Algeria and Tunis

The theatre was a fine one, capable of holding in its seats, porticoes, and galleries some 4000 spectators. It is in good preservation, but not peculiar in any way.

One of the best views is from the hill just above the Auditorium. The city unfolds itself, disclosing all the intricacies of its former life—the wide open space of the Forum, the great temples and baths, the fine arch, some handsome houses, the narrow streets, and the small dwellings huddled together in the poor quarters. As at Pompeii, there is the curious effect of a town with the upper portion sliced off by a giant’s hand; but here it is not so marked, for many of the buildings have escaped more or less—some even are untouched, and the pillars are often erect and complete, several having been replaced during the excavations.

Timgad has some unusual features. In a house between the Forum and the theatre is an elegant atrium with ten columns, having a central fountain or well surrounded at some little distance by semicircular flower-boxes of marble, charming in design, and said to be unique. The market, again, is quite unusual, and has been described as an “archæological revelation,” no such ancient municipal mart being known in Africa. It lies beyond the Arch of Trajan, and the entrance was through a low portal, the Chalcidicum. The market was of a fair size, and, like the Forum, well paved—a sort of colonnade running all round, with square cells between the columns. These cells or stalls had counters formed by thick slabs of stone. To enter the shop the owner had to stoop under the counter—an arrangement that is copied in most Oriental bazaars to this day. The place is so perfect that it does not require much thought to see how well arranged and picturesque this old-world market-place must once have been. And to assist in the process, dishes, vases, amphoræ, and even balances have been found on the spot. Flour-mills of an unwonted form are found in many houses. There are numerous wine shops but more fountains, one of particular grace having been lately dug out in a new district beyond the market.

The baths are remarkable for their splendour and the perfection of the arrangements for heating. They were decorated with fine mosaics in geometric patterns, and also between the columns of the gallery with designs of figures and animals. A good many of these mosaics are still left in their places, but are carefully covered over with a thin layer of soil to prevent theft or damage. On great occasions, such as the visit of the President, this is swept away, but ordinary mortals have to content themselves with glimpses of small portions of the pavement that the foreman scrapes clear with his foot. There were formerly several baths, and at one time as many as seven Christian basilicas.

Of the temples the most imposing was, and is, even in its ruins, that of Jupiter Capitolinus. It stands on a hill, the highest point in the city. Two columns with Corinthian capitals are still standing, but, to judge by the immense quantity of debris of marbles of all colours found in the cella, it must have been truly magnificent. The marble is supposed to have been brought from Mahouna, near Guelma.

The triumphal arch, or Arch of Trajan, the finest in Africa, is almost perfect, though slightly restored. However, much cannot have been done, because there is scarcely any difference between its condition now and when drawn by Bruce. The arch has three openings, and both sides are alike. It is built of warm golden sandstone, and the beautiful fluted Corinthian columns are of a stone so fine and white that it looks like marble. The capitals, bases, and pilasters are of the same stone. Over the two side gateways are niches for statues, only one of which is left. The whole is simple in design and beautiful in form and colour, whilst from its position it becomes the key-note of all views of the city.

In these days of her desolation and abandonment, Timgad is only inhabited by the two or three Frenchmen who superintend the Arabs in the work of excavation, and by the family of the innkeeper, who have not too much to do in feeding the travellers who appear now and then in the middle of the day for a few hours. So it is odd to awake one morning to find the whole place alive with crowds of men, their mules and horses; the ground in front of the inn and up to the Museum gates covered with small tents, and all the clamour and bustle of a busy fair. The whole scene is changed as by enchantment, and a new, vivid, noisy life intrudes in dreams of bygone days. These Arabs, or rather Berbers, come from far—from homes high up in the distant hills or far out on the plains; these hills and plains which look so inhospitable and wild, but in some parts are really beautiful and both green and fertile. There are amongst them wild men—rough, uncivilised, and very dirty, but there are also Sheikhs and Caïds who would look well anywhere. This weekly market is to them a great institution and a delightful change, but Timgad seems to look twice as solitary as before when the crowds have melted away and the last white robe has disappeared.

CHAPTER VII
CONSTANTINE

Travellers’ tales and descriptions of Constantine are full of such boundless admiration that they are really little more than a chorus of applause and wonder. The consequences are not quite what might be expected, because it is impossible to believe that all this praise is justified. Sober truth seems hidden by flights of fancy. So the sceptical mind prepares itself and fears no disappointment or disillusion, heedless of the fact that it is the unexpected that always happens. In this case such wisdom is wasted, for the situation of Constantine is amazing beyond all expectation, and wholly beautiful.

