian era), as a
contemporary inscription obligingly records. The minaret was built by
Yar’morasen, the great Berber monarch who raised Tlemçen to its pitch of
power in the thirteenth century; and in the fourteenth various auxiliary
buildings, including a hospital for the aged and incurable, were added.
The interior of the mosque is impressive, with its forest of pillars—
there are seventy-two in all—and its dim religious light. The mihrab,
the holy of holies, the shrine which looks towards Mecca, is finely
decorated with leaves of acanthus and Arabic inscriptions. The large
court is charming; it is surrounded by arcades, and two basins of
running water provide for the ablutions of the faithful. The material of
the whole was originally onyx, and much remains. It is truly a noble
building, and it has escaped any serious restoration.
Unhappily the same cannot be said of the neighbouring mosque, known as
the Mosque of Aboul Hassan, an eminent lawyer and saint; a combination
which seems unusual. On this delightful little building the hand of the
restorer has lain heavy. He has seen fit to plaster it with modern
tiles, suggestive of the bath-room; and in order to throw more light
into the building, which is now used as a museum, has made several
openings in the walls. It is poor comfort to find in a distant land that
we English have no monopoly of ecclesiastical vulgarity; even our church
restorers could hardly have done worse than this. It is not easy to
formulate the ethics of restoration; the right course can only result
from intelligent and instructed effort,—but this may be said of almost
everything. The ignorance and indiscretion of those who add poor modern
ornament to a grand old building passes understanding. It happens that
this little mosque, charming otherwise within and without, enshrines a
masterpiece, its mihrab. The mosque was erected in A.D. 1298, according
to an inscription on one of its arches, and presumably the interior
decoration is of the same date. The dates of the world’s few
masterpieces are important. The decoration of the mihrab is executed in
plaster. I am not competent to describe its details; they follow the
conventional scheme of leaves and scrolls, but with quite unusual
refinement. This mihrab has been highly praised; but no praise can be
too high for it. It has been described as the finest example of
Mohammedan art in existence; it is very likely that it is. An eye that
has enjoyed any training will see at a glance that it is on a par with
the greatest decorative works of man; it exhibits all the
characteristics of the finest periods, especially the combination of
exuberant fancy with dominating restraint. Its exquisite delicacy and
its small size give emphasis to its unique distinction. I cannot refrain
from quoting a French writer who fitly appreciates its qualities: “Cette
décoration est le comble de la richesse et du goût ornamental. Elle
réunit en effet les qualités les plus diverses; homogénéité de
l’ensemble, variété infinie du détail, netteté et fantaisie, largeur et
minutie dans l’exécution. Elle est empreinte d’une sorte d’_atticisme_
oriental, d’une beauté atteinte sans efforts et naturellement. Capter la
lumière sans grands reliefs, l’emprisonner dans les réticules d’une
ténuité extrême, la forcer de se jouer dans ses méandres idéalement
fins, donner à des murailles toutes unies un vêtement de dentelles; un
encadrement de rubans historiés qui les aggrandit et les rend pour ainsi
dire immatérielles; entraîner le regard et l’éblouir par la
complication, le rassurer par l’ordre et la paix, voilà le problème que
d’obscurs ouvriers out résolu à la fin du treizième siècle de notre
ère.”[5]
Footnote 5:
Ary Renan, “Paysages historiques.”
Another pleasant little mosque, that of Sidi-el-Haloui, lies outside the
walls in a squalid native suburb, which is nevertheless a better frame
for it than the banal French houses of the town itself. It has a very
fine portal and a pleasant court. It commemorates a very extraordinary
character, who from being Cadi of Seville became in disguise a
confectioner at Tlemçen. He was put to death apparently for spreading
seditious doctrines, but his ghost having given some trouble he was
canonized.
It is said that Tlemçen was built on the site of a Roman camp called
Pomaria. The name happily expresses the abundance of orchards by which
it is surrounded. In February only a few almond trees are in blossom,
but the ground is beginning to put forth its wild flowers. A diminutive
iris is everywhere, and gives a blue tinge to the wayside, as the
bluebells to an English copse. In April, when the trees are bursting
into leaf and the whole country-side is full of flowers, Tlemçen must be
set in a very bower of delight. And it is in the environs that the most
interesting, picturesque and romantic of its antiquities are to be
found.
