Algeria and Tunis

Long draperies and floating folds may outshine the Turkish dress of embroidered coat and vest, gay girdle, and full, short trousers, supplemented by a cloak, but it is equally popular. The same costume, without the coat, in white or drab, is worn by pedlars and fruit-sellers. Their legs are bare and their feet slippered; socks and shoes are pure luxury. These fruit-sellers are a joy. They own tiny donkeys, and lade them with huge open panniers of sacking, or queer double twin-baskets, lined with green, and filled with oranges in winter, and by the end of April with apricots or almonds. Fruit is both plentiful, cheap, and varied. The province was once the Roman granary, and could still do much for Europe in the way of luxuries, as well as send over great supplies of corn and olives.

The cook-shops have also fascinations. They are all dim and dark, mysterious with the smoke of ages and the steam of the moment. Dim figures flit busily to and fro, stirring strange ingredients in huge pans over their charcoal fires. Coloured tiles give relief and gaiety to the entrance, cover the stoves, and form a sort of counter. In early morning the maker of pancakes has it all his own way; at dinner-time he of the cous-couss does a thriving trade, and at night, and all night through, it is said there is a great sale for a special kind of peppery soup.

The walls and gates on this the southern side of Tunis are of great antiquity, and consist not only of the original walls of the old town, but also of an outer circle with five gates enclosing the suburb of El Djazira. Within its boundaries are held horse and cattle markets, which no doubt account for the variety of tribes and costumes to be seen.

Through the outer gate come caravans from the desert, and camels laden with fodder and fuel. Men and camels find a lodging in the many fonduks near the Bab el Fellah—resting-places as primitive and patriarchal as the caravans themselves.

From the hilltop outside the walls is a superb outlook over the city, and also across the salt lake to the mountain of Zaghouan, though for pure charm it is outdone by the view from the park-like grounds of the Belvedere, some distance out of town through the curious double gate of El Khadra.

Only a few years ago the barren hillside was skilfully laid out and planted with trees, and already the ground is carpeted with wild flowers, and the eucalyptus has reached a respectable height. The delicate grace of the pepper trees and the silvery grey of the olive mingle with masses of mimosa and acacia, Judas trees, and many flowering shrubs, to give their own brightness, and fill the air with perfume. So once more the country has a chance of returning to its earlier aspect before the Arabs cut down forests and olive groves for firewood, after their usual extravagant custom.

It is a pleasant place truly in spring and in summer, and the nearest refuge from the heat. Here many jaded Tunisians linger in the comparative freshness till long after midnight, though, being French, they must needs have a theatre and casino to amuse them. They have also transplanted and restored two Moorish pavilions that were falling into ruins, owing to the curious local custom by which no Bey, or exceptionally rich man, may dwell in the same house in which his predecessor died, but has to abandon it entirely. Probably a survival of ancestor worship.

Whether the Arabs appreciate the ever-changing beauty of their country or no, their descriptions never vary. Tunis incontestibly merits the title of the “white” as it stretches across the isthmus dividing the stagnant lake of El Bahira from the salt lake, Sedjoumi. It certainly might be “a diamond in an emerald frame,” though a pearl would express the white wonder amongst the green with more precision. As for the familiar “burnous with the Casbah as the hood,” surely they might have invented a new simile, though it is apt enough.

The forts on the hills are no concern of theirs, for, like the aqueduct in the plain, they are picturesque legacies of Charles V. The harbour full of shipping is a thing of to-day, and so is the modern town. La Goulette (Halk el Oued, or the throat of the canal), glittering at the further side of the lake, is of yesterday; its importance gone with the new canal, but its Venetian charm happily undimmed. Carthage and La Marsa, a third lake towards Utica, El Ariana, the village of roses, the holiday resort of the Jews, are all visible from the gardens, the whole held tenderly in wide-reaching embrace by the mountains and the sea.

The new town, which starts from the Porte de France in such imposing fashion, a wide, straight avenue bordered by flowering acacias, reaches its finest point where the Residency fronts the Cathedral across some gardens, then gradually diminishes in grandeur till it ends in a collection of huts, cabarets, and warehouses standing on untidy wharves.

Twenty years ago, so an old officer told us, the land was a desolate morass, unspeakably dirty. Now it is a flourishing city, and though fault may be found with the style of the building on account of the want of shelter from heat and glare, and the unsuitability of such high houses in case of earthquake, these are minor details. The great need now is for some system of draining the Bahira, which has received the filth of ages, and takes its revenge in sending in hot weather and in certain winds a truly terrible smell to torment the city. It is an unaccountable fact that some perfect quality in air or soil fights against this evil and overcomes it, keeping the city free from epidemics and noted for its general healthiness.