In former times the city was apparently as picturesque as its site, but this, alas! can no longer be said. The rage for modern improvements has destroyed so much, that it is only in nooks and corners that Oriental architecture still lingers.

The original city of Cirta or Kirta, the capital of the Numidian kings, has entirely disappeared, and no traces are now left of the splendid palace of Syphax, or of the fine buildings that Micipsa is said to have built here. Even the old name, signifying an isolated rock, has been superseded by the later one of Constantine—a name that even the poetic attempts at new derivations made by the Arabs, such as Ksar-Tina, the castle of Queen Tina, the castle of the fig tree, and so on, have failed to make interesting.

Their own name for the city, as given by El Bekri, namely, Belad el Haoua, sums up its individuality perfectly. The single word Haoua means not only air, but also ravine and passion. The city of air tells of its height, over 2000 feet above the level of the sea. City of the ravine is a title that suits it even better, for no other city stands on a rock encircled on three sides by a chasm instead of a moat; and history, starting with the tragic tale of fair Sophonisba and her pathetic speech (ere she drank the cup of poison sent her by Masinissa) about “dying with more honour had she not wedded at her funeral,” shows that passion has never been lacking.

Roman rule has left a deeper impress, but soon there will be little of the flourishing colony of Cirta Sittianorum, founded by Julius Cæsar. There are many inscriptions, among them one proving that Sallust, who was once the Governor, possessed a vast domain.

Of a fine aqueduct, built in the reign of Justinian, only five arches remain, prettily situated among the trees by the river. As for the ruins of the old bridge, dating from the time of Constantine the Great, it would probably be hard to say how much was truly Roman, so often has it been restored. This bridge was double, and built on the foundation of a natural arch; the upper part, formed of huge blocks, carried the road, the lower was purely ornamental. Shaw says it was indeed a masterpiece of its kind, which makes its end the sadder. A pier of the upper story gave way in 1857, and as restoration was supposed to be impossible, heavy artillery was used to batter it down. Now the chasm is spanned by a useful but ugly iron erection, built exactly above the ruins, and forming a pitiful contrast between the old style and the new.

Few cities in the world have suffered so many changes, for notwithstanding its apparently impregnable position, Constantine has been besieged and taken no less than eighty times—that is, if tradition can be trusted. It escaped destruction under the Vandals because the bishop in those days was a Donatist. The victorious Belisarius found that no harm had been done, and even the Arabs spared the ancient monuments, so that the strain of these many sieges seems to have worked less havoc than the fighting which took place during the French conquest, when both besiegers and besieged showed the greatest heroism. The old bridge was the scene of the first fierce assault, when the French were driven back in 1836. The successful attack in the following year was made on the side of the isthmus, or neck of land, which connects the rock with the mainland, but even so the French lost heavily, General Damremont and General Perrégaux being killed in the breach, and officer after officer falling as he took command.

For many years afterwards the military government took no interest in preserving antiquities, and so they were broken up, cut through and destroyed, to make way for new buildings, for roads, and for the railway. The greatest loss, perhaps, was the splendid triumphal arch, which was still perfect in 1734; but temples, arcades, vaults, porticoes and baths were all swept away by the Genie militaire in its thirst for improvement. The cisterns alone remain. They have been restored, and still serve to hold the water-supply.

The new roads are worthy of the Genie, but the new buildings are mostly blots on a beautiful landscape. From almost every point hideous, bare-looking barracks and many-storied modern houses crown the rock, and stand on the very edge of the precipice, whilst the new suburbs, springing up on the heights of Mansoura and on the side of Koudiat-Aty are scarcely more attractive.

And yet, taking all these drawbacks into consideration, the view from the bridge of El Kantara is astonishing. The grandeur of the gorge dwarfs all man’s works into insignificance, and the rocks tower with such majesty over the river which they hide at their feet that the houses above them pass almost unnoticed.

The ravine is narrow, not more than two hundred feet across, though the summit of the crags is quite a thousand feet above the river. The river Roumel comes from the sunny country-side, from the woods and fields, the poplars and the hedges, and plunges suddenly into the shadow of the huge vertical cliffs, twisting and winding in the dark depths on its way round the city, losing itself at times in gloomy caverns and under natural arches, to emerge joyously beneath the grim Sidi Rached, then to fling itself thundering over the falls, out of the shadows at last, and into the lovely valley once more.

