CHAPTER II.

Then olives, ground in mills, their fatness boast.

The oil is extracted from the mass by pressure. A square block of masonry about a yard in height, contains a stone basin at the top of it, and a hole at the bottom of the basin allows the oil running out to be collected. Flat bags of alfa grass, filled with the crushed olives, are piled in the basin, a heavy flat piece of wood placed on the top, and pressure is brought to bear, by means of a wooden screw, which passes through a strong cross-beam, supported by two stout upright poles. The remains of the pressed mass are carried to some stream, where holes about three feet deep are arranged so that water from the stream can enter and afterwards be allowed to run off. When the holes are filled, the remains of the olives are thrown in, the women tuck up their dresses and jump in too, beating and knocking the mass about, and the refuse dirty water is allowed to escape.

Soap is manufactured from the oily residue, by mixture with wood ashes.

But to return from this digression. We went from Taourirt to Tamjoot, about a mile distant and somewhat lower, on one of the arms of the mountain. The rocky pathway passed through a little open cemetery, where a beautiful group of cork and ash formed a leafy bower above. In the background, the little village appeared perched on a prominence, and the picture wascompleted by the magnificent outline and precipices of the mountains.

GATHERING OLIVES.Like some fair olive, by my careful handHe grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land.Pope’sIliad, Book xviii.

GATHERING OLIVES.

Like some fair olive, by my careful handHe grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land.Pope’sIliad, Book xviii.

Like some fair olive, by my careful hand

He grew, he flourish’d, and adorn’d the land.

Pope’sIliad, Book xviii.

We stood watching for some time groups of picturesque peasants issuing from the shade, and making their way to the market below; some, bearing goods done up in skins; some, earthenware pots netted together with twisted grass cords; others driving sheep and goats, asses and cattle. There is not much to be gained by entering the villages; they look best from the outside, and Tamjoot was not an exception to the rule. We halted at the Jamâ at the entrance, and a friendly Kabyle brought us clotted sour milk and figs, with which we refreshed ourselves. We returned by another path, overhung the greater part of the way with ash; the land was well cultivated with corn, and bore besides a profusion of fig-trees and evergreen oak. On arrival at the tent, we were glad to find that Dominique had not been inactive, and we did justice to his first ‘déjeuner.’

Each mountain has its tribe—Qabïla is the Arabic word for tribe, Qabaïli, a tribesman—and the villages are all built on the crests. The reason for this is apparent from a mere glance at the country, the slopes are so extremely steep that there is no other place where they could easily be built, and the gorges are occupied only by the stony beds of torrents; the springs also are found generally not far from the summits. Such situations have the advantage of fine healthy air, free from fevers; and in unsettled times, before the French introduced regular government, they no doubt to a great extent afforded the inhabitants immunity from the attacks of their neighbours.

From all accounts, in the good old days, the tribes were constantlyquarrelling, and thus found distraction from the monotony of a too uneventful existence.

The area of country enclosed between the sea and the Jurjura, is about 3,850 square miles. The number of armed men at the time of the conquest, has been estimated at 95,000. Reckoning a little less than three times as many women and children, gives a total of 350,000 souls, or the high rate of 90 per square mile.

No village shows any signs of fortifications, or preparations for defence. The deep gulf fixed between the mountains, practically keeps the different groups of villages far more separated from each other than if they were built on islands. Before the French occupation, the people used always to go about armed. C. Devaux, a captain of Zouaves, has thus described a fight in the old times; it is full of picturesque suggestion:—

‘In the case of a village not having a sufficient number of fighting men to hold the field, when about to be attacked by superior forces, the defenders hastened to arrange means of resistance. Trenches were dug and mounds raised, according to the position of the ground to be defended, the outlets of the streets were closed by walls of piled stones, and at the moment of attack, each man occupied the place assigned him.