The harbour has as yet a very unfinished appearance. The native boats with lateen sails are its great attraction, though ships of all nations and considerable tonnage can now approach the quays. Gay little scenes occur when the fish comes in, or when timber is being landed by gangs of Arabs wading in the still water; for all that is evil in this remarkable lake is hidden by the calm loveliness of a lagoon.

What is known to the Tunisians as les chaleurs, or real summer heat, sets in towards the end of May or beginning of June. With the heat come many changes. The town Moors drop their many cloaks and display the wealth of silk and embroidery usually hidden. The men from the country wear yard-wide steeple-crowned hats over their turbans; for if the burning sun is trying in the city, what must it be in the country, where no cool shadows offer shelter? The Europeans, soldiers and civilians alike, appear in white, and the tyranny of the shirt collar is ended with the coming of sun helmets and umbrellas. Ladies don their thinnest muslins, and do not venture out before the evening. Everyone seeks the shade except the Italian women, who will stand bareheaded, idly swinging their closed parasols, where no Arab would keep them company.

A scirocco or wind from the desert intensifies the heat to an unbearable degree, night brings no relief, and this burning blast may last three, five, or nine days; and a nine days’ scirocco is an experience to be remembered. A resident gave us this warning encouragement: “If you stay till June and come in for a bad scirocco you will think you will die, but you won’t.” The sensation of misery could hardly be better expressed: one gasps for breath, sleep is impossible, and the only tolerable moments are those passed quite close to an electric fan. Plants and trees shrivel up, so that the gardens look as if they had been actually burnt. The country is scarcely cooler than the town, and at the seaside there is little relief, as four or five degrees’ difference does not help much when the thermometer is once over 100° Fahrenheit.

CHAPTER XI
CARTHAGE

The realm of the Queen of the Seas is now desolate—desolate, but untouched by sadness. Tragedy and doom are hidden beneath the brightness of summer flowers and the promise of an abundant harvest. The ruins that remain are not fine enough in themselves to call forth memories of a glorious past. The greatness is gone. Nothing is now left to speak of bygone ages with an insistent voice; nothing strong enough to break down the dulness and create an interest in ancient history. Those who expect to have their historic sense awakened and quickened by the sight, turn empty and disappointed away, for all enjoyment rises from the dreams and imagination born of some knowledge or wide reading, and not from what Carthage can now show; for the Phœnician city was so utterly destroyed by the Romans under Scipio in the year 146 B.C. that the plough was driven over the site. Subsequently city after city rose from the same ground to be destroyed almost as entirely. Columns and capitals from the Roman, Vandal, and Byzantine cities may be seen in Tunis, Kairouan, and Sicily, and even so far away as Italy and Spain. Here there are few left.

Traces of the original city are still harder to find, and must be sought far below the earth’s surface under successive layers of ruins and soil. Three mosaic pavements of different periods have often been discovered one below the other, whilst the foundations of Punic temples and inscriptions in that language thus buried still show signs of fire. The story of Carthage is also shrouded in mystery; even the date of its foundation is uncertain. All that is known is that in the dawn of history, when the Israelites took possession of Palestine, the Canaanites retreated to Tyre and Sidon, and there built up a mighty state. From these two cities daring mariners set forth in frail coasting vessels to found settlements in Asia Minor, Greece, Africa, and Spain, extending their voyages of discovery in later times, gathering riches and treasures from the distant ends of the then known world.

One of the earliest of these colonies was the city of Utica, and probably when Dido arrived in Africa (if she ever did), after her flight from the cruelty and treachery of the Tyrian king, there were already other cities on the plain. Her taste and judgment must have been equal to her beauty and artfulness when she chose this spot for her city of refuge, and beguiled the inhabitants into granting her the land that the traditional oxhide would cover; for the situation is as lovely as any on the north coast of Africa, the harbour good, and the country rich. The colony was known at first as Kirjath-Hadeschath, or New Town, to distinguish it from the older city of Utica. The Greek name was Karchedon, and the Romans called it Carthago.

Strangely enough we depend on the enemies of Carthage for accounts of her history, as, with few exceptions, her own records were destroyed. No great poems are left, no annals, nothing remains but a few inscriptions, some fragments, and the three treaties with Rome. The Roman narratives are tinged with envy and hatred, yet even so the fame of Carthage stands out clearly, and the deeds of her sons, both as sailors and soldiers, surpass those of other days and other peoples. What admirals of any time would so gallantly have dared such a voyage in small vessels as did Hanno, who almost reached the equator from the north coast of Africa, or Himilco, who, in a four months’ voyage, “keeping to his left the great shoreless ocean on which no ship had ever ventured, where the breeze blows not, but eternal fogs rest upon its lifeless waters,” discovered the Scilly Isles, Ireland, and the wide isle of Albion? These admirals have left records of their doings which still exist. Generals more famous still, vied with each other in their country’s service, fighting bravely on in face of neglect and want of support, knowing that success met with scant praise, and that failure meant death if they returned to the capital. Such names as Hamilcar Barca and the still greater Hannibal recall to memory the tales of the genius of those who upheld her power.