From the town it is difficult to peer into the depths, but on the other side a road follows the course of the ravine for its whole length. The most picturesque point is just opposite the tanneries, a delightful jumble of old Moorish houses, with white or pale-blue walls, and brown-tiled roofs built to withstand the snow and torrential rains, and very like the roofs of Constantinople in form and colour. The tanneries are perched on the walls of rock so close to the edge of the precipice that the Arabs when at work often fall over into the abyss, though it is said that the devotees of hachish will descend the same precipices, at the risk of breaking their necks many times ere they reach the bottom, just to meet together and smoke. It is giddy work to stand on these heights and look down over the first green slopes where hungry cows and goats find some foothold in their search for food, in places on the verge of the cliff where there is nothing but their own agility to prevent their falling straight into the gulf below. The boys on guard keep more wisely to the little footpath, and shout their commands to the straying herds.

The Cornice road runs from the bridge down towards the valley and the sea, and that is grand with Nature’s dignity alone. As a mountain road it is fine also, after the Swiss fashion, built round and tunnelled through the rocks of Mansoura, following their curves, half-built out on supports, half-blasted out of the living rock.

Opposite the tanneries the road runs on the top of the cliffs, and the city stands on the same level on the other side of the chasm; but here the road, though it is still a considerable height above the river, is itself shut in by walls of rock, so grim and forbidding that if tales of dreadful deeds did not already abound, legends must have been invented in their stead; for there is something about the precipices of Sidi Rached which suggest and invite horrors. So perhaps it is no wonder that the Moors in barbarous times thought it a suitable place for getting rid of criminals, or of the wives of whom they were weary. It is, however, hard to believe that men were ever cruel enough, not only to fling a beautiful woman over a cliff by the Bey’s orders, but also, when she had been saved as by a miracle by her clothes catching midway on the rocks, to rescue her and then kill her deliberately by some other form of torture.

At the French conquest the defenders retired, fighting, to the Casbah, and there as a last resource tried to fly from the hated infidel by means of ropes. But the numbers were too great, the ropes broke, and hundreds perished in the attempt, though it is thought that a few may have escaped.

The Chemin des touristes is a path through the ravine, winding up and down, and cut out of the rock, or built upon it. It is a path full of surprises and fascination, formed for a great part of staircases, and in most places a strong railing is necessary. Near the bridge are seemingly endless steps, and little bridges descend in uncanny gloom into a huge cavern, where the path becomes a balcony of wood over the river. Giddy steps, slippery with damp, lead through the cave, a true orrido, and then come wonderful effects of light and shade. The light falls from above through four natural arches whose height is over four hundred feet. From the bottom of the gulf the sky seems far away, the city hides itself, whilst the rocks appear more imposing than ever. Artists might spend their days here, for subjects are endless, but they must be impervious to chills, and have no sense of smell or any fear of typhoid. Even in winter to walk through the gorge and wonder at its beauty is a penance for the nose, for it receives the drainage of the tanneries and the town; but in late spring or summer, when it would be a cool retreat, the inhabitants say that the air is even more deadly.

Within the walls a superficial observer sees nothing but steep and dirty French streets, and it is easy to walk all over the town without ever finding the Arab quarters. This does not mean that the whole place is not crowded with indigènes—far from it, for it is a busy centre, in which the province of Constantine does its shopping. No town in Algeria is so laborious and active, the chief trade being in shoes, saddlery, and burnouses. Town Moors are in the minority, the streets being mostly thronged by white-robed countrymen, of a rather dirty type. The Arab women wear dismal grey haïcks, and the young girls and Jewesses, who are strikingly handsome, wear a coquettish cap, a cone of coloured velvet embroidered in gold. Sometimes it is covered by a cunningly tied kerchief, but is often set like a flower on the wearer’s dark locks, very much on one side of the head. Arab chains of round, flat links, very large and heavy, are used by the rich to keep on this cap, and big ear-rings are also worn. The rest of the dress is usually commonplace, though on Saturdays gay shawls and gorgeous gowns of velvet and plush are popular.

What is left of the Arab town concealed behind the modern houses is something like old Algiers. The streets are even narrower and often as steep, but instead of the cedar beams, the upper stories are built out on inverted steps till they almost touch each other. Pillars and capitals from Roman buildings fill corners, form gateways, and have been used to build the mosques, which are neither very important nor interesting. Up a few steps on a small vine-covered terrace is the tomb of a famous saint from Morocco, built partly of fragments of Roman work. But the individual buildings are nothing. It is the life, the bustle and confusion in the streets, the tiled roofs, the pale-blue colour on the walls, the odd-looking shops, the scarlet and blue hanging up in the streets of the dyers, the glitter of the silver as men crouch over their tiny fires making rough jewels, the more delicate tones and rhythmic movements of those who weave silks or belts, or twist soft yellow floss round enormous winders—small details these, like fine threads weaving one magic spell—the spell of the East.

