The City of El Djezair 3
CHAPTER II
The Country-Side 17
CHAPTER III
The Gates of the Desert 37
CHAPTER IV
The Queen of the Desert 57
CHAPTER V
Life on an Oasis 71
CHAPTER VI
Timgad 93
CHAPTER VII
Constantine 107
CHAPTER VIII
On the Way to Tunis 119
CHAPTER IX
Tunis 139
CHAPTER X
Life in Tunis 159
CHAPTER XI
Carthage 179
CHAPTER XII
Sousse and El Djem 193
CHAPTER XIII
The Sacred City 207
INDEX 227
List of Illustrations
1. Mosque of Sidi Ben Ziad, Tunis—the Auction Day _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. The Penon, Algiers 4
3. An Old Street, Algiers 6
4. The Carpet School, Algiers 8
5. Mosque of Sidi Abder Rahman, Algiers 10
6. The Leopard Door, Algiers 12
7. Algiers from the Jardin d’Essai 16
8. View from Mustapha, Algiers 18
9. On my Balcony, Algiers 20
10. Bougainvillæa, Algiers 22
11. The Garden Court of an Old Moorish Villa, Algiers 24
12. Friday at the Cemetery, Algiers 26
13. Koubba of Sidi Noumann, Bouzareah 28
14. Stone Pines, Algiers 30
15. The Red Aloes 32
16. The Gates of the Desert 38
17. Spinning 42
18. The Red Village, El Kantara 46
19. On the Edge of the Desert 48
20. Carding Wool 50
21. In the heart of an Oasis 52
22. In the Market-Place, Biskra 58
23. Evening on the Sahara 60
24. Sunset 62
25. The Fruit Market, Biskra 64
26. The Story-Teller 66
27. A Village Street, Biskra 70
28. A River of the Sahara 74
29. A Biskra Woman 76
30. A Nomad Camp 78
31. A Caravan on the Sahara 80
32. The Begging Marabout 82
33. The Palm Village 84
34. A Mozabite Fantasia 86
35. Street of the Dancing Girls, Biskra 88
36. The Arch of Trajan, Timgad 96
37. The Forum, Timgad 100
38. Market Day, Timgad 102
39. Gorge of the Roumel, Constantine 108
40. A Game of Draughts 112
41. The Silent Waterfall, Hammam Meskoutine 120
42. The Arab Wedding, Hammam Meskoutine 122
43. Temple of Celestis, Dougga 132
44. Tunis 140
45. Souk des Etoffes, Tunis 144
46. Souk el Attarin, Tunis 148
47. Souk el Trouk, Tunis 150
48. Souk el Belat, Tunis 152
49. Tunis from the Belvedere 158
50. A Street of Arches, Tunis 160
51. The Zaouïa of the Rue Tourbet el Bey, Tunis 164
52. Souk el Hout, Tunis 166
53. Rue Tourbet el Bey, Tunis 168
54. Rag Fair 170
55. The Fritter Shop, Tunis 172
56. Unlading Wood 174
57. The Ancient Ports of Carthage 180
58. The Old Punic Cisterns, Carthage 182
59. The Carthage Aqueduct 184
60. The Site of Carthage from Sidi Bou Saïd 188
61. Sousse 194
62. The Basket-Makers, Sousse 196
63. The Roman Amphitheatre, El Djem 200
64. Evening, Kairouan 206
65. La Grande Rue, Kairouan 210
66. Carpet-Making 212
67. Mosque of Sidi Okba, Kairouan 214
68. Moorish Gateway, Kairouan 218
69. The Mosque of the Three Doors, Kairouan 220
70. A Desert Afterglow 224
_Map at end of Volume._
_The Illustrations in this volume have been engraved and printed in
England by The Hentschel Colourtype, Limited._
ALGERIA AND TUNIS
CHAPTER I
THE CITY OF EL DJEZAIR
Algiers is such a city of contrasts, of dark memories and present
prosperity, of Christian slavery and Christian rule, brilliant sun and
tropical rain, of wide modern streets and networks of narrow alleys,
with the slow dignity of movement of the old race and the rapid vivacity
of their new rulers, that it makes all the difference in the world in
what spirit and at what moment you arrive. At times the city is all
sunshine, “a diamond in an emerald frame,” as the Arabs call it; at
others only a dim outline is visible blotted out by the tropical rain.