Yet for all this Carthage was no warlike city, but was given over to the arts of peace, to the pursuit and enjoyment of wealth. It was a city of merchant princes, an oligarchy like that of Venice in later times, and the Romans were astounded at the luxury and beauty of the buildings and the far-spreading suburbs.

Agriculture was apparently a favourite pursuit, as a treatise on the subject, in twenty-eight books, was written by Mago, who was called by the Romans the father of husbandry. This book they saved from the general destruction of Carthaginian literature and translated into their own language. Varro, whose own work on ancient agriculture is the most valuable we possess, quotes Mago as the highest authority.

As the city was looted and the treasures carried to Rome it is idle to expect to find anything very noteworthy to show the Carthaginian skill in art. But the White Fathers have in their museum a large collection of bronzes and pottery, and a few jewels of all periods, some of them of peculiar interest because of the strong resemblance between the Punic designs and those of Egypt. Many of the gods are the same, and sacred eyes and scarabs are plentiful. Curious bulbous vessels, used as feeding-bottles for babies, have faces roughly painted on them, the spout taking the place of a mouth. The bronzes have much in common with those of Pompeii, and some fine tombs with full-sized figures might be Greek. The garden of the Monastery is also full of fine fragments and inscriptions, and stands on the brow of the hill that was once the Byrsa, and is now known as the hill of St. Louis. It faces the Gulf of Tunis, charming in outline, glorious in light, and full of colour.

The twin peaks of Bou Korneïne, the Gemini Scopuli of Virgil, soft as a dream in the early morning, are the distinctive beauty of the curve of the bay to the right. On the other side rise the heights of Sidi Bou Saïd, or Cap Carthage. The Mediterranean and the lagoon of the Bahira, “the little sea,” or lake of Tunis, are of a wondrous blue, the water shimmers in the sunshine, the town of La Goulette gleams likewise, and so do the houses scattered along the coast. The slopes of the hill and the whole of the plain towards the sea are covered, as it were, with cloth of scarlet and gold and green, poppies and marigolds and waving corn, in masses such as can rarely be found elsewhere. The ancient ports of Carthage, now so reduced in size, still retain something of their original form. The military harbour is circular, with an island in the centre where the admiral once dwelt. These tiny lakes, calm as glass, and almost more definitely blue than the Mediterranean itself, hardly suggest themselves as the busy harbours of the Queen of the Seas, but look rather, as a French author says, like the lakes of an English garden.

Here and there shapeless masses of masonry can be seen scattered over the plain, either hardly visible under the living veil of green, or showing like scars, but there is nothing that is in any way an addition to the picture. The view on all sides is beautiful, which is more than can be said by the most charitable of the buildings which crown the hill. Neither the Cathedral of Cardinal Lavigerie, the Chapel of St. Louis, nor the Monastery are worthy of their position in style or treatment. On a bare hillside it might be possible to conjure up fine temples and stirring scenes, to imagine the terrors of the last days of the siege, and the heroic death of the wife of Hasdrubal. Now even St. Louis is too picturesque a figure for the prevailing commonplace, and it would be almost a relief to think that he died at Sousse, as some people suppose.

One remarkable work, and one only, has survived all the changes and chances in the life of Carthage, and still endures to show that the vast size of the original city was in no wise exaggerated. Not only have the aqueduct and cisterns outlasted all the other buildings, but they have been restored, and once more fulfil their purpose, bringing fresh spring-water to a thirsty city—no longer indeed to Carthage, but to the equally ancient and still flourishing Tunis.

Modern Tunis does not require nearly as much water as the greater Carthage, so that only the smaller group of cisterns, lying near the sea and the ruined baths, is now in use. These cisterns are eighteen in number, and can only be called small by comparison, as they are said to be 135 mètres long, and hold nearly 30,000 cubic mètres of water.

The larger group is quite ruinous, and is broken down in the midst, forming an open space on to which the cisterns face, built as they are in parallel rows. Here the Bedawin dwell who have turned the Punic cisterns into the Arab village of La Malga. These underground homes are supposed to be far superior to tents or huts, as they are cool in summer, and warm and dry in winter. They look like vaulted halls, as the lower half has become filled with soil, and they are closed at the ruinous ends by rough wooden walls and doors. At any rate if not quite ideal dwellings, they are picturesque and at least unusual. Though there are many theories on the subject, the design and much of the actual work is considered to be Phœnician, though considerably restored and in part rebuilt by the Romans. Some authorities find traces of Punic work in the aqueduct also, others suppose that the Carthaginians used the cisterns merely to store rain-water, and think that the Romans, when they defied the curse and rebuilt the city, found the water-supply insufficient, and therefore made an aqueduct in the reign of Hadrian, A.D. 117-138. It underwent many disasters, and was partially destroyed and rebuilt over and over again. First, the Vandals, under Gilimer, did their worst to it, and Belisarius restored the damage; then the Byzantines had their turn, and it was put in order by their Arab conquerors, only to be again injured by the Spaniards. Finally, some part of it began useful life once more under a French engineer in the reign of Sidi Saduk, the late Bey.