Unconsciously this hovers over everything, giving distinction to the Cathedral, once a mosque with the poetic title of Market of the Gazelles, by the old tiles and the fine carving of the mimbar, or pulpit. Even the Palace of the last Bey, really so new, built so quickly by the simple method of pulling down other houses to provide beautiful carving and richly coloured tiles, and by stealing columns and capitals from temples, gains its originality in the same way—the singularly naïve paintings of battles and ships that decorate the walls helping to give the last touch of apparent age and orientalism to the many courts filled with orange and lemon trees.

Late in the spring Constantine should be delightful, but, owing to its elevated situation in a mountainous district, it is often too cold in the early part of the year for those who come from the warmth and glow of the desert. It is wintry, though the sun is bright and the air clear, so that sketching in the chill shade of the streets is out of the question. It is scarcely warm enough even to enjoy drives, beautiful as is the countryside and the views from the heights over hill and valley. There are woods and charming dells, with here and there a Roman ruin as an object for a walk, such as the aqueduct or the baths of Sidi Meçid. This bracing mountain air makes the climate splendid for the colonists, for the extremes of heat and cold are much the same as in their own beloved France, and to cheer them on their way the Romans have left inscriptions showing that many centenarians flourished here, and though the women only managed to live a hundred years, one man, Ælius by name, reached the age of one hundred and five. Could anyone want more?

CHAPTER VIII
ON THE WAY TO TUNIS

The next stage on the long journey to Tunis is Hammam Meskoutine, or the Accursed Baths. Now the name alone ought to be sufficient to scare strangers away, but it seems to have precisely the opposite effect. Many, indeed, come for one night only, and linger on from day to day, loth to leave a place so unusual and attractive. The wayside station, half-hidden by graceful eucalyptus trees, leads to no village, for the simple reason that there is none—nothing but the baths, a farm or two, and a few scattered gourbis.

There is not much to see. There are no fatiguing sights, no amusements whatever—only a tranquil country, a freshness of untrodden paths, a touch of the unknown and exceptional in the hot springs and falls to give piquancy to the surroundings. It is a country of soft outlines, Greek in its simplicity, breathing rest and peace. A land of hill and dale, rich pastures and many trees, where glare, dust, and bustle are alike forgotten.

The uplands are covered by a cloud of grey-green olives, some of them age-old trees, whose gnarled and twisted trunks look silvery against the deeper tones of the leaves, the bright green of the long grass, and the purple and blue of the mountains beyond. Under the trees the flowers of the asphodel shine starlike, calm fills the air, the flocks come and go, and the slender figure of the white-clad shepherd who leads and watches them, piping on his queer rustic flute, is in harmony with the spirit of a half-unconscious dream of the days of long ago.

Cutting across the smiling landscape like a scar is a plateau of whitish grey rock, pools of boiling water and clouds of steam, the region of the springs. The water comes bubbling up through the grey crust, then flows out over the surface with no fuss, no fountain, no spray. Dense clouds of steam rise from these bubbling springs in all directions, and also from the water as it falls over the rocks down to the valley below. This water as it cools leaves a thick white coating on whatever it touches, thus raising in the course of ages a succession of terraces now some two hundred feet high, resembling on a smaller scale the once famous pink terraces in New Zealand. These terraces are of every tone of yellow, orange, russet and green, and are full of small cauldrons. Pouring over these natural basins and mingling with these many tints flows a steady stream, sometimes the rich colour of thick cream, sometimes the snowy whiteness of foam, but though airy in appearance, perfectly solid, absolutely still. Only the water moves softly and the steam rises ceaselessly—a wonder straight from the under-world, a silent waterfall.

And not silent alone, but carved in stone—a finished work in one sense, yet ever changing; for the springs are capricious, appearing now in one place, now in another, and just now a new stream has started some little preparations for terraces on its own account at the side of the railway, and has even arranged to cross it. The earth’s crust seems unpleasantly thin and crumbly, and the heat is so great that it is well to be heedful and walk warily, for water at a heat of 203° Fahrenheit is too warm for comfort, even when it has cooled itself somewhat on the rocks. The only other springs known to be hotter than these are the springs of Las Trincheras in South America and the Geysers of Iceland, but they are only 3° and 5° warmer respectively.