[Illustration: THE WALLS OF MANSOURA]
Just outside the Fez gate of the city lies a great artificial basin or
reservoir, now dry, which is said to have been constructed by a king of
the fourteenth century to give his wife the pleasure of witnessing
miniature sea-fights. It is related that Barbarossa drowned in it the
descendants of the ancient kings whom he found at Tlemçen, and watched
their struggles with glee. A short distance further on is an arch,
ruthlessly restored, which was part of the wall of circumvallation built
around Tlemçen by Abou Yakoub, Sultan of Fez, who besieged it from 1299
to 1307 A.D. A little further on are the extremely picturesque walls of
Mansoura, the city which during the siege he built for himself. The
story of this siege and of the building of Mansoura is very curious. It
is told at length by the Arab chroniclers. Perhaps the following
abbreviation of their account will suffice.
And it came to pass in the reign of Othman, King of Tlemçen, that Abou
Yakoub, King of Fez, gathered all his host together and went up and
besieged Tlemçen seven years. And he built towers against it round
about, and a wall so strong that the people said one to another that not
even a spirit might pass through from within to without the city. And
forasmuch as the city was not yielded unto him, but held out against him
for seven years, did Yakoub the King of Fez set up for himself in the
camping-place of his host a great palace wherein to dwell; and all about
the camp he built a great wall with towers so that he made of it a
fenced city, and within he built palaces for his wise men and his mighty
men of war, and great houses, and fair gardens wherein were streams of
water running continually. And he caused to be set apart also a
dwelling-place wherein might be tended they that were sick, for that he
was moved to compassion of their sickness; and to the strangers he gave
inns to lodge therein. Moreover he built a mighty temple with a tower of
exceeding height so that it might be seen in all the land; and he bowed
himself therein before his God upon the seventh day. And many merchants
of that country did gather themselves together in the town which Yakoub
the King had builded, and the kings of far countries sent unto him
ambassadors with gifts. And Yakoub called the town which he had builded
Mansoura, which being interpreted signifieth “The Victorious.”
And in the fifth year of the siege Othman, King of Tlemçen, was gathered
to his fathers, and his son Abou-Zeiyan reigned in his stead. And the
people of Tlemçen were in sore distress for that no food could be
brought into the city by reason of the wall which Yakoub the King had
builded round about it. So when the siege had continued for the space of
three years more, the King Abou-Zeiyan and Abou-Hammon, the King’s
brother, called unto them the captain to whom was given charge over the
stores of food in the city and said unto him, “How long may we feed the
people with the food which is left?” And he answered, “For the space of
three days.” And there came in unto the King Dâd, the servant of the
Queen-Mother. And Dâd said unto the King, “Let not, I pray you, the
princesses and the women of your house fall into the hands of our
enemies, but rather let them be put to death.” And Abou-Hammon, the
King’s brother, answered, “What Dâd hath spoken is good counsel.” But
the King said, “Nay, we have yet three days, perchance God will come to
our aid. And if it be so that we must deliver up the city, then we will
cause the Jews and the Christians to kill the princesses and the women
of our house, and we ourselves will sally forth and fall upon the host
of our enemies.” And the King wept. But lo, while they yet spake, a man
of the host of Yakoub the King lifted his hand against him and smote him
so that he died. And Yakoub the King’s brethren and his sons, and his
son’s sons strove among themselves who should be king in his stead. And
the son of one of his sons, who was called Abou-Thabet, obtained the
mastery over them. And Abou-Thabet made peace with Abou-Zeiyan, King of
Tlemçen, and led back his host to the country of Fez, whence it came.
And Tlemçen had peace thirty-three years.