One spring still rises in the Nymphea, or temple of the waters, amongst rocks and trees and flowers at Zaghouan, Mons. Zeugitanus, and the other is brought from Djebel Djouggar, Mons. Zuccharus. The great aqueduct stretches out like a chain connecting the mountains and the plain—a chain of massive links, sadly broken and often interrupted in its long course of over sixty Roman miles. The channel is carried down the mountain-side, sometimes over and sometimes under the ground, and on the plains it is often raised on immense piers. Near Carthage it has been broken up and entirely destroyed, and the water has then to find its way through ordinary modern pipes.

There is a look of grandeur and beauty about the ruined arches, as they are seen rising from the sunny, flowery fields, that is usually wasted on an unappreciative world, as few drive far enough out from Tunis to enjoy the sight.

At Carthage the masses of flowers give a certain charm to ruins of no intrinsic beauty. Brilliant marigolds crowd every nook and cranny in the Punic tombs, shedding the glory of their golden life over the dreary maze of catacombs, where formerly the dead rested, but which are now bare and empty; though in another district one curious tomb, formed of three solid blocks of stones, in form like the beginning of a house of cards, is built with a few others in the side of a shadeless, barren cliff. Flowers fringe and cover the Basilica, surround the newly excavated Roman villa, contrasting daintily with the broken columns and mosaic pavements, and touch with their brightness the elliptical outlines of the Roman amphitheatre, where many Christian martyrs suffered for the Faith. Of these St. Nemphanion was the first (A.D. 198), though the best known and most loved are Saint Perpetua, and Saint Felicita, to whom the little chapel in the centre is dedicated.

The flowers harmonise with thoughts of the young and beautiful widow who gave up child and wealth, and who herself wrote of her joy and suffering in prison. She tells us of her vision of a golden ladder, beset with swords and lances, and guarded by a dragon, whom she quelled in the name of Christ, and so mounted to a heavenly garden, where a white-haired shepherd, surrounded by his flock, gave her a welcome and a piece of cheese, whilst thousands of forms in white garments said “Amen.” The vision foretold her martyrdom, which took place between A.D. 203 and 206. According to a custom peculiar to Carthage—a relic of old Phœnician days when human sacrifices were offered to Baal-Moloch, and men worshipped the horned Astarte—the men were expected to wear scarlet robes, like the priests of Saturn, and the women yellow, after the fashion of the priestesses of Ceres—a reason perhaps for the wealth of scarlet and yellow blossoms that now flourish so abundantly. The Christians refused, saying that they suffered in order to avoid such rites, and the justice of the plea was allowed.

A cross marks the spot on a little hill between La Malga and the Byrsa where St. Cyprian was beheaded in A.D. 258. An interesting fact, to which Archbishop Benson calls attention in his Life of Cyprian, is that long before any Bishop of Rome appears with the title of Papa, or Pope, in any sense, it was used as a formal mode of address to Cyprian by the clergy of Rome. And it is clear from the history of his times that there was then no idea of Papal supremacy, but that, on the contrary, the Bishop of Carthage once at least overruled the decision of the Bishop of Rome.

Strange as it seems now, with Mohammedanism all around, Christian Carthage became in its turn a great power, with a long line of bishops, whilst North Africa not only counted some six hundred Episcopal sees, but also produced such famous men as Tertullian, Cyprian, Lactantius, and Augustine. Nothing is now left anywhere except the ruins of three or four basilicas, some lamps with Christian emblems, and a few inscriptions.