It is amusing to watch the amount of cooking done in the open—eggs and vegetables are put into a bubbling pool, and anything else the chef thinks a good scalding will improve. Hot water for baths is fetched in a garden tank on wheels, and if any is wanted at odd times a jug can always be dipped in a stream, for the hotel is quite close to the falls. The old baths—some of them Roman of course, for what did not the Romans know?—are still in use, for these are the most celebrated springs in Algeria; though Hammam R’hira, beautifully situated in the mountains not far from Algiers, runs them very close. The hotel is built on no conventional plan; it is a series of low buildings set in the olive grove with a wild garden in their midst. An Eastern garden with a central fountain, surrounded by lemon and orange trees, laden with golden fruit, shading fragments of Roman reliefs, capitals, and columns—an unwonted form of museum and a pretty one. Pretty also are the rooms in the long bungalow, with windows looking out on one side on the flowery meadow under the olive trees, where the steam from the falls can be seen in the distance. Seen and smelt also, be it said, for there is much sulphur in the water. The other window, which is also the door, opens on to a rough colonnade and the garden. Two more bungalows, and a house that shelters the kitchen and its excellent chef, as well as the dining-room and dull salon, complete the establishment. On warm days the pleasant custom prevails of taking meals at small tables under the deep shade of an immense sycamore—a real open-air life, fresh and delightful—in fine weather. We were not there in rain.

In a little hollow near the springs is a group of curious cones, petrified like the falls, and now half-covered by grass and shrubs. Exhausted and now quite dry, the water having long since found new ways to escape, these cones are scattered over the ground for some distance. One special group, distinguished both by its size and by the peculiar shapes of the pillars of stone, has such terrors for the Arabs that they dare not pass it at night, from their firm belief in the legend which gave the place its name of the Accursed Baths. For once there was a sheikh, a rich and powerful man, who had one only sister, beautiful as a flower. He loved her with an exceeding great love, and thought her so supremely fair that no man could be found worthy of her. He therefore determined to wed her himself. The elders of the tribe arose and made loud protestations, for as an Arab told me in his odd French, “Il est très défendu dans le Koran de marier avec sa sœur.” But the sheikh paid no heed to their exhortations or their prayers, and caused those elders to be beheaded before his tent door. Then he made a great feast, but as the end of the marriage festivities drew near, a great darkness overtook them, a tremendous earthquake shook the earth, out of which came flames of fire, and demons were seen abroad. Deafening thunderclaps followed, and a storm raged mightily. In that moment the accursed couple met their fate. Ever since that dreadful night the whole wedding party has stood there turned into stone: the Sheikh Ali and his bride, Ourida; the Cadi who married them, and who is known by his turban; the father and mother who gave reluctant consent; all their friends and servants; the musicians, the camel laden with bridal gifts, the distant tents, even the cous-couss left over from the feast. The wrath of God had fallen upon them because they did not obey the laws of His prophet, and for evermore the smoke of the fire ascends—a witness to all men of the punishment that awaits the evil-doer.

The subterranean lake is an excuse for a lovely walk over the hills. This lake only came into existence about twenty years ago after a great storm. The earth fell in with a tremendous crash, disclosing the entrance to a cavern. From some hidden source water came rushing in for about six weeks, and then suddenly ceased. The cavern is dark as night, even in the afternoon when the sun shines on the opening; the entrance is steep, and very slippery; the lake lies far below, the dark vault looking like the gate of the under-world. Arab women bring piles of brushwood, and with bare feet descend easily to make a flare at the water’s edge. The light is weird and unearthly, the moving figures suggest witches, the water glimmers dimly, reflecting the flames as they leap up, and accentuating the gloom and vastness as they die down again.

One of the women was beautiful, her colouring was of the North, and the moon of her fair face was surmounted by a crescent moon of white linen. At least this veil, stretched over a frame or cap, should have been white, but was, in fact, sadly dirty; the gourbi they lived in was even worse. It was built of stone, roughly thatched, and surrounded by a wall to form a sheep-pen. The ground within and without was trodden into mud. Many of the animals shared the hut with the family, who seemed to have scarcely any possessions, and who, had it not been for their beauty, would have seemed lower in the scale of life than their own flocks.

The joyous rush of a motor car on a good road is no bad antidote to overmuch strolling in flowery meads or lounging under trees. Ancient ruins and motors sound incongruous, but, after all, surely the Romans would have revelled in the sport, and the fear of demons would scarcely have terrified them as it would the men of the Middle Ages, or the Arabs of the present day, whose ways made the drive to Tibilis amusing. The road twists and curves round the hills far above the clear stream, and as the motor with much hooting rounded the endless corners, Arabs rushed up steep banks out of reach of the monster, pulled their animals into shelter by main force, or covered their horses’ heads with their own burnouses. These were those who knew and understood. Those who did not, paid no heed to the coming of the “Turnobil,” and the chauffeur had to creep slowly and carefully past them. Others again climbed to points of vantage and shouted, and those shouts were not blessings on our progress, whilst a few naughty boys indulged in throwing stones which did no damage.

The ruins of Tibilis, now Announa (found by General Creuly in 1856), are finely situated on a hill, so the last part of the journey must be done on foot. The path, when it exists, is only to be avoided, so stony is it and rough, and also swampy in places. The distance is nothing, but the way seems long from its steepness and the scorching sun. It runs first downhill to a brook which it crosses by a bridge of slippery planks, then up a steep brae, and along a valley, when the toil is ended by a final scramble to the top. Here on a bare brown hill are a few weather-beaten trees, leafless and desolate, and all that remains of the ancient city—a stretch of paved road, a simple triumphal arch, one of the town gates, two or three arches, a Christian basilica, a few fallen columns, and traces of many buildings, including an amphitheatre.

A last gleam of sunshine touched the arch to beauty, then storm-clouds gathered on the neighbouring heights, a bitter wind blew fiercely, the weather by its gloom emphasised the long-forgotten loneliness of the place, once sufficiently important to give its name of Aquæ Tibilitanæ to the waters of Hammam Meskoutine, and now neglected, visited only by a few out of the many drawn to the baths by the quaintness of the scenery and the legends of the place.

Forsaken ruins such as these are to be found all over Algeria, but more often the sites are now occupied by modern colonists, and the ruins sacrificed to or incorporated with new buildings. A few, however, are still preserved to attract travellers, as at Tebessa, Tipaza, and Cherchell. In Tunisia ruins abound, and are even more remarkable for their extent and beauty. But it is a thousand pities that in both countries nothing is done to remove difficulties, so that expeditions are given up in despair from absolute lack of information and fear of discomfort. It seems a point of honour to know nothing off the beaten track, and as even on it the standard of comfort is not high, and requires some experience and a little tolerance, much of the country cannot be visited by ladies at all without a camp—a rare luxury. Even men, accustomed to really roughing it, suffer more than they care for from bad food in the French villages, and from noise and dirt in the native Fonduks.

One of these out of the way places is Dougga, where the Roman ruins are so beautiful that no one should count the cost in fatigue and trouble too great for a visit.

About two hours short of Tunis is the station of Medjez el Bab, the gate of the ford. In olden days a triumphal arch and a fine bridge across the Bagrada (Medjerda) justified the name. Both have now vanished, and the new bridge, built of the debris, is absolutely picturesque with age. One of the chief roads of Roman Africa passed over the original bridge, uniting Carthage with Theveste and continuing to the borders of Numidia. Military boundary stones all along the route still bear this testimony—Karthagine ad Thevestem ... usque ad fines Numidæ.

The walled town nestles on the river banks almost under the shade of a wide avenue, much appreciated in the burning sunshine of May.

In obedience to orders a carriage and pair awaited our arrival in the station-yard. This sounds imposing, but its appearance was utterly wanting in dignity save that conferred by the dust of ages. The vehicle was a rattling old shandrydan of a waggonette, roofed after the fashion of the country, and with leather curtains, which could be buttoned together closely to keep off the sun or rain; and, strange as it may seem, the darkness and shadow of this box were after a time a relief from the glare. Heat shimmered over the plain—blue, with a flickering haze. The white ribbon of the road looped carelessly round the olive groves, or stretched boldly across undulating fields, already golden and ready for harvest. The men amongst the corn, the very horses on the road, were steeped in lazy drowsiness. They worked, but it was as in a dream—just a pretence suited to the placid prosperity which brooded over all. Now and then, as the hours passed by, towns and villages came into view crowning the heights, all fortress-like, many with towers, picturesque in outline and dirty within.

One of these, surrounded by ruins, bears the name of Chehoud el Batal, or the false-witness; for once, so runs a legend, men, women, and children united in bringing lying evidence against a man great and holy, much beloved of Allah, so in the very act they were all turned to stone, and the stones remain where they fell for a witness to this day.

At mid-day we halted at Testour, once Colonia Bisica Lucana, though little is left to tell the tale. Really it is a bit out of Spain, an Andalusian hill city, with minarets that recall the old belfries of that country. The inhabitants are still called Andaleuss, and are said to be direct descendants of those Moors who escaped from Spain in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella.

Donkeys, laden with huge water-pots, led us up the steep hill, into the town, towards an open space, or plaza, with arcaded cafés blinking in the sunshine. Low one-storied houses with tiled roofs are built on either side of a street which is both wide and straight—a most unusual plan in a Moorish town, and very unsuitable for great heat.

Every scrap of shade was occupied by listless Arabs, who just roused themselves sufficiently to take part in the slight bustle of our arrival, followed by the diligence, and then crept back to doze once more. There is no inn, but the postmaster’s wife provides food in her cool, clean rooms for dusty, wayworn travellers. Her patient face, sad with the loneliness of exile, lighted up with pleasure at the chance of a chat with some of her own sex who knew la belle France. Only three or four European families live at Testour, and she and her husband are the only French inhabitants. Many men pass through on business, but ladies are comparatively rare. In the summer, traffic almost ceases, for the heat is so trying, and, notwithstanding the breezy situation, the thermometer occasionally rises to 112° Fahrenheit. There was a note of plaintive endurance in all the talk of the hostess, an attempt to make the best of things, a certain pride in the knowledge of Arabic and of triumph over housekeeping difficulties, mixed with a thorough dislike for the country, and contempt for the indigène and all his ways. Yet the country is beautiful, almost homelike, and could be made very rich.

A little further on is Ain-Tunga, or Thignica, a small village now, whose importance in the past is shown by the ruins scattered round a few poor houses. The Byzantine fort still preserves an air of solid strength, but only fragments enough remain to excite a languid interest in the two temples, the theatre, and a triumphal arch.

As the shadows lengthened, the country became more and more charming, for we were nearing the borders of Khroumirie, the most beautiful part of Tunisia. Clear streams and glades of olive trees became more frequent, and peeps of distant mountains gave variety to the hills and dales of a pastoral land.

Wonderful legends of lions are told of all this district. As many as sixteen are said to have been seen together at one time in one valley, through which we now drove so carelessly. The scenery is too peaceful to suggest the thought of wild beasts, and it is easier to believe in lions amongst the rocks of El Kantara, or the mountains of the Atlas and the Aures, than in this sylvan spot.

Teboursouk, the goal of the day’s journey, appeared at last on the brow of the hill, its walls and minarets rising from a silvery sea of olives, the witchery of the sinking sun increasing the effect of height and distance, and throwing a veil of light over the few modern houses on the outskirts.

Notwithstanding the noise and clatter caused by our arrival, the inn, with its imposing name of Hôtel International, seemed fast asleep; but at last the shouts of the travellers by diligence produced an Arab servant. Happy-go-lucky is the only way to describe the place. The Italians who kept it were fettered by no ordinary ideas of the proprieties. Dogs and babies, food, empty plates, pans and brushes, decorated the staircase and upper hall; pretty girls trotted about in an artless négligé of chemise and petticoat, with their hair down and their feet bare, until the second déjeuner, when they appeared in flowery cotton wrappers, with their hair elaborately dressed. It was not till dinner-time that they donned a full toilette, and enjoyed little flirtations with the officers. They made a cheerful din, with loud shouting and much laughter, but the Arab servant did all the work, smiling and willing as usual. The rooms were fair, and the food, considering all things, quite tolerable, though when hot water was asked for, it made its appearance in a small, rather dirty, saucepan.

Another of the peculiarities of Teboursouk was that it contained no carriages, so that we were bound either to retain our rattling, boneshaking conveyance at a fee of twenty francs a day, or else pay the penalty by making the return journey in the diligence, a still sorrier vehicle, always crowded to suffocation with colonists and Arabs with their bundles, who, not content with over-filling the seats, perched themselves on the top of the baggage on the roof.

Though Teboursouk looks its best from a distance, it is still an attractive country town, with few pretensions and almost unspoilt. Two mosques, one with many domes, and both with good square minarets, stand in its narrow, winding streets. There are only a few tiny shops—hardly enough to call a bazaar, but the whole effect is picturesque. The children are particularly pretty and charming, playing games gaily in every nook and corner. Small girls dance about with still smaller children, riding in a sort of pick-a-back fashion, with legs round the bearer’s waist instead of their shoulders. The colour adds to the effect; in no other village have we seen such perfect shades, or such variety of red, yellow, and orange. Many of the boys were in pale blue, and the women were as gay as the children. A dancing negro, a terrible monster in a mask, dressed in a shirt and kilt of skins, with animals’ tails and foxes’ brushes, and charms dangling from his girdle, drew all the small folk after him like the Pied Piper, as he danced, sang, and played his odd home-made guitar on his way through the town. His head-dress was a marvel in itself—a sort of fool’s cap of red and gold embroidery, set with coins and shells, and with another fine brush hanging down like a feather.

Columns and fragments of the Roman city Thibursicum Bure are built into the walls, and near the old fountain is an inscription recording its name. In the walls are also to be seen the remains of a triumphal arch. There is a Byzantine fort formed for the most part of ruins. Several bishops of this See are mentioned by Saint Augustine, and it is also known as the place of martyrdom of a Christian called Felix, in the reign of Diocletian.