So runs the tale of the Arab chroniclers, and the walls and towers of
Mansoura stand to-day in witness that they lied not. Their entrancing
story is full of the elements of Oriental romance:—the fairy city
springing into being almost in a night; the fearful proposal of the aged
servant that the women should be killed; the long years of the siege
reaching their tremendous climax in the assassination of the aggressor
at the very moment when the besieged were preparing to sell their lives
dearly; the struggle of the dead Sultan’s brothers and sons and
grandsons for the succession. Such a struggle is a commonplace of
Mohammedan politics; we have seen it in our own day in Afghanistan and
Morocco; we may see it in Turkey to-morrow. It may plunge the country
where it occurs in civil war, but in a South American republic even a
change of party groupings will do that. As a system it can claim some
merit in that it tends to place on the throne the strongest or the most
astute member of the royal house.
[Illustration: THE TOWER OF MANSOURA]
Of the dream city of Mansoura nothing remains but the square of the
ramparts enclosing a space of 250 acres, and the great minaret of the
mosque. The city itself was destroyed by the Tlemçenites after the
departure of the Moroccan army. The walls are about 40 feet high, and
the towers 120 feet apart. They are all built of concrete, and though
broken in places, are marvellously preserved. Weathered to a delightful
tint of rich brown, they contrast admirably with the sombre monotony of
the olive trees; and they lend to the pleasant mountain landscape a
unique spice of romance.
The minaret, of which the inner portion has fallen while the outer
remains standing, is a very noble tower, and the finest architectural
work of Moorish times in Algeria; it would be difficult to match it
anywhere. It stands about 130 feet high, and is built of hewn stone. Its
front was decorated with coloured tiles, of which many are left. Legends
have gathered round it. It is said that in his haste Abou Yakoub
employed not only Mohammedan but Jewish and Christian masons, and that
it is the work of the infidels which has fallen, while that of the
faithful survives. It seems to have been also a starting-place for an
early experiment in flying. A certain Jew imprisoned therein made
himself wings, and setting forth on the occasion of a great service,
fell lamentably at a spot called to this day “Le Col du Juif.” Such is
the fate of pioneers.
The status of Tlemçen as a holy city, which draws to itself pilgrims not
only from the countries of North Africa, but from the very confines of
the world of Islam, rests on its connection with the saint Sidi Bou
Medine. It has long ceased to be the capital of an African empire; it is
no more a university of Mohammedan learning; its very name is almost
unknown to the present generation of European men; but in the eyes of
the faithful it is ever honoured. It is a little difficult for an
unbeliever to comprehend what constitutes peculiar eminence in a
Mohammedan saint, and there is nothing in the recorded life of Bou
Medine to throw light on the question. It is related that he was born at
Seville in A.D. 1126, that he was an ascetic and a mystic, that he
travelled through various Mediterranean countries performing miracles,
preaching the vanity of earthly things, and emphasizing the beneficence
of God and the authority of his prophet. Accused of heresy by the
doctors of Tlemçen, he was summoned thither by the reigning monarch from
Bougie, then within the boundaries of the Tlemçenian Empire. His failing
strength sustained him almost to the city’s gates, when, looking up at
the little village of El-Eubbad, with its hanging woods beneath the
rugged cliff, and owning at last the charm of the world he had so
fiercely disdained, he breathed a wish to be buried in that lovely spot,
and expired. And there for seven centuries he has lain, and you may
stand beside his tomb, which is decked in the tinsel pomp of Mohammedan
finery and surrounded by the offerings of the faithful. It is approached
from a little court-yard, in which is an ancient alabaster well-head
curiously worn by the chain which draws the bucket.
The mosque which adjoins the tomb was raised shortly after the saint’s
death. It is of no great size, but both structurally and decoratively it
possesses a charm which is unique. The high portal is a blaze of tiles
in the finest style; tiles said to be partly of Moroccan, partly of
Spanish, origin; and the doors of cedar wood, covered with bronze,
ornamented with a design of arabesque interlacement, are incomparably
beautiful. It has been said that they are to Moorish art what the doors
of Ghiberti are to Italian; but in their decorative flatness—a quality
which becomes doors—they have a distinction which is their own. In the
whole realm of Moorish decoration I have seen nothing more charming. The
mosque itself does not belie the promise of its entrance. It follows the
usual plan, but on a very high level. Its plaster decorations, if
somewhat less fine than those of the mihrab of Bel Hassan, are in the
best style. The whole building is instinct with the charm of
unassailable fitness, and fills the mind with an ineffaceable impress of
beauty.
[Illustration: SIDI BOU MEDINE: THE BRONZE DOORS]
From these heights—mountainous and æsthetic—it will probably be the lot
of the traveller to descend by easy stages to the town of Oran, which,
as a commercial port, is the rival of Algiers. Unless he desires to do
deal in olive oil or esparto grass, or intends to become a shipper of
fine clarets and burgundies, it will not detain him long. Yet it is
pleasant for an hour or two to sit before one of its brilliant cafés and
survey the palpitating life of the streets. Oran is more than half
Spanish; it is historically almost wholly Spanish. To-day, if you
inquire of a stranger your way in French he will very likely reply by
asking if you have the Spanish, and if you have it not you must try
again. But the Spaniards, great builders in Europe and beyond the seas,
built little but fortifications on the African shore. Oran is frankly
modern and European in aspect; the most Oriental-looking building is the
railway-station. The French have built fortifications too; a picturesque
fort crowns a hill to the west, a thousand feet above the town; and
there is much show of strength below. And there is an important
garrison. Brilliant groups of officers frequent a café at the corner of
the Place d’Armes, and get through a most unconscionable amount of
hand-shaking. I notice that one of them, apparently a Siamese, who yet
sips his _sirop_ as to the manner born, is the object of much attention.
With the mass of the café’s frequenters the soldiers appear to have no
acquaintance. These men of business are Frenchmen in manner and speech,
but there is a prevalence of that Levantine air which pervades the
Mediterranean ports;—not quite Greek, not quite Jew, and yet not wholly
European.
If there is one institution more characteristically French than another,
it is the Café. And, further, it is an institution which no other
people, unless it speaks French, as do the Belgians, can reproduce.
France has set the mode to Europe for centuries, but it has reserved the
café. The other Latin nations are content with bastard imitations; the
northern peoples frankly own their failure. Who can conceive a café in
Hull or Aberdeen? Not more incongruous was the attempted battle of
flowers in a Lancashire town,—the mayor had visited Monte Carlo,—which
ended in the choockin’ o’ loomps o’ coal and the military being called
out. It is not a matter of climate; Brighton and Worthing have climatic
advantages over Boulogne and Dieppe. It is rather a matter of character.
The café depends for its existence on French moderation and French
civility, in the widest sense. The German in his beer-garden piles empty
glass on empty glass; the Englishman lolls at his reeking bar; only the
Frenchman can be trusted to sit at his will at his little marble table,
and contemplate his little drinks, and play his little games. He does
not exceed, he does not quarrel; if he did either, the café were
impossible. So is he a free man, while we for our sins must submit to
stringent regulations of police.
Oran’s fine old Spanish fort and the ancient walls still speak of the
Spanish dominion. It was a penal station to which convicts were sent,
and the governors were in the habit of putting their labour to some
useful purpose. An inscription records that the citadel was built at no
cost to his Catholic Majesty but for the timber and scaffolding. After
repeated struggles the town was surrendered to the Turks in 1791, a very
convenient arrangement, as things turned out, for the French, who
occupied it forty years later. And they have made it what it is. Yet
among the lower orders the Spanish element is perhaps still
preponderant. To paraphrase the words of a French writer[6]—"the
peasants of Valencia and Murcia have only a few hours of sea to cross,
and a bad season at home brings them in hundreds. If they find no work
in and around Oran as gardeners they betake themselves to the country,
and become field-labourers, or harvesters of esparto grass. Sober and
industrious, they are especially fitted to the conditions of cultivation
in Algeria, which without irrigation is unproductive. They have in their
veins the blood of those Moors who taught Spain to husband her waters.
Oran is for them almost their own country, the two sides of the
Mediterranean have identical characteristics; and in the smallest
villages of the province they find themselves at home among their own
people."