To see all the ruins at Carthage is no light matter. Distances are so great, and there is such a dearth of conspicuous landmarks to guide the search. The nine miles’ drive from Tunis is mostly considered very monotonous, as the road itself is straight and dull, though the beauty of the mountains and the lake, the flush of scarlet from the flamingoes in its marshy edges, the marvels of the flower-clad meadows, the dark tents of the nomads, and the picturesque workers in the fields, are surely enough to make even a longer distance seem short. The first impression is altogether finer if it is gained by driving through the country to the gay villas of La Marsa, and so up the hill to Sidi Bou Saïd, than by taking the railway and then walking from point to point. The Arab town of Sidi Bou Saïd is so holy a place that no unbelievers were formerly allowed to live there, hardly even to walk its streets, and yet the saint after whom it is called is no other than St. Louis of France, the Crusader who died of pestilence before the walls of Tunis. The Mohammedans, however, believe that he adopted their religion, died and was buried in this village, showing how even his enemies admired his saintliness, and also that the God whom both worshipped was the same God as Mohammed always taught. The small town is piled up on the highest point of the hill in true Oriental fashion, and from the lighthouse on the summit the view is superb, with the Mediterranean almost surrounding the cape. The whole site of the ancient city is visible, from the rocky headlands in front to the distant town of La Goulette on the promontory that separates the open sea from the lake; a wide sweep of plain, the many low hills, the Byrsa marked by the whiteness of the new Cathedral, the whole circle of mountains, the summer villages gleaming at their feet, Tunis, the villas and gardens of La Marsa, the site of Utica, now more desolate than Carthage itself, the beautiful line of cliffs towards Bizerta—all combine to give some idea of the possibilities and beauties of ancient Carthage.

CHAPTER XII
SOUSSE AND EL DJEM

A refreshing uncertainty, almost amounting to a touch of adventure, gives zest to plans for a trip southwards. Beyond the one undisputed fact that the inn at Sousse leaves nothing to be desired, information is vague and scanty.

The journey opens in a fashion that promises much. There are only two trains in the day, and both are inconvenient. One starts too early and the other too late. The railway carriages with their narrow seats and hard cushions proclaim by sheer discomfort the unfrequented route and the dearth of travellers. The windows, that are either wide open or shut, but know no happy mean, guarantee a pleasing alternative of cold or stuffiness, for it soon becomes impossible to hold a heavy frame perpetually at a proper height.

It is delightful to feel that all sorts of possibilities lie hidden in the immediate future, and that the rate of progress already lifts the journey out of the commonplace. It is slow enough to be phenomenal, and gives time not only for observation but for quiet meditation on every detail of the landscape before it disappears.

There is no objection to this for some distance out of Tunis, as the route is pretty. The line skirts the edge of the bay, passing through the gay watering-places full of sunshine and flowers that lie at the foot of Bou Korneïne. During the sunset hour, when the plains are flooded with glory, the train might stop entirely, and welcome. But when the last tint of colour has vanished and no consolation is left, then the long, purposeless halts at wayside stations become exasperating. It does seem wasteful to spend so much time over so short a distance.

When morning comes, this mood flies away at the unexpected sight of a mediæval town on the opposite side of the harbour; for Sousse follows the Tunisian fashion, and the French colony dwells apart. The old town stands on a gentle rise beside the waters of the Mediterranean, a complete survival from the Middle Ages. Not grey and timeworn like our northern strongholds, but radiant in the sunshine, a mass of glittering white, crowned and girdled by gold—towers and bastions and crenellated walls. The reflection of these old-world defences in the calm waters below is almost as brilliant as the reality.

In the evening a change comes over the spirit of the place, the brightness fades away and is succeeded by a gentle melancholy, a slight film, the dimness of age, as if the warriors of bygone times returned at sundown to hover over their old castle, full of unavailing regret that their day is over, and that from the topmost battlements an alien flag now floats.

Sousse, under its old title of Hadrumetum, has a quite respectable antiquity. Sallust mentions it as a Phœnician colony of older date than Carthage. Under the Emperor Trajan it became a Roman colony, the capital of the Byzacene or mid-Tunisia. No one knows when or how it received the name of Sousse, and even the fact of its being Hadrumetum at all was once a matter of dispute. Hercha and Hammamet are both supposed by some to have a better claim to the distinction, and Ruspina has been given as the original name of Sousse. It fell into the hands of the Normans from Sicily during the twelfth century, but has otherwise remained a Moslem fortress from their first invasion to the time of the French occupation in 1881.

Now the French colony seems bright and prosperous, and the inhabitants talk more cheerfully of their fate than usual; for there is much to do, and the recently opened harbour is a great improvement, as formerly the roadstead was defenceless in certain prevalent winds, and now ships can ride safely at anchor and take in immense cargoes of corn and oil, the staple produce of the district.

Once within the old gates the Arab town, though most picturesque, shows little that is distinctive. It possesses narrow Eastern streets, whiter even than usual, and small bazaars, after the manner of Tunis, but with no individuality of their own. Tunis, Algiers, and Constantine have so much character that their identity could hardly be mistaken by anyone who knew the tokens, even if he were dropped unawares into one of their streets. The architecture, the colour, and the appearance of the inhabitants are all so different in type.