Early morning saw us once more on the road, or rather the rough cart-track, to Dougga. The air was deliciously fresh and pure, and laden with the fragrance of the wild flowers that covered the sward. The horses did not like their work, and jibbed at the constant hills. Progress, therefore, was slow, as they only behaved properly on the down grades. A few Arab boys, who had invited themselves to places on the box and roof, jumped down and pushed and shouted lustily, but the last hill was too steep, so we climbed it on foot. However, the driver insisted on the poor horses going to their orthodox stopping-place half-way up, and rewarded them by fetching us in the evening with a team of three, harnessed abreast.

A primitive Arab village covers part of the site of the ancient Thugga. This is the simplest form of the name, but an inscription near the temple gives the following elaborate title, much too ponderous for daily use: “Respublica Coloniæ Liciniæ Septimiæ Aureliæ, Alexandrinæ Thuggensium.” The name was probably derived from the Berber, and means green grass. The city stands on a green hill, olive groves surround the ruins, and the valley of the Oued Khaled, a tributary of the Medjerda, is rich with green also.

Undoubtedly the most beautiful of all the ruins here is the great temple of Celestis, sometimes called the Capitol, which stands on the top of the hill, commanding a wide outlook, a really exquisite view of wood, valley, and mountains. The fine lines and proportions of this building, the situation, and even the warm, mellow tones of the stone, bring memories of Athens.

Time and weather have worn away the stone and added tender greys to the colouring, but have not greatly injured the grace of the fluted columns, the delicate work on the Corinthian capitals, or the richness of the mouldings. The sculpture on the pediment, however, has suffered much, giving the opportunity for many discussions as to whether it represents a lion, the rape of Ganymede, or the eagle of Jupiter. Wings are certainly visible, but the rest is a blur. The fine door of the cella is still perfect, and consists of three huge stones bearing an inscription; there is another on the portico, which states that the temple was built by two brothers at their own expense:—

L. MARCVS · SIMPLEX · ET · L · MAR
CIVS · SIMPLEX · REGILLIANVS · S. P. F.

It was dedicated to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva.

At the present time workmen are busy rebuilding the walls of the cella—a work which seems a sad waste of time and energy. The existing masonry, of a later date than the rest of the temple, possibly Byzantine, is of a style much used in North Africa, consisting of courses of stone laid horizontally, with upright bars of stone at intervals of about four feet, the square interstices filled with odds and ends of stone, like “the long and short bond” found in Roman and Saxon work in Britain. Bruce thought this “one of the most beautiful ruins of a temple in white marble in the world.” Playfair considers it as built of nothing less than Lumachella Antica, one of the lost Numidian marbles, now worth its weight in gold.

The theatre is also a gem, and though there is now no performance, it is still a joy to sit in the deep, cool shade on the almost perfect marble seats, and look across the stage and the broken columns to the sunny landscape beyond. It is finer in every way than the theatre at Timgad, and almost as large as the well-known theatre of Taormina.

At the entrance to the olive groves stands a triumphal arch of the decadent period, called Bab el Roumi, or Gate of the Christian. There are also the remains of the temple of Saturn, baths, an aqueduct, seven cisterns like those at Carthage, a circus, a fortress, monuments, and many other ruins too numerous to mention. Last, and perhaps most important of all, because it dates from the Phœnician times, is the great Mausoleum, wrecked by the Arabs employed by Sir Thomas Reade to remove the celebrated bilingual stone now in the British Museum.

Though the men and boys spent the day in a circle round us to watch and to criticise, thoroughly absorbed in the sketch, yet they had charming manners, dignified and smiling faces, and not even the smallest boy dared to be troublesome—a great contrast to many in Algeria, who have picked up the bad ways of the modern town-urchins. The same may be said of Teboursouk.

At Medjez el Bab another display of fine courtesy was found in a most unlikely quarter. The hotel was said to be quite impossibly dirty, so we were advised to dine and wait for the late train to Tunis at a cabaret near the station. The place was a shanty, full of men drinking and smoking, colons and railway employés. Every one took our appearance as a matter of course, bowed politely, and did their utmost to make us feel at home, the smokers retiring outside. Dinner was served for us at a table apart, quite nicely laid and cooked. There was good soup, chicken, wine and dessert, all for a ridiculously small sum. After dinner some of the men wished to talk, asked many questions about home and foreign affairs, and discussed the latest news of the war in the East. The wistful little woman who did the cooking could hardly make enough of us, and when the train arrived at last, no one would say good-bye, but only “Come again.”