Footnote 6:
P. Bourde.
It is interesting to recall in this connection that the increase of
emigration from Spain generally is becoming a very serious matter. It
reaches the annual average of 200,000 persons, or considerably more than
one per cent of the total population. The late Government in 1907 dealt
with the matter, and appointed a Conseil Supérieur de l’Emigration,
which took the exceedingly futile course of endeavouring to check it by
police interference with persons arriving at a port to emigrate, the
arrest of emigration agents, and complicated regulations affecting
steamship companies, which it has been found impossible to carry out.
The chief effect has been to conceal a certain amount of emigration,
which doubtless exceeds the official figures. The present radical
Government, pledged to reform in every department of the national life,
is attempting to check unemployment and emigration by a scheme of
extensive public works. Meantime under French institutions, Spaniards
are living contentedly and prosperously in a country marked out by
nature for their occupation, which they were never able to secure for
themselves.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_VII—THE CITY OF PRECIPICES_
Road and rail to the eastward—Constantine—Its remarkable site—Its
chequered history—French Conquest—Roman remains—Fronto—The Mairie—
The road northward—The Aurès.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“A towered citadel a pendant rock.”
_Antony and Cleopatra._
If the traveller intends to journey from Algeria into Tunisia, he will
do well to visit Khabylia before he starts further east; if not he may
proceed first to Constantine, and motor through the mountain districts
from Sétif on his return. For the greater part of the way the great
trunk road and the railway from Algiers to Constantine take a similar
course; but towards the end they diverge, Constantine being situate
north of the main line from Algiers to Tunis, at a distance of twenty
miles from the junction of El-Guerrah, while the road passes through the
city. Hence it comes that the distance by road is 434 kilometres, by
rail 464. There are not many convenient stopping-places, perhaps Sétif
is the best.
By train you may make the journey either by night or by day; the latter
is preferable, as much of the scenery is beautiful and interesting.
Leaving Algiers the line crosses the Metidja, the great plain which
encircles the _Sahel_, the rocky promontory on which Algiers stands,
stretching on either side of it from sea to sea. At Ménerville it begins
to ascend, and shortly enters the Gorge of the Isser. The country here
is very picturesque; the river roars through a narrow cleft in the
rocks, Khabyle villages are perched on isolated points, and ruddy
mountains stand bare against the deep blue sky. Palestro, a little
further on, was the scene of a terrible and treacherous massacre in the
Khabyle insurrection of 1871. The European residents, numbering over a
hundred, were attacked in their residences. After a desperate resistance
about half surrendered on terms, but were immediately killed. The
remainder held out longer but about forty survivors, including
thirty-two women and children, were ultimately captured and kept
prisoners till the revolt was crushed.
Further on the line runs under the southern slope of the snowy Djurjura
range, which is such a prominent object from Algiers. The view of the
mountains is very fine. All the time the line is ascending, as it
continues to do as far as Sétif, 200 miles from Algiers, and 3573 feet
above the sea. Here we are in the centre of a vast corn-growing
district, once the granary of Rome. The country-side is full of Roman
remains, of towns and country-houses and farms. At this altitude the
climate, if hotter in summer, resembles that of Central France. The
landscape is very bare,—a vast sea of corn, without a tree to break its
monotony. To the east of Sétif the plain begins to slope downwards; the
railway diverges to the south, but the road enters the valley of the
Roumel, the river which forms the moat of the rock-girt city of
Constantine.
[Illustration: CONSTANTINE]
Constantine occupies one of those positions of natural strength which
from the earliest times man has seized upon as a habitation secure from
the attack of his fellow-man. It is too much to suppose that its beauty
had any force in such a selection. Yet it combines picturesqueness and
grandeur with strength to a remarkable degree. A circular chasm or
ravine, nearly 1000 feet deep, and sometimes not more than 200 feet
wide, creates a plateau which is in fact a peninsula of rock, only
united to the mainland by an isthmus on the west side. Through the abyss
roars the river Roumel. The plateau is not circular, but in the form of
an irregular square, with sharp angles,—a formation which greatly
increases the majesty of its effect. The length of the sides averages
about 1000 yards. In this confined space are crowded together the
habitations of men,—the European quarter, the Arab quarter, and the
Jewish quarter,—the public buildings incident to an important town, and
considerable barracks and fortifications.