When first we saw Algiers, after a dreamy, peaceful voyage from
Gibraltar, the city was in its most brilliant mood. Having started in
glorious spring weather, we watched the Sierra Nevada actually
fulfilling all childish dreams of snow mountains, seemingly suspended in
the soft cloudy distance with a suggestion of a double horizon, which
some people called a mirage. Blue sky, bluer sea, still and
calm,—nothing discordant but the notes of the bugle-calls to meals. By
nightfall the mountains had faded away, and all we saw was a long line
of blue African coast, mysterious and dim. But in the morning there was
excitement and bustle enough, the bugles beginning at dawn—a lovely dawn
and sunrise. Then the joy of coming into harbour and seeing the white
terraces of the town gleaming in the sunshine. General impression all
charm, brightness, and colour. The next time we felt the full force of
contrast. Grey drizzling weather at Marseilles, a rolling sea, cold
winds and general depression as the keynote of the voyage, to be
followed by a late landing on a winter evening, the bright green of the
hills dim with rain, the houses looking as grey and chill as ourselves
standing forlornly under umbrellas on dripping decks, and almost wet
through in the short run from the steamer to a carriage; for a downpour
in Algiers is a downpour, just as sunshine is really sunshine, and not
the faint flickering of light and shade we sometimes mistake for it at
home. So that we could fully sympathise with our fellow-travellers’
distress, whilst remembering the loveliness we knew might return at any
moment. In any case landing is rather a disappointment, because the
first impression is so entirely French, with scarcely a touch of the
East. The harbour, quay, and houses behind are all modern, and might
belong to any city of southern France; the only difference at first is
the sight of the boys, with their smiling faces and queer clothes, who
fight for the privilege of carrying the luggage—such nondescript
clothes, half European, half Eastern. Old coats, old boots, the coats
generally too small, the boots too large, worn with a variety of Eastern
garments and nearly always with a scarlet Manchester handkerchief wound
round their heads.
[Illustration: THE PENON, ALGIERS]
Driving through the town, the French touch dominates everywhere—very
wide streets, high houses, electric trams, motor cars, shops all
entirely European; and then, as Mustapha is reached, the white houses,
the gardens, even the view over the Bay to the mountains beyond, suggest
Italy, the Bay of Naples, not the home of those dreaded pirates who so
recently held their reign of terror here. In fact, those who like to do
so might imagine they had never left the Riviera. But for those who love
exploring strange scenes, there is a great deal more than this: for
behind those tiresome modern houses the Arab quarter lies hidden, little
altered and yet fast disappearing. The winding Rue de Rovigo cuts
through it again and again on its way from the harbour to the Casbah,
and yet it is still quite easy to get lost in the mazes of the narrow
streets. In old times, when the Dey still ruled and the walls ran
triangular fashion from the broad base of the harbour to the great
fortress, or Casbah, at the top of the hill, the city must have been
charming to look at, however terrible to live in. Now it is possible to
go safely into even the darkest and remotest corners—and they are dark
indeed. A first visit leaves one breathless but delighted. Breathless,
because all the streets are staircases on a more or less imposing scale;
the longest is said to have at least 500 steps; delighted, because at
every turn there is sure to be something unusual to a stranger’s eye.
The newer stairs are wide and straight and very uninteresting. But only
turn into any old street and follow its windings, in and out between
white walls, under arches through gloomy passages, here a few stairs,
there a gentle incline always up, and always the cool deep shade leading
to the bright blue of the sky above. Being so narrow and so steep, there
are of course no camels and no carts. Donkeys do all the work, and trot
up and down with the strangest loads, though porters carry furniture and
most of the biggest things. Up and down these streets comes an endless
variety of figures—town and country Arabs, Spahis in their gay uniforms,
French soldiers, Italian workmen, children in vivid colours, Jewesses
with heads and chins swathed in dark wrappings, and interesting beyond
all these the Arab women flitting like ghosts from one shadowy corner to
another, the folds of their haïcks concealing all the glories of their
indoor dress, so that in the street the only sign of riches lies in the
daintiness of the French shoes, and the fact that the haïck is pure
silk, and the little veil over the face of a finer material, as the
enormous Turkish trousers are all alike and of cotton. Still, it is
hardly a satisfactory crowd from a picturesque standpoint, as everything
seems so mixed up, and so many of the people do not even appear to know
themselves what their nationality is, or their dress should be. Bazaars
there are none, only the usual Eastern-looking little shops, and the
Moorish cafés crowded with men drinking their tiny cups of coffee and
smoking cigarettes.