‘The women, young and old, joined in the fray; in their gala dresses, bedecked with their jewellery, and holding each other’s hands, they chanted a war-song, and from time to time raised thrilling cries to inflame the courage of the defenders. These songs, these war-cries of the women, heard in the midst of the fusillade, produce a most vivid effect. Having many times been called on to conduct Kabyle contingents at the defence of avillage menaced by the enemy, I have felt, when I heard the exciting cries of the wives and mothers, how greatly they touch the fighting fibre of the combatants.

‘Things are managed differently when the French attack; then the women are sent into the mountains with the children and the flocks and herds; for in case of the village being taken they would be made prisoners, whilst between Kabyles the women were always released, and in no instance was any insult offered them.’

I am afraid that when the French attacked, the women were not always so comfortably sent out of the way as this officer describes, and that they fared badly. One day an old soldier was abusing the Kabyle women to me. ‘C’est incroyable,’ said he, ‘comment sont méchantes les femmes Kabyles.’ I asked him to be kind enough to descend from generalities to particulars. He thereupon described an attack on a village, at which he had been present, when the women had assisted the men in the defence. He told me how, when the bullets were flying, he and a comrade had rushed at the doorway of one of the houses; his friend, a few paces in advance, killed a Kabyle just as he was levelling his gun to fire; but vengeance was instant, there was the flash of a pistol, his comrade fell dead; rushing on, he made a plunge with his bayonet, and on withdrawing it, behold! he had run it through the body of the Kabyle’s faithful wife. ‘Vous voyez, monsieur,’ he concluded, ‘comment sont méchantes les femmes Kabyles.’

The extreme timidity of the women to this day, running away, as they often do, in the most idiotic manner on the first sight of a European, arises of course from their fears at the time of thewar. It seems clear that in former times the fighting that occurred among the Kabyles was, as a rule, of a much milder nature than a war against an invader. They fought about points of honour, or personal dignity. When a tribe thought itself insulted by another and sought vengeance, it would send the young men to attack the flocks and herds, the animals taken in acoup de mainwere slaughtered and the meat distributed among the tribe.

From that moment they made ready for war. Skirmishing would begin; the marabouts, or priests, would then enter the field as conciliators, but as they knew from experience that by reasoning they would not succeed in extinguishing animosity, they tried to calm matters by making conditions, such as, that they should not fight at night, or that on such and such days fighting should be suspended. However, if one of the parties was greatly irritated by losses or insults, the voice of the marabouts was not listened to, and matters often became very serious; they would attack day or night at any hour, all communication was interrupted, they dug trenches, houses were burned, trees cut down, and, in short, they did all the harm they could. In the ordinary way the warriors of both sides betook themselves to the spot set apart by custom for finishing quarrels, and there fought in the manner of sharpshooters. Each combatant sought to approach as near as possible, gliding from bush to bush; and when within easy range, his gun resting on the branch of a tree, or a stone, he would fire and then retire without troubling to see if he had hit.

When two Kabyles fight without weapons, they claw like wild cats, a disgusting way of fighting. Once during my stay in the tribe of the Zouardia, two men, close to where I waspainting, began to fight about a boundary. A herdsman had driven his cows on to a pasture which he believed to be communal property; another man, meeting him, told him to walk off, because he himself only had a right over the land, having rented it of the commune. They forthwith began mauling and clawing at each other’s faces; matters were becoming serious, and I had just sharpened my pencil to try and sketch them, when a third party at work near, separated them; they calmed down almost immediately, each rather pleased with himself at having shown that he was game to fight. On coming up to me, I tried to explain that in England men fought with the fist; thereupon they grinned good-naturedly. I have been shown an iron claw that is sometimes worn on the hand when fighting, a very nasty and dangerous weapon, answering to the American knuckleduster. The wagmuck, an iron claw fixed upon the hand, is an historical weapon of the Deccan. Sivajee, the founder of the Maharatta Empire, murdered Afzul Khan with it—an incident introduced by Colonel Meadows Taylor into his novel of Tara.

So on the confines of adjoining grounds,Two stubborn swains, with blows, dispute their bounds;They tug, they sweat: but neither gain, nor yieldOne foot, one inch, of the contended field.

So on the confines of adjoining grounds,

Two stubborn swains, with blows, dispute their bounds;

They tug, they sweat: but neither gain, nor yield

One foot, one inch, of the contended field.

All the world has heard of the fighting qualities of the Kabyles under the name of Turcos. I have often talked with natives who took part in the Franco-German war, who have recounted to me their experiences of Sedan, their long journey into Germany, and how they nearly died of cold.

Though each mountain extends over a large area, the summitis very limited; this is especially the case in the tribe of the Aïth Ménguellath. In the afternoon we took a walk of exploration down the backbone of our mountain, we had gone but a few minutes, when we faced an eminence covered with clustered houses, and a short distance beyond was a second village-crowned knoll. A curious effect was caused by the shadows of trees cast in straight lines downwards upon the corn-covered slope, looking like reflections in a liquid sea of green, the extraordinary freshness of the colouring was heightened by the deep blue ranges beyond. Farther, we came upon an open space covered with tombs and evergreens.

At one end of this cemetery was a little white Kouba, or chapel, built over the tomb of a celebrated marabout, with coloured tiles round the doorway. It was shaded by a group of oaks, while on one side we caught a peep of the village set on the hill; one of these trees, which overhangs the path, has a quantity of little dirty bits of rag tied to the branches by women. It is not uncommon to come across some insignificant-looking bush covered with tatters; sometimes alongside is a niche made for a lamp, where simple offerings, such as a few handfuls of figs, are left. Certainly the bits of rag cannot be called offerings; they are left in recognition of the holy man buried there, equivalent to leaving a card in passing, an act at which no offence can possibly be taken, and which perchance may be regarded by the deceased as a pleasing attention. Hard by lives a marabout known to the people as Uncle Zaïd, an old man who looks after the chapel, and does a great deal of praying. We now found ourselves upon a grassy space, where shepherds pasturing their flocks were sitting underthe shade of ilexes. Before us rose a steep ascent, crowded with a mass of lichened tombstones, of a beautiful warm grey; and growing among them were ilexes, corks, and figs trained into leafy canopies above the graves, and pomegranates crimson with budding leaves. The hill was crowned by Thililit. Skirting the cemetery was a path among rocks, up and down which charming groups of women and girls, with pitchers on their heads, passed to and fro from the fountain; unfortunately they were timid as deer, and on seeing us, fled in a scared way behind the shelter of trees, from which they peeped out spying, till we had passed. We walked through Thililit, and the path continued with equal interest beyond. Passing a little plateau, we arrived at the second village, that we had seen at a distance appearing above the first; this was Aourir-Amer-ou-Zaïd. The ridge continued in a straight line half a mile further, and led to Iril Boghni, but we postponed a visit thither. We felt that another walk in this direction was imperative, if it were only for a chance of catching sight of a girl who was talking merrily with her neighbours at the door of her house in the village of Amer-ou-Zaïd. She certainly was the most beautiful girl we met in the country, rich-complexioned, dark-eyed, with handsome features, and a supple graceful figure. Alas! we never saw her again. ‘O maiden with delicate features, thou resemblest Stamboul, for thou hast many admirers.’

MEETING.The season now for calm, familiar talk,Like youths and maidens in an evening walk.Pope’sIliad, Book xxii.

MEETING.

The season now for calm, familiar talk,Like youths and maidens in an evening walk.Pope’sIliad, Book xxii.

The season now for calm, familiar talk,

Like youths and maidens in an evening walk.

Pope’sIliad, Book xxii.

[Illustration]

Saturday, April10, 1880.

HE features of the landscape below Thililit combined so happily together from many points that, upon a second visit, we agreed this spot was as choice as the heart of painter could desire, and provided more subjects than we could grapple with.

On our walk, Uncle Zaïd, a benevolent, white-bearded gentleman, accosted us, and offered cakes. By and by, we met Père Voisin reading his breviary, who said there was much talk in the villages concerning us, and questionings as to what we had come for, why were we staring, why prying about the country in that way? Did not the pulling out of paper and pencils mean mischief? Were we not ‘Géomètres’ come to trace out new roads? and would they, the Kabyles, be forced to work on them? He told us he had reassured them, explaining that we were Englishmen, and had nothing to do with the Government.

Sunday, April11, 1880.—It blew hard during the night, and there was a heavy fall of rain, it was cold too, so that the unprepared Dominique was half-frozen to death, and we, not having more clothes than were quite necessary for ourselves, were forced to borrow wraps from the Fathers. On waking, behold, we were in the clouds and drizzle, unable to see many yards, so we determined to mark Sunday in the time-honoured fashion, by lying late a-bed. It rained all day, and we left the tent, only to take a constitutional under umbrellas.

The evening was spent with the Fathers. Père Gerbouin lent us a pamphlet printed for private circulation, giving an interesting account of a French missionary expedition to the Equatorial Lakes. A Brother, whom I had known when staying, two years previously, in the tribe of the Zouardia, had taken part in this expedition, and they had just learned the news of his death, at which they much grieved; nor was he the only victim, for several others had succumbed to privations and fevers. Père Gerbouin was very enthusiastic on the subject, and greatly wished to join a fresh expedition that is to start from Algiers for Lake Victoria. He would be the right man in the right place; for besides his enthusiasm he is tough and strong. He thought it a disgrace, at a time when England and Protestants are making such exertions in this field of enterprise, that France and the Roman Catholic Church should lag behind. Evidently the cannibals will shortly be placed in the delicate position of having to choose between rival sects of the same religion.

The Père also told us of the privations they had to endure while their present school-house was being built; how winter hadovertaken them, and they had to live in huts in the snow. They also recounted many odd stories about our neighbours, and of the hard life led by the poor.

In Kabyle society, the social unit is the family. The possessions of a family are held in common, and are administered by the father; at his death, by the son deemed to be the most capable to manage affairs. The gains of each member of the family are joined in a common fund. The exclusion of women to inheritance is the consequence of this organisation, for, if the daughters inherited like their brothers, the division of goods would bring about the dispersal of the family.

Polygamy is lawful, but unusual, for the Kabyles as a rule are too poor to be able to afford more than one wife. The women all marry as soon as they arrive at the age of puberty. There is no written contract at marriage. A Taleb—that is to say, a man knowing how to read—recites the first and fourth chapters of the Koran, there is no other religious ceremony. Before parting with his daughter, the father receives a certain sum, which varies according to her age, beauty, and her qualifications for making a good housewife, and according to the means of her intended husband. Sometimes part of the price is given in a provision of corn and figs. The father gives his daughter as a marriage portion a girdle and jewellery; these become her personal property, which no man can take from her. If the father has received the price of his daughter, and she should happen to die before the consummation of marriage, he retains the money. If the husband die, leaving his widow childless, she returns to her father, who marries her again as he pleases. If she have children, her father cannotgive her in marriage without her consent; and if she pay him an equivalent to what he would expect to receive from a man desiring marriage with her, she becomes free from all paternal restraint. This money is kept in trust for her children. If she marry, her husband, who has had nothing to pay, engages to take care of the children, who remain in the house with their mother. If a woman refuse to live with her husband, she returns to the paternal roof, when she becomes known as a ‘rebel.’ The husband still has rights, and can forbid her marrying anyone else; he may allow her to do so, provided the father consent, in which case the latter receives the supplementary sum to be paid. A widow can only re-marry after mourning four months and ten days; a divorced woman must wait three months. A man having repudiated his wife cannot take her back without paying again, and having the marriage ceremony re-performed. In case of separation, the children are brought up by the father.

Conjugal infidelity has to be avenged with blood. In the Beni Ienni I heard of several cases of savage murder from this cause.

Two brothers, one of twenty, the other fifteen, having constantly been about the tent since our arrival, we engaged the younger, who was very anxious to make himself useful, and knew a few words of French, to do little commissions. Kabyle verbs have an habitual form. As the elder was an adept in putting into practice the verb to ‘loaf,’ we nicknamed him the habitual loafer. We now learned with astonishment that the habitual loafer had just taken to himself a second wife. Having no ready money, in order to obtain one, he had offered the parents of the girl to whose hand he aspired, a patch of land in pledge, until he should be ableto pay off the debt. After two months of troubled married life he sent the girl back to her parents, I know not upon what plea. These naturally claimed the field, but the youth’s mother (his father was dead) brought proof that the land had been given to her. The returned girl got no recompense, though free to marry again. The late husband began making fresh advances to another girl. Number two took better precautions; moreover, the habitual-loafer promised to earn a certain sum of ready money before marriage, and he started to seek his fortune in Algiers. After a three months’ absence, he turned up with thirty sous in his pocket; the young lady however was notdifficile, and with an eye perhaps on the land—it could not have been on her lover—accepted him in spite of his meagre success.

Some of the well-to-do natives engage private instructors to teach their sons Arabic and the Koran, but this is rare; such a teacher is living in the village of Thililit, where he conducts a school. Reclining under the shade of the ilexes, we heard the voices of the children chanting the Koran, a native by our side, perceiving how our attention was occupied, pointing in that direction, said, ‘Kief kief Afrouken’ (just like the birds). When Kabyle is written, the Arabic characters are adopted. Among the Touaregs, a Berber people more to the south, an indigenous alphabet is in use. General Hanoteau translates some sentences thus written, which were inscribed by a woman on the shield of a Touareg chief. The writing is from right to left, and decipherment is complicated by the omission of vowels, and of divisions between words. Poor vowels, they often fare badly. Even in ordinary Arabic writing they are much snubbed, treatedas superfluous luxuries, and hustled out of the way by self-sufficient consonants, and never meet with the frank recognition due to their merit. In the Koran they certainly fare better, everything is as perfect as possible, and all vowels are introduced, but even then they are poor little things above and below the line, attendant upon a sturdy row of consonants. In the cellars of the British Museum are a few ancient Lybian inscriptions. There is one bilingual stone, Phœnician and Berber. This ancient Berber writing is almost identical with that still in use among the Touaregs.

Monday, April12, 1880.—Another wet morning and dense mist. I occupied myself with studying Kabyle. Before leaving Algiers, M. Stora, a Jew, ‘interprète à la cour d’assise,’ gave me a few lessons, the only man of education I could hear of, who had knowledge of the language. I paid him about a dozen short visits, when he kindly gave me all the assistance he could. I also carried with me a Kabyle grammar, written some years ago by General M. Hanoteau, and a French and Kabyle dictionary, compiled by the Jesuits, which proved most useful.

The ignorance of the French concerning the language is remarkable, considering the large Berber population they have to govern. I believe there are some half-dozen Europeans at Fort National with some smattering, but the only Europeans who thoroughly understand it are the Fathers.

The colonists, forced into contact with the natives, get into the habit of speaking a debased pidgin language, a mixture of bad Arabic, French, and Spanish, but sometimes they do not even attain this. For instance, Mme. Pierre at Fort National haskept an hotel there for twenty-five years, and has dealings with the natives at all hours; she does not know a single word of Kabyle, nor can she put together a single sentence in Arabic. When ‘colons’ cannot make the natives understand, the ‘cochons d’indigènes’ are in fault for not learning French. Our man Dominique was a spirit of this nature; he had roughed it for years amongst an Arab population in the province of Oran; to the best of my belief, his stock of Arabic consists in the magic words ‘Goul’ and ‘Jib hadda,’ by which he means to express ‘take’ and ‘bring that.’ On arrival among the mountains, he remarked, ‘Ici on parle arabe avec un dialecte très différent de celui d’Alger.’ I doubt whether, on leaving the country, he was aware that they spoke a language altogether distinct from Arabic. As an instance of his incapacity for picking it up: he took in fresh milk for our breakfast daily during two months and a half; the last morning he was with me, after removing to another tribe, when in bed, I was amused to overhear him vainly striving to express his desire for milk, but unable to make the puzzled native understand.

The weather gradually cleared; we sallied out in good spirits, and planted our