INTRODUCTION.

From the city of Algiers, looking eastwards across the bay, is seen a snow-covered mass towering above lower ranges of mountains. It is to the country lying immediately beneath those snow-clad peaks, inhabited by a people of entirely different race and speech to the Arabs, and known as Kabyles, that the following pages relate. Though Algiers has many English visitors, this district remains little known; the reason perhaps being the want of those accommodations that tourists look for.

A day spent at Fort National, which is at the threshold of the region I refer to, is usually considered ample, and exhausts their interest. But any one making a more prolonged stay in a country, is apt to look upon it in a different light to the passing traveller; and I may be pardoned for having taken up the pen, if I should succeed in inspiring the reader with some of the interest that I feel for this district and its native inhabitants.

In former days, when the Kabyles were self-governing, immemorial custom, religion, and tribal laws, rigidly enforced hospitality. Special funds were put aside by the Jemāa, or village Commune, for the entertainment of travellers; it held itself responsible for the safety of the stranger and for that of his luggage, and each householder was in his turn called upon to play the part of host.

At present, under French rule, it is obligatory for the Amine, or headman, to entertain a stranger for one night. If it were not for this law, it is clear that, as there are no inns, a European journeying through the country might, by the caprice of the natives, be forced to pass the night without shelter on the mountain side.

The Amine refuses the money offered him in requital, but some one can always be found to accept a suitable payment.

The house where the traveller may be entertained, will probably be constructed in somewhat the following fashion.

A series of rooms is built round an open courtyard, which has a single entrance, and within which cattle, sheep, and goats are driven for protection at night. The building is of blocks of stone roughly plastered together, and whitewashed over. The beams and rafters of the roof are apparent, and upon them is spread a thick layer of canes, the crannies between being filled up with earth; above is a covering of tiles, and on these again heavy stones help by their weight to keep the whole in its place. The eaves are broad, and sometimes project so far over the courtyard that they are supported by wooden columns, and thus form a rude corridor, which affords shelter for the beasts from the weather.

Is not such a courtyard the model of the rude ancestor of such refined examples as are to be seen at Pompeii, where the open enclosure for the protection of animals has grown into a fountain-refreshed garden, and the rustic corridor into one decorated with elegant encaustic paintings?

In some parts of the country, large flattened slabs of cork are substituted for tiles, and are laid overlapping in the manner of slates; a layer of earth is beaten down on the top, which soon becomes overgrown with moss and weeds. These roofs are much flatter than the tiled ones, being just sufficiently inclined to throw off water when it rains heavily; they thus form terraces useful for various purposes, such as drying fruit. The rooms are lighted chiefly from their doorways, which lead from the courtyard, but in the outer walls are a few windows just large enough to permit a person’s head being protruded. Rooms are set apart for the women and children of the household, and on one side of the courtyard is the guest chamber. On entering this, the stranger is struck by finding it resemble a barn, rather than an ordinary room at an inn. The roof is supported by columns and beams, made from the roughly trimmed trunks of trees, and the floor is of beaten plaster. At one end of the room is a wall about five feet in height, supporting a broad platform or stage, on which are placed gigantic earthenware jars, square in plan, and five or six feet in height. These contain a provision of dried figs and grain, which is thus secured from damp and the attacks of rats. The platform is the roof of a stable for the accommodation of mules and cows. The room has only one door, which serves also as a passage to this stable. The beasts entering, turn, and are driven down an inclined plane, which opens between the outer wall of the building and the wall supporting the platform, and find themselves in their stalls. The floor of the stable is three or four feet lower than where the guest reclines, who is startled at seeing the heads of the beasts appear at large square openings, on a level with, and facing him.

This singular arrangement has at any rate the merit of allowing the traveller to observe whether his animals are properly cared for, since literally they sup at the sideboard.

Thoughts also are likely to arise concerning the Nativity, and how the infant Saviour was laid in his swaddling-clothes in a manger; for here is an example, that the most natural course to adopt, supposing that there should be an extra number of guests, would be to enter the stable under the same roof.