[Illustration: AN OLD STREET, ALGIERS]
The architectural peculiarity of Algiers is the curious arrangement of
poles, all supposed to be of cedar wood, supporting the upper stories of
the houses, which are built to project over and shade the lower, and
nearly meeting overhead. Occasionally a fine gateway, rarely a
decorative window, breaks the white surface of the walls, which are
whitewashed and rewhitewashed continually. Generally the outer windows
are mere holes, and the doors are hidden in the darkest corners. To the
uninitiated nothing suggests riches or poverty; the walls are like
masks. But once inside and through the dark entrance corridor, some of
the houses are most beautiful. They are much alike, with their
cloistered courts, with delicate, twisted columns and fine capitals. The
reception-rooms have wide openings into the court, so that the cool
fountain, and the flowers and trees, if there are any, may be enjoyed.
The upper rooms open in a similar fashion upon a wooden balcony,
generally beautiful with carving. The court and all the rooms are
decorated with tiles of old designs, very rich and soft in colour, and
many of the rooms have stucco work in the style of the Alhambra, only
rougher and coarser in handling. Such houses or palaces or fragments of
them are numerous. The Archbishop’s Palace, the Governor’s Palace, the
old library, and the curiosity shops are the best known.
Even some of the schools are in fine old houses. The embroidery school
was the prettiest, and was a charming sight with the court full of tiny
children sitting on the matting and bending over their low embroidery
frames—beautiful embroideries hanging over the balcony; and if one chose
to climb up to the roof, a fine view of old Algiers, its roofs and
terraces. Now the school has moved to larger quarters—another old house,
pretty also, but not so interesting. The carpet school is most
picturesque: there is a big doorway and the usual dark passage, then the
door opens into the court, which is quite a small one with very strong
light and shade. Between the pillars all round stand the big looms, and
on low benches in front sit the little girls at work. The floor of the
court is marble, the pillars are very curiously cut in varying designs,
and are all coloured a rich yellowish orange. The balcony of the upper
story has some good carved work, but very little of it is visible owing
to the carpets of every tone and tint which hang over it. There are
carpets on the floor, carpets in rolls, carpets and children everywhere;
for upstairs also are more looms, and everywhere little workers, mostly
girls, with here and there a very small boy—odd little things, with
their long full Turkish trousers, white or in bright colours, their
loose jackets, also mostly white, and their little heads veiled in white
or else bound round with the gayest of handkerchiefs. The effect is
often spoilt by common European blouses and quite hideous check shawls.
Carpet-making looks easy enough, and the children seem to enjoy
threading the bright wool through the web and tying the knots; for a
little while that is, then like a little flight of butterflies they all
come in a whirl to see what the stranger is doing in the dark inner
room. This was alarming at first, as many are the stories of sketches
destroyed and artists tormented by the irate victims of their brushes,
and these innocent-looking little people, with their sweet smiles and
pretty ways, were said to be most troublesome. But either they did not
understand or they liked to be painted, for the smiles never died away
till the mistress ordered them back to work, though for a few minutes
one little maid propped up her pattern so as to hide her face. However,
she soon forgot and things went on as before.
[Illustration: THE CARPET SCHOOL, ALGIERS]
This was not always the case, for in the garden of one of the mosques
the small boys climbed a tree and threw stones at the drawings, because,
as they excitedly explained, “The Mosque belongs to us, and no stranger
has any business even to look at it.” This is rather a hard saying, as
the tomb-mosque in question—that of the Saint called Sidi Mohammed Abder
Rahman-el-Telebi—is decidedly attractive to the poor despised foreigner.
To reach it there is a good climb up many steps through the old town to
a bare and dusty spot on one of the new roads—a most unpromising road to
look at if it were not for a glimpse of blue over the roofs below. Until
last year there was only a plain white wall and then a gateway, and
outside the gateway, squatting in the dust, a sad company all sick or
infirm, and all beggars striving and struggling for compassion and _un
petit sou_. Now the gateway is dwarfed and hidden by the domes of the
new schools of the mosque, white with an absolutely blinding whiteness,
making the importunity of the beggars seem less annoying than this
aggressive newness. From the gateway a narrow staircase descends towards
the sea, and at the first white domed tomb there is a turn, a door is
pushed open, and a strange little burying-place is seen, with many
sacred tombs, the most important of which is decorated with tiles and a
projecting roof. Many of the smaller tombs are covered completely with
tiles, mostly green and blue. There are also bands of old faience round
the minaret, which is a very graceful one, having three tiers of slender
colonnades running round it. A little grass, a few trees, a great
cypress, a budding fig-tree, and the Arab women moving softly, for this
is one of their favourite places of prayer, complete the picture. The
mosque itself is small, the tomb seen dimly in the darkness, which gives
a mystery and charm to the abundance of queer things hanging as votive
offerings, and to the rich colours of the tiles and the carpets. It is
not an important mosque, but it is a place full of character and
attraction, partly from its situation and partly from the irregularity
and strangeness of the buildings. The other mosques have none of this
undefined charm, being simply large, bare, whitewashed buildings, with,
in the case of the great mosque, some fine old columns and a very pretty
fountain in the court with a tree shadowing it, and bright tiles as
decoration. There is also a tiny mosque in the old town, which is always
full of women praying for babies. It is the tomb of another saint, and
so small that the best way to see it is to stoop and look in through a
window and watch the women, who are not so absorbed in prayer as to
prevent their smiling and returning the gaze with interest.
[Illustration: MOSQUE OF SIDI ABDER RAHMAN, ALGIERS]
For the rest, there is a sad feeling that most of the Oriental life is
dying slowly out, that the quaintness is disappearing, and that the
tendency is greater here than elsewhere to cover over and hide the old
life and manners with a sort of cloak of modern civilisation. It is even
said that all the better-class Arabs have already emigrated to Tunis,
Egypt, or Constantinople. The walls have gone, the gates also. Nothing
now is left but the great fortress itself upon the highest point of the
city, now used for barracks, a few fragments of the walls, and most
beautiful of all, the old harbour. It is almost impossible to believe
that such a small harbour ever sheltered so strong a pirate fleet that
it could ravage the coasts of Corsica, Sardinia, Sicily, the ports of
Italy and Spain, and even penetrate as far as England. Although Mr.
Eaton, an American Consul who was sent with arrears of tribute (four
vessels) due from the United States in 1798, did say, “Can any man
believe that this elevated brute has seven kings of Europe, two
Republics, and a Continent tributary to him, when his whole naval force
is not equal to two line of battleships?” Yet these Barbary pirates
literally spread terror around from their earliest beginnings in 1390
down to the time when Lord Exmouth brought the Dey to reason by
bombarding Algiers in 1816 and freeing the slaves. But that was only a
temporary improvement, and the bad state of affairs only came to an end
with the French occupation in 1830. The whole history of the Barbary
State is very sad and humiliating reading, with its accounts of the
bargaining of the various Powers for the release of the Christian
slaves, of whom there were often as many as twenty thousand to thirty
thousand in Algiers itself. Now the harbour is full of innocent-looking
coasting craft with lateen sails, many pleasure-boats and yachts, and a
few torpedo boats. The serious business of shipping goes on in the outer
harbour, which is full of steamers and merchantmen, whose dark hulls and
smoking funnels form another striking but not attractive contrast.
[Illustration: THE LEOPARD DOOR, ALGIERS]
The beautiful Moorish tower called the Penon, and now used as a
lighthouse, was built in 1544 on the site of the old Spanish fort, and
rises from the midst of a group of old buildings, with here and there a
fine bit of Moorish work amongst them, though, as they are used by the
Admiralty, there is much that is modern and business-like as well. In
the wall is a characteristic fountain; a flat surface decorated with
inscriptions in Arabic and carvings in marble in very slight relief,
with a simple spout for the water. Farther on, rather hidden up in a
corner under an arch, is the famous Tiger or Leopard gateway—a very
curious bit of work, the chief peculiarity of which is that these two
odd heraldic animals guarding a shield are supposed to be of Arab
workmanship. Now, as it is strictly forbidden by their religion to make
images of living moving things, a legend has been invented to the effect
that the decoration was done by a Persian slave, and that his masters
found it so surpassingly beautiful that they had not the heart to
destroy it. However, it really looks much more like Spanish work done
during their occupation of the place, and though quaint, decorative, and
rather unusual, is not really beautiful at all. These and many more are
the old-world nooks and corners in the city which the modern builder has
not yet overthrown, and where it is quite easy for a few moments to
dream oneself back into the old life, though the dreams generally end in
a sudden shock—the noise of an electric tram, the hooting of a motor, a
cyclist’s bell, or the appearance of some thoroughly Western figure who
could never have had any sympathy with the Arabian Nights.
[Illustration: ALGIERS FROM THE JARDIN D’ESSAI]