From every side Sousse presents a striking picture, and from the towers of the Casbah the view over the sunny terraces to the wondrous blue of the bay and the soft green of the olives is beautiful. But the only building that is really curious in the town itself is the Kahwat el Koubba, or café of the dome, a small Byzantine basilica. Unfortunately, it is so built into the bazaar that it is difficult to see its peculiarities. It is quite square for rather more than the height of a man from the ground, then round for the same distance, and has a fluted dome.

The rue Halfaouine, the street where pottery is sold and mats are made, is quainter than in Tunis, for there the two trades work separately. These men were very busy, and with one exception had not the slightest objection to being watched or painted. The one man who did object wore the green turban of the descendants of the Prophet, and built up an elaborate screen of plaits to hide himself. He soon forgot his dread, gradually used up the plaits, and forgot to replace them.

Granted a little patience with the shortcomings of the train service and it is no trouble to see Sousse, but the excursion to El Djem is quite another matter. Until quite lately difficulties strewed the path, and the drive alone took one long day or even two. Now, thanks to the introduction of a postal motor-car service, the journey between Sousse and Sfax is smooth enough.

The shaky old diligence still runs for the benefit of second- and third-class passengers, and takes a wearisome time about the journey, which the motor accomplishes in rather more than three hours. This motor is a heavy, but very roomy vehicle, somewhat like a coach with six places inside, two beside the driver and more on the roof, and moves with the steady, resistless force of great weight. As a rule, all the seats are taken some days beforehand, for there is much coming and going of business men between Sousse and Sfax; but we were lucky enough to secure ours after only two days, and to have only one other passenger in the interior, which meant heaps of space and a clear view with no intervening heads. The straightness of the road is at first mitigated by the beauty of the old olive trees, but when these give place to new plantations, the young trees and bushes are so few and far between that they only accentuate the dreariness of the landscape. Still, a look of wellbeing is coming over the land, and if all goes well, the arid plains will once again become fruitful, and the mischief wrought by El Kahina, the celebrated chieftainness of the Aures, who destroyed all the farms and villages, will be remembered no more. Formerly the whole country from Tripoli to Tangiers was wooded and fertile, but the destruction of the forests has given the land its present inhospitable character, so that where twenty inhabitants flourished in Roman times, it was hard work for one man to get a living, till the French came and began to restore the ancient order.

One village of importance, and one only, breaks the monotony of the route, and the motor passes through its narrow streets, which it almost fits, hooting and scattering the people right and left, shaking them out of their dreamy ways with its message of speed and progress. Yet though some grumble more admire.

Even on this frequented road, where the motor passes twice daily, the same amusing precautions are taken by the Arabs as at Hammam Meskoutine. The camels are ridden off into the plains, carts are dragged to the side of the road, and the horses’ heads covered up—even the donkeys are held very tight. And if any man is too sleepy to attend to them, his animals give him enough to do to pacify them after the horror has passed.

After this village the olives disappear. Nothing is visible but a wide plain, literally carpeted with wild flowers, mostly common ones, but exquisite from pure abundance of colour. Amongst them are masses of small purple gladiolus, the most beautiful flower of them all.

For miles ahead the road stretches out straight as a gigantic ruler, diminishing in perfect perspective to a vanishing point on the horizon, the effect enhanced by the slight undulations of the plain. The road is without shade or trees, there are not even villages to be seen, only a few Bedawin camps, and an occasional house surrounded by fragrant mimosa and olive trees, the dwellings of the French road-surveyor. Innumerable traces of the Roman occupation are to be found on every side, ruined farms, old walls, and fragments of buildings, showing that this must have been almost as densely populated as the district between Hadrumetum (Sousse) and Carthage, which, as a Roman historian tells us, was shaded for the whole length of the road by villas and beautiful gardens.

At last, dimly discernible in the distance, a vast form rises, desolate and alone upon the earth, a forlorn relic of Roman splendour, the African rival of the Colosseum at Rome—the amphitheatre of El Djem. It is only a few feet smaller than its great original, is built on the same lines, is of the same massive breadth, and what it loses in actual measurement is regained by its isolated position. A building of such proportions is sufficiently impressive in the heart of a famous city, but out here in the wilderness the effect is overwhelming. The very existence of such a huge place of amusement so far from the present haunts of men, on a spot so bereft of all visible means of supporting a city large enough to send 60,000 spectators to witness the games, is strange, almost unthinkable. The land, of course, is good, but water is not here in any abundance, and there is no stone in the neighbourhood—the fine white limestone used in the building having all been brought from Sallecta on the coast.

Nothing now remains but this, the wonder of North Africa, of the whole city of Thyrsus mentioned by Pliny and Ptolemy, except a half-buried Corinthian capital of colossal size, a road, fragments of a villa, some baths and a few mosaics, all more or less hidden and much scattered among the olives.

The Proconsul Gordian rebelled against Maximin, and was proclaimed Emperor at the age of eighty, at Thyrsus in A.D. 238, about the time of the building of the amphitheatre, which is sometimes supposed to have been his work as Emperor. But this could hardly be, as he was defeated in battle, and died by his own hand within two months.

The amphitheatre was looked upon by the Arabs as a place of refuge in troublous times, and was often used as a fortress. It is called Kasr el Kahina, or Palace of the Sorceress, after the celebrated El Kahina, of whom many legends are told. When she was besieged in this singular castle of hers, she caused subterranean passages to be made to the sea coast at Sallecta, and had this done on so large a scale that several horsemen could ride through them abreast. The Arabs believe firmly in these marvellous passages, but the entrance to them has not yet been found. However, later on, another siege had to be raised, because the defenders were so well supplied that they mockingly threw down fresh fish to the besiegers, who were already suffering from want of food.

In modern times the great breach made in one of the sieges has been enlarged by the Arabs, who used it as a quarry, and built their large village beneath its shelter entirely out of the spoils. Now this quarrying has been stopped by law, happily in time, and the breach, overgrown as it is with moss and plants, only serves to make the ruin more beautiful as it lies among the prickly pears and olives. On the side nearest the village, however, it is in such good preservation, and the four galleries are so perfect, that with the regularity comes a certain loss of picturesqueness. The village is quite unusual: the stolen stone has been used as if it were mud, the houses are built like huts with large walled courts, and big doors, which are defended by barking dogs.

The men are indifferent to strangers, but the children, pretty as they are, become a positive torment. They have learnt the value of a petit sou, and keep up a never-ending litany in the vain hope of obtaining one. This comes of the bad habit of throwing coins from the automobile for the pleasure of seeing a scramble.

In the evening some sort of a fête was on hand, absolutely different to any we had seen. Bowers had been built, flags and greenery were festooned across the street, and in one large booth, covered with green, a crowd was gathered to watch a performance of howling dervishes, probably Aïssaouas. A long row of men and boys with streaming hair were working themselves into a state of frenzy, with violent rhythmic movements of their heads, as they threw them backwards and forwards, and panted like steam-engines. There were also groups of masqueraders with unearthly masks, pretending to be animals and going on all fours, and a mock bridal party with a soldier arrayed as the bride, his feet and gaiters alone betraying him.

There is no inn of any sort, so travellers stay at the school, which is also the post-office. The French schoolmaster, his wife, and a little girl, are the only Europeans in the place, though it contains one Jew and one Maltese—so Oriental as not to count.

The school is an old building, once the house of a Bey; it was then a big open cloister. Now walls, doors, windows, and partitions have been added to form large double cells, vaulted as in a monastery, but with horse-shoe arches. These cells are scantily furnished, so that they look both bare and spacious. Once they were used for storing gunpowder, which has left the walls sadly discoloured. In fact, the appearance of the house was well in keeping with predictions which we had received about roughing it; but we found that instead of starving, the meals were quite elegant, consisting of many courses, and including such luxuries as chicken, lamb, and quails. The bread was very dry, and there was no butter; but much experience had foreseen that difficulty, and jam, biscuits, and tea travelled with us. The schoolmaster was silent, but contented. His wife, however, suffered much from the loneliness; for the small doings of the household, teaching a native servant and superintending the cooking, could not fill her life. She was pining for friends and sympathy, and her nearest neighbours, a detachment of soldiers, lived fourteen or fifteen miles away. The diligence and the motor cars alone brought variety, and they passed quickly with some pleasant bustle, and then silence came once more. The school itself is a success: the boys seem to learn well, and are eager to air their French and pick up new ideas.

At night, even when the little garrison has been raised to five, there is a strange eerie feeling of loneliness, which camping somehow does not give. The great doors are bolted and barred, the watch-dog is on duty in the court, which the moonlight makes almost as light as day, brightening the treasured but miserable garden with its tender touch. All is made perfectly safe. Yet the thought recurs insistently, what could one man do, should anything rouse the hundreds of half-wild Arabs in the village out of their ordinary quiet hatred? A life of this sort is only possible where the fascination of the East is strongly felt; but for a poor woman like this, out of sympathy with the country, its people and their ways, it is little short of martyrdom.

Quiet is not a feature of the nights at El Djem. Every house in the village owns several dogs, and the only dog that does not seem to bark all night is the dog at the school. As for the cocks, they begin to crow at bed-time and keep it up till morning. Jackals and an occasional hyena swell the chorus. Then in the small hours the diligence arrives, with rattle and rumble along the road and a thunderous knocking at the great door, till the whole household is awake to give it welcome.

The motor appears at the respectable hour of nine in the morning, and manages with infinite cleverness to catch the mid-day train to Kairouan, although it should have started before the time at which the motor arrives. There is so much leisure and so little punctuality that, with friendly assistance, seats are taken, luggage registered, and lunch purchased before the train finally starts.

CHAPTER XIII
THE SACRED CITY

Seven visits to the sacred city of Kairouan are equivalent for the devout Mussulman to one pilgrimage to Mecca. A pleasant alternative for those who wish to gain a high degree of sanctity at a small cost, for since the railway simplified the journey there are neither terrors nor difficulties to overcome.

Picturesque hill towns are passed on the way, and also the first of the chain of Chotts, or shallow salt lakes, almost or quite dry in summer, strange reminders of the time when the Mediterranean penetrated the desert as far as Biskra. Plans have often been proposed for letting in the water again from the Gulf of Gabès to the Ziban. But though in some ways this might bring added prosperity, in others the change of climate would probably spell ruin. The date harvest at Gafsa and Gabès would be spoilt, and most likely that of Biskra and Tougourt as well.

The Tunisian oases vie with, if they do not surpass, those of Algeria, but they are little visited, partly because it is not the fashion, but much more in consequence of the discomforts to be faced, as travellers are mostly dependent on their own resources, a native fonduk, or the kindness of some French officer. The fonduks by all accounts are intolerably dirty, and sleep has to be snatched during a lull in the noisy talk, in the corner of a crowded space, with a portmanteau for a pillow, the mud floor and a rug by way of bed. No food or refreshment are offered except coffee. The inns when they exist give rise to pathetic tales of food and dirt. Birds apparently made of india-rubber, quite black and utterly impervious to the blunt knives, pose as chicken, the eggs are of untold age, and the bread sour. Cous-couss is the best thing; it is not at all a bad variety of stew when well made, rather like curry, but laid on a bed of semolina instead of rice, with a very hot, piquant sauce. The number of ingredients is always rather mysterious, and when ill-made it is horribly greasy.

These various drawbacks make even the excursion to the fine Roman ruins of Sbeitla too uncomfortable without a camp, as it is a two days’ ride from Kairouan. The road is supposed to be fit for carriages, but owing to the badness of the track, a strong country cart cannot stand the strain, and is always coming to grief, or losing a wheel at critical moments, so that a rider finds he has chosen the better part. Then it is rather a shock to be told on the return journey, with many miles yet to travel and darkness coming on apace, that no Frenchman considers this district safe without a revolver loaded and ready to hand.

Altogether it is decidedly annoying as well as disappointing, because drawings and photographs of curious places and buildings make the longing for adventure in the wilder regions so strong as to be almost unbearable. There are houses at Tozeur with decorative façades, built with raised designs in projecting sun-dried brick. At Matmata and Douïrat the Troglodytes dwell in rock-hewn cells, forming hill cities cut out of, not built on, castellated crags, whilst at Medénine the houses are built one above the other, five stories high, with doors that serve as windows. Most of these houses are reached by climbing up on jutting stones built into the wall, which, even with the assistance of a cord, needs a steady head, though a few have the luxury of an outside staircase.

There is great consolation in the thought that until quite lately Kairouan itself was almost a sealed book, for travellers could only see it when provided with an escort and a special permission, and these were not sufficient to admit them to the mosques, or to protect them from insult or stones in the streets, so that little joy came from a visit even so late as 1888.

Now the nervous need have no misgivings, as the train crawls like a snail over the barren waste, redeemed from desolation by the flowers, more glorious than ever in contrast with the monotonous brown-hued desert framed by distant mountains.

The old walls that encircle Kairouan, with their tones of dusty brown, blend with the plain they rise from, and would be invisible at a little distance were it not for the white minarets and domes within their bounds, which stand out clear-cut as a cameo against the blue of the sky, the purple of the hills, and the faded tints of the soil.

Tradition says that in the year fifty-five of the Hegira (675 A.D.) this was a vast forest, almost impenetrable, and full of wild and terrible beasts of prey and still more alarming serpents, huge and poisonous. Hither, surrounded by his conquering host, came the warrior-saint, Sidi Okba. Here he planted his lance in the ground, saying, “This is your ‘Kairwan’” (caravan, or resting-place). After which he caused fifteen chosen men, the companions of the Prophet who were with the army, to come together for prayer. Then advancing he called out, “Serpents and savage beasts we are the companions of the blessed Prophet; retire! for we intend to dwell here.” At the sound of his inspired voice they fled in a body with their young, and took refuge in the wilderness, whilst the woods that had been their home vanished also. Moreover, it is said that this miracle so astounded the Berbers who dwelt in that land, that they were one and all converted at once, and further it is alleged that it is for this reason that the holy city continues to stand in the midst of a desert unto this day.

Mohammed is said to have taught that there are in this world three gardens of Paradise, four cities, and four oratories. The three gardens include Mecca and Jerusalem, whilst Kairouan is the best known of the oratories or gates of heaven.