In one corner is a small hole made in the floor, where live embers are placed if the weather be cold, the smoke finding its exit as best it can through a hole above. Rugs are spread on the floor, and in due time the evening meal is brought, which will include a Kouskous, the characteristic dish of the country, answering to the macaroni of Southern Italy.

The Amine and some of his friends, sit by while the guest eats; but they do not partake themselves, their rôle is, to enliven the stranger with their conversation, to serve him, and to encourage him to eat as much as he can. When he has finished they retire, leaving a guardian who sleeps just within the threshold. The traveller rolls himself up in his wraps, and disposes himself to sleep upon the floor. Even if tired, he is fortunate if he wake refreshed in the morning, for sometimes there may be other animals besides cows and mules—rats in the roof or about the bins, not to mention fleas, the dogs of the house bark, and jackals howl outside.

Such being a picture of the native accommodation, it is evident that a European proposing to remain in the country, away from French settlements, must travel with a tent. The opportunity to do so, was offered me by Colonel Playfair, Her Majesty’s Consul-General at Algiers, who most kindly placed his fine tent at my disposal; and I take this occasion to again thank him for the shelter under which I spent so many pleasant days and peaceful nights.

I have been asked, ‘What do you find attractive in this semi-barbarous Kabylia?’ Before relating my story, it will not be out of place to mention a few facts relating to the country, which in my estimation render it interesting for an artist.

Firstly, the landscape combines great beauty with an imposing grandeur. There is a luxuriance of vegetation which more than rivals that of Southern Italy; and the glorious mountain masses, with their scarped precipices, cannot be easily matched for their form and colour.

The land is highly cultivated, and of a happy and cheerful aspect.

It is thickly populated, and the out-of-door life of the people, both as regards their agricultural and pastoral occupations, is picturesque. Not that these are strange in their character, on the contrary, they have the charm of being simple world-wide performances, common to all time.

The women, although Mohammedans, expose their faces with the same freedom as Europeans.

The dress of the men consists of a tunic and burnous.

The artistic merit of this loose and extremely simple dress, is not in the actual clothes, but in the manner of wearing them, which is varied. From the arrangements of folds into which these garments fall being ever changing, the artistic sense of the observer is always kept alive. A man thus simply dressed, may by some chance movement fling his cloak about his person, so that its masses and folds assume a dignity and interest worthy of permanence in sculpture. Such harmonies unfold themselves suddenly, and are fleeting, but they are an incentive to endeavour to record them.

I believe this is the only corner of the world, where the dress of the women is still the same as the Greek dress of antiquity. Though the Romans dominated North Africa, there is no reason to suppose that it was introduced by them; because, in a certain condition of society, it is the dress which common sense dictates.

Gestures can be studied when the people are excited, but only then. I should describe the ordinary manners of the Kabyles as gentle and calm; but at times, when their passions are aroused, they are as vehement as the storms that break the serenity of their climate. They are not as a rule a fussy gesticulating people; on the contrary, at the entrance to a village, a rustic row can always be found chatting peacefully, and sitting very still. Nor is it only the old who thus indulge in sunning themselves, though they can be seen there also, who

With us, it is by all classes felt that it is wise for a man to keep his head as cool as he can, but the Kabyles, in the ordinary way so quiet and gentle in demeanour, are an impulsive people, careless of self-control, and a mere trifle is sufficient to enflame them. They freely give reins to their feelings, untrammelled by considerations which beset more civilised men; and when passions have unrestrained play, gestures, which are the pantomime of passion, are born.

Owing to their having remained uninfluenced by strangers, there is a remarkable harmony between their manners and customs, and the country they inhabit; and on account of the simplicity of life, the reason for things being constructed and arranged as they are is generally traceable, and this gives an agreeable impression. The villages, for instance, seem to grow naturally out of the mountains, and the dress of the people accords exactly with their conditions of life. Their artificial surroundings are very meagre, hard, unalluring and rude; but at any rate it is satisfactory to find them free from the qualities of foolishness and insincerity; for when men seek simply to satisfy their wants, they are sure to act sensibly, and, according to their ability, adapt means to ends in the most direct manner possible. There is no place for trick and sham; moreover, when they decorate anything, they follow a simple tradition, but keep their personal feeling and invention alive, and thus they avoid the two sins of vulgarity and insipidity. All work so done, however rude it may be, is respectable and interesting.

This sense of harmony is felt all the more strongly by glancing for a moment at one of the new French settlements on the borders of the same country, where its absence is conspicuous; it is at once obvious, that such a village belongs to a complicated system of society.

The Kabyle village is rude and simple, the French is mean without being simple. It is built on the dusty high road, which can be seen winding in a serpentine line like a white thread, through the feverish plains. The road is traced in accordance with military and strategic reasons, and it will be found that there is little sign of traffic; a broad mule-track well trodden down, runs near, following a straighter line though more uneven gradients. This gives the road the appearance of being a sham. The village consists of a collection of hideous little houses sprinkled about in the plain, without shade from the pitiless sun, mean oblong boxes, quite unlike the model of a colon’s house that was to be seen in the gardens of the Trocadero at Paris in 1878, which showed a beautiful power of idealising. A government order has fixed the colony in its place, which so far as can be seen, might as well have been chosen at any other point. An ugly little church has been just completed, which the inhabitants do not appear either to respect or to want. All the wood used in the construction of the buildings has been brought from over the seas, from Norway, though the sides of the hills are covered with trees. The most frequented place of meeting is the dram-shop, where the heralds of civilisation congregate to tipple absinthe. Speak to the colonists, you will find that they abuse their homes and their circumstances; they one and all wish that they were somewhere else, perhaps the only point on which the natives are ready to agree with them. ‘Peut-être—oui, peut-être, le pays est joli, mais vu du loin,’ is the nearest approach to praise that I have been able to extract from a colonist in such a village.

In England men adapt their lives to the requirements and the accumulated conveniences of civilisation; but in a primitive society, there is a forced accordance between man and surrounding nature, which imposes its conditions upon life.

In Kabylia this agreement is visible in every particular and detail of life. Those bronzed and furrowed features, those sinewy limbs, do they not attest struggle and toil with nature? Watch those girls as they trip down the mountain path; at every step their movements are governed by the accidents of the ground. What a path it is! Fit emblem of half-civilised institutions. Year after year, year after year, it receives the impress of many feet, yet all the rude asperities of nature remain.

Kabylia has I think another interest, purely fanciful. On seeing the villages with tiled roofs set on the tops of the mountains, surrounded by fig-trees; and corn ripening among the fine olives; one is irresistibly reminded of Italy. But here, though the people are of a different race and religion, they have retained the habits of a very primitive age; and in this corner of the world, more than anywhere in Europe, observation of the manners of to-day, will picture the rural life of classic times.

Upon observing a phase of life so different from the world one is accustomed to, it is agreeable to discover that in odd unexpected ways, it connects itself in the mind, with a past whose beauty remains recorded for our enjoyment.

Added to these points of interest that Kabylia offers to the artist, there is the advantage that the climate is healthy and invigorating.

I first visited this country in the early spring of the year 1873, when I spent several weeks there. I revisited it in the year 1877, when I remained over a month among the mountains, living part of the time with Italians at an isolated farmhouse, and part of the time with the Missionary Fathers. In the beginning of 1880, I again returned and stayed a month at Fort National, and in April started on the expedition recorded in this narrative. On this last occasion I kept a diary. On my return home, I found that my notes were too concise to conjure up scenes to others; nevertheless they elicited so many enquiries, that I resolved to expand them in my leisure hours. The following is the result. In the hope that it may interest a wider circle than my personal friends, I with diffidence submit it to public criticism.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Drawn by the Author.

MOUNTAIN LIFE IN ALGERIA.

CHAPTER I.

EFORE leaving Algiers, my friend Muirhead and I engaged a Frenchman as a servant, who undertook, in accompanying us, to guard the tent during our absence, and to cook.

This matter being arranged, he went with us on a shopping expedition, when we purchased the necessary kitchen utensils, and got them packed in a conveniently shaped box. We filled our empty tins with provisions, and supplied ourselves with a few medicines, a precautionary measure that happily proved superfluous.

Muirhead bought an excellent folding camp-bed at Attaracks’, the army purveyors. For myself, I took an Indian bullock-trunk, containing clothes, books, and a store of photographic gelatine plates; and a box with painting materials and a camera. Folding irons by uniting these two packages formed a bedstead, upon which a cork mattress could be spread. A carpenter made for me a flat case to hold canvases, which served also as an easel, having pieces of wood so arranged on one side that they could be slipped down to form leg supports. This proved convenient; it was strong, so simple that it could not get out of order, and it could be adjusted so as to stand firm however uneven the ground.

Our preparations completed, we took places in the diligence leaving for Tizi-Ouzou, a French settlement on the borders of Kabylia. We started April 6, 1880.

The diligence left at the inconvenient hour of eight o’clock in the evening, and arrived at its destination at eight the following morning; we had a very uncomfortable, sleepless ride, and at Tizi-Ouzou only remained long enough to breakfast, after which we took the omnibus for Fort National.

The fort is built in a commanding position, at the top of a mountain 3,153 feet in height. The road at first passes through a plain, crosses the river Sebaou, which is not bridged and is liable to freshets after rain, when it becomes impassable.

The omnibus, on account of the snapping of one of the springs, made unusually slow progress as it toiled along the zigzag road leading up to the Fort. We consequently got out and walked most of the way, taking short cuts, and greatly enjoying the deliciously fresh air and fine scenery, and arrived at our destination between one and two o’clock, when, having refreshed ourselves, we took a turn outside the ramparts for the sake of the superb view from this point. There was a grand tumble of mountains, range beyond range; but what riveted our attention chiefly were the great peaks and rocky masses of the Jurjura to the south.

As I already knew something of the country, and Muirhead saw it for the first time, he said, ‘And what do you propose doing?’ I accordingly suggested that we should go in the direction of the high mountains, where we should be most likely to find points of interest. There were two roads in front of us, both leading to places suitable for camping. The first was on the crest of a mountain range, studded with many villages that lay between us and the peaks of the Jurjura, the seat of the Beni Ienni, one of the best-known tribes in the country, where native jewellery and cutlery is chiefly manufactured. The second was the home of the Aïth Ménguellath; their mountain was not actually visible, being hidden by the spurs of the one on which we were standing; it was farther off, but more easy of access than the Beni Ienni, being skirted by the French road to Akbou, the only one leading out of the country in the direction of Constantine, Kabylia being otherwise an ‘impasse.’ The latter tribe have in their midst a school under the direction of three missionary Fathers, and the former a school superintended by three Jesuit Fathers. We anticipated that the presence of the good Pères would be of service to us, considering our ignorance of the language.

At our feet, between us and the Beni Ienni, was a deep gulf. The Kabyle road before us, rough and steep, led down into it, apparently ending in the blue distance in a fine example of the perpendicular; the other wound round to the left at a high level. After a little talk over the matter, we decided to follow the civilised line as the easier, and to start for the Aïth Ménguellath the following morning, provided that we could find mules. We soon found there was no difficulty on this point, and five were promised to be ready at an early hour. When several mules are engaged, each belonging to a different owner, a considerable amount of excited talk and gesticulation has to be got through before the traveller sees his luggage finally packed and ready to start, for each mule-owner naturally does his best to get the heavy pieces put on his neighbour’s mule and the light pieces on his own. In the midst of all this dispute and fuss, the mules stand patiently, but they have a trick of striking out their legs, as if it were only just as much as they could do to support their burdens; more luggage is heaped on their backs, their expression of countenance grows more wistful and dejected; but when everything is adjusted they prick up their ears and start jauntily. We had three beasts, heavily laden, and two riding-mules. It was a glorious, perfect morning; the sun warm, the air brisk; and the great range of lofty mountains tipped with snow looked most sublime. We caught the country in the very act of bedecking itself with its spring mantle, for the mountain slopes were covered with the bright fresh green of the young corn, and the ash-trees in abundance were just opening their delicate leaves.

On the way we passed one or two small villages, and some charming wooded gullies with falling streams. At such a spot was a scene that caught my fancy. A party of girls had placed some clothes on smooth rocks, in the run of the brook, and, barefooted, were merrily dancing upon them; others were flopping about a crimson dress, previous to wringing it, while more clothes lay drying in the sun on the grassy slope. Above them, offering shade for a noontide repast, rose an elegant ash, with a great vine mazily tangled up with and depending from its branches. The eastern end of the mountain was not so verdant as the country we had already passed, the ground being naturally more barren; but no square foot of land capable of cultivation had been neglected, and it was matter of wonder to see corn growing on slopes so steep that no one could stand on them without some caution lest he should roll to the bottom of the ravine; as, moreover, it was by no means obvious where the bottom might be, and pretty evident that anyone rolling down would have no sound bone left in his body by the time he reached it, one could not but admire the plucky industry of the Kabyles.

The house of the Missionary Fathers at length appeared in the distance on a well-wooded ridge, the higher points of which were crowned by three or four large villages.

The road now became unfit for carriages, and dwindled to a mule-path, winding in an irregular fashion. We passed one especially picturesque place, crowned by the white tower of a mosque, with a fine group of evergreen oaks shading the rocky corner of a cemetery. As we approached the Aïth Ménguellath, and made the final ascent to the Mission House, the path was shaded by avenues of ash-trees.

On knocking at the door of the school-house, we found only one of the Fathers at home; he received us very politely, and refreshed us with excellent wine, made on the lands of the fraternity at the Maison Carrée, a few miles from Algiers, where is their mother establishment. Their Superior is the Bishop of Algiers. Any young man desirous of entering the society commences with a course of study in Arabic, at their house at the Maison Carrée. They have four other schools in Kabylia, besides this in the Aïth Ménguellath, which is the latest founded, and the Jesuits have two establishments.

On the road, we had seen no level piece of ground suitable for camping. In answer to our inquiries, the Father thought that nowhere in the neighbourhood could be found a better place than beside a small cemetery just beneath the school-house, where our animals had that moment halted; we therefore lost no time in unlading the mules, and dismissing our attendant Kabyles. We had never before pitched the tent, which was a large and fine one, unusual in its arrangements, and it took us some time to put it up; we were much embarrassed by tombstones, these encroached so near that it was next to impossible to peg down the tent. However, when once it was up, with the lining, and our camp-beds and luggage disposed within, it looked very comfortable. We determined that while we remained dwellers beside tombs, however much the ghosts of the departed might be perturbed at the unwonted presence of the unfaithful, our peace should remain secure.

A few men had collected to watch our proceedings, and boys from the school gathered round. They were a nice-looking set of lads, bright and gentle-mannered, and we were glad to find that they possessed a stock of French, slender though it was. The fire flickered up, in preparation for our evening meal, the school-lads in their white burnouses stood round, whilst through the trees the Jurjura peaks grew dim in the fading light.

Our man, Domenique, came from the Pyrenees on the Spanish frontier; he called himself a Frenchman, but he did not look like one, nor had he the lively French manners. He was spare, of about forty, with black straight hair and moustache, black eyes, under-cut mouth, with marked lines about the jaw. From the beginning, Muirhead declared him to be a man with a temper, which proved to be too true; time also proved him to be a man of a bilious temperament, utterly incapable of understanding a joke. ‘He is quite the Spanish type,’ said Muirhead. I know not, but if Spaniards are apt to resemble him, I hope I may never travel in their country.

We both of us marvelled greatly at the wonderfully meagre preparation he had made for his personal comfort. He carried with him nothing but a striped cloth, and a very thin green cardboard box, done up with string. To the last, the contents of this package were a mystery to us, but we believe that it contained a shirt-front, and one or two collars.

Such unpreparedness, such despising of all worldly comfort, should, we thought, be surely viewed from above by the saints with approving smiles, and Saint Joseph especially should have regarded with favour this extreme scantiness of scrip, which, judging from pictures, should have reminded him of his own ‘Flight into Egypt.’

Friday, April 9, 1880.—We paid an early call at the school-house, and saw the three Fathers. I found the Superior, Père Gerboin, to be a friend. Two years previously, I had spent a week at his house; he was then conducting a school in the tribe of the Zouardia, and I was indebted to his hospitality for the opportunity of seeing something of the tribes away from French settlements. He is a most excellent, kindly man, devoted to his calling. One would take him rather for an Italian than a Frenchman; short but strongly built, he has a handsome head, with a deep brow, and a flowing black beard, his bronzed features are set off by his white dress, which is something between that of a Carmelite friar and a Kabyle burnous.

The second, Père Voisin by name, whom I had not met, is almost a giant, over six feet in height, and fair; a true Norman, from Calvados, a jolly, lively fellow, his face a picture of good nature, and he speaks Kabyle with the ease of a native.

Père Gerboin teaches the elder boys; Père Voisin takes in hand a class of quite little fellows. About thirty scholars attend regularly, but the numbers are increasing.

The third, Père Mousallier, we had spoken to on our arrival; he is called by the natives Père Baba. He was busy making up and distributing medicines, for he said there was much disease and sickness about—not to be wondered at, considering the lack of doctors, and the hard life led by many of the people. He spends a good deal of his time in gardening, but does not take part in the teaching.

Our visit was but short, for we started on a walk of exploration, first directing our steps towards the highest point, at the back of the school-house, where there are two villages, separated by a small open piece of flat land. These are named Ouarzin and Taourirt en Taïdith, meaning the Ogre, and the Mount of the Dog. They are of the usual quaint character, narrow alleys, running irregularly up and down, innocent of paving, though rich in stones; in wet weather almost impassably muddy. The stone walls of the houses, on either side of these alleys, are only pierced here and there, with the smallest of windows, and the entrances. The wooden doors are often ornamented with rough notchings and carvings. In walking through these villages, attention is chiefly occupied in looking out for dogs, which are apt to come dashing out of the houses, barking in a most vicious manner, looking very much as if they would relish a piece out of one’s leg. Taourirt boasts of a Jamâ or Mosque. Its tower crowns the highest point of the mountain, and forms an effective feature in the landscape, though it is a modest structure both in size and style; moreover, the building is greatly out of repair and falling to pieces, being little used, for the Kabyles are not a mosque-going people; in this, as in other respects, their character presents a strong contrast to that of the bigoted Arabs.

I once asked a Kabyle why their mosques were abandoned. He replied that, before they were conquered by the French, they used to attend them very regularly, and that if Allah had cared about their conduct, and paid attention to it, He would not have allowed them to receive the kicks and cuffs of a too hard fate, such as they had been subject to ever since. This man was clearly of a practical bent of mind, and his God was the God of Battles. This is a proof of ancient and respectable theological views, that have the merit of being intelligible; their scientific notions seem to be equally primitive.

On one occasion a group of Kabyles was standing round, when I abruptly left off working, and began gathering my painting traps together, for, said I, ‘I see the wind is blowing the clouds in this direction, it will rain.’ ‘The wind does not push the clouds,’ said one, ‘you can see them moving in different directions at the same time.’ ‘But surely,’ said I, ‘you can perceive any day that it is the wind that moves them.’ ‘Does the wind move the sun?’ said he. ‘No, of course it doesn’t.’ ‘God said to the sun, Move always in one direction, and to the clouds He said, Move about as you please.’ ‘Is that not so?’ said he, appealing to his companions. They nodded gravely, and clicked assent without speaking. This clicking with the tongue, the same peculiar noise that a coachman makes to urge his horse, is a habit with the Kabyles; it seems to be a sign of assent. For instance, when painting, some men would come to see what I was about. One would say, ‘See, he paints the cows!’—click! would go all the others, like so many pistols being cocked. ‘See, he paints the houses also!’—click! they went, all round again, but no report followed—a feeble style of criticism.[1]

I have often noticed that in asking some simple question concerning the weather—for instance, whether it was likely to turn fine, or be wet—they seem to consider it presumptuous to hazard an opinion on such a subject, that we should leave such matters alone, and not think about them, they being no concern of ours, but God’s. Their manner implies that we should bear ourselves with a composed spirit, above a petty, fretful, unmanly prying into the works of the Lord. I have immediately dropped my eyes from the clouds to the earth, feeling quite abashed and inclined to say, ‘Bless my soul! why, so it is, now you mention it, I will not meddle with the subject any more, and never, oh, never look at telegrams in the “Times” concerning the wind, whence it cometh or whither it goeth.’

Each village has usually three or four outlets, where there are covered resting-places called Jamâs. These, like the houses, are of rough blocks of stone, and have tiled roofs, they are thirty or forty feet in length, and some twenty feet in breadth. The gangway passes through the centre, and on each side are broad stone benches where people can sit, or recline at ease in the cool shade. Men are always to be found at these places, chatting, smoking, sleeping, or may be stitching; for the men do all the tailoring, even to sewing together lengths of cotton stuff, to make dresses for their wives; the women weave but do not use the needle. These covered resting-places may be considered as the centres of village politics, for every village is divided into different parties, each anxious to elect the Amine or chief, who has power to inflict fines up to a certain amount.

The word Jamâ, the Arabic for mosque, means simply the place of assembly. Friday is el Jemāa, the day of assembly, the Mohamedan Sunday. The Aïth Ménguellath market is called Souk-el-Jemāa, Friday’s market. The native name for Fort National is l’Arba, or the fourth day, a market being held there every Wednesday. Before French rule, the duty of the Amine in times of peace was to maintain the tribal laws, in times of war he commanded the fighting men, but only to carry out some plan previously determined on by the Jemāa. When schemes of war on an extensive scale had to be executed, the Amines of a tribe chose a President, who commanded the united tribal force. Communal laws were collected into a complete code, called Kanoun; these varied in different tribes, but only on points of detail. In certain cases when these laws were unable to deal with new circumstances, the Jemāa was called together and a decree elaborated. An account of the Kanoun is given by C. Devaux, also by le Baron H. Aucapitaine (‘Etude sur le passé et l’avenir des Kabyles’). The latter says: ‘The Kanouns, the repositories of the laws and customs of the Kabyles, are interesting specimens of the political constitution of the democratic Berbers. We have searched history in vain for the origin of this democratic system, forming to-day the base of Kabyle justice.’ Several writers have thought that the word Kanoun is derived from the Greek word κανών, an opinion justified, says Aucapitaine, by the name still given to codes in vigour among the Greek Christians of Albania. Among the Miridites, justice is still administered after the ‘Canounes Sech’ preserved by tradition.

The village chief is still chosen by the majority of votes of the heads of families met together in council. He is responsible to the Kaïd, or President of the tribe, for the orderly conduct of the village, and the President again is responsible to the Bureau Arabe stationed at Fort National. The administration of the country is on the point of being changed from the military to civilians, a vexed question about which I have nothing to say. There is no police of any sort among the tribes. On asking a native what happens should a disturbance occur at night, or should a robbery take place, he replied: ‘All the men in the neighbourhood turn out of their houses to assist in quieting matters and in securing the suspected party; the following day there is a general talk and investigation into the matter before the Amine.’

At the season when the figs are ripening, men keep watch in their fields by night. Constructions of cane in the trees, looking like huge nests, are to be seen, where men at that season pass the night guarding the fruit.

In some parts of the country daring robbers, over whom the Amine has no control, invade the plantations—Barbary apes, which live among the high cliffs.

There are no shops in the villages. Were a man to open one, I take it the Kabyles are too suspicious of being overcharged to go in and buy. All the business of the country is done at the markets, where there is a lively competition and everything is open and discussable. Husbands, when at work, have the satisfaction of knowing that their wives cannot squander their money in riotous shopping; at any rate, they like their system of doing things, and mean to stick by it. Though the markets be distant, they like the walk to them, the company, the talk by the way, the concourse of many tribesmen, the news from distant quarters, the eager bargaining, the comparing of notes, the greetings of friends, the disputes with enemies. Is it not all lively and amusing? Above these merits in my eyes, is it not extremely picturesque?

From the open bit of ground between the villages of Ouarzin and Taourirt the view of the Jurjura is magnificent. With the early morning sun behind, the rocks throw great blue shadows, and are superb in colour, their formation is limestone, moulded in the grandest forms, the loftiest peak is 7,542 feet. The village of Taourirt is a trifle above the level of Fort National. Owing to the absence of glacial action, the general character and form of the highest mountains recurs in a curious way throughout the country—more or less obliterated, however, by the action of water. As some peal of thunder may re-echo until the softened reverberations die in silence, so do the forms of the lofty crags repeat, until with elegant lingering curves they finally plant themselves with quiet precision upon the dead level of the plain. On this open ground, just mentioned, are four or five mills for crushing olives. These are very simple in construction. A basin about twelve feet in diameter and three feet high is built of masonry, into this the olives are poured. A heavy cross-beam supported at its extremities by two others fixed vertically in the ground, passes over the centre of the basin, and its object is to keep the grindstone in its place, which is accomplished in the following manner. The stone, in an upright position, works like a wheel round a pole placed in the centre of the basin; this pole revolves, turning in a socket at its lower extremity, and in another above, attached to the overhanging beam. To the centre of the grindstone a long handle is fixed, men and women, pushing and pulling at this, run round and round the basin, and making the stone roll in the trough, which is lined with flat slabs; it crushes the olives which are placed in its way. It is about a foot in thickness, with the edge slightly bevelled, to cause it to roll easily.

One of the mills had its stone dislodged and lying on its side. This, of a reddish tinge tipped with bright light, looked like a mass of porphyry against the amethyst colour of the mountain shadows.

When olives are plentiful the gathering lasts for several months, beginning in October nor ending till February, and it is a charmingly picturesque sight. Men standing round a tree beat down the fruit with long wands, then they climb up to beat and shake the branches, till all the berries have fallen. ‘As the shaking of an olive tree, two or three berries in the top of the uppermost bough, four or five in the outmost fruitful branches thereof,’ is a Biblical simile for a small remnant. Upon a Greek vase in the British Museum, an olive tree is depicted being stripped of its fruit in the manner described.

Meanwhile the women are busy, working side by side, picking up the fallen fruit and putting it into baskets, which are emptied on to cloths spread on the ground. At close of day the heaped berries are poured into sacks, and carried up to the villages on mules.

The olive is the chief wealth of Kabylia; it grows in the greatest luxuriance. The lower slopes of the mountains are covered with it, and some miles distant from Borj Boghni, at the foot of the Jurjura, there is an especially grand old forest. The berries are left lying in a heap for some days, during which time they undergo a certain amount of fermentation. They are next poured into round shallow depressions in the ground, made in an exposed spot, sometimes they are placed on the roofs of the houses. Here the sun ripens and softens them to the uttermost, extracting by evaporation water contained in them, and allowing the pulpy part to be easily disengaged from the kernel. They now look all shiny with oil, are of the deepest purple colour, and ready to be carried to the mill, where they are crushed in the manner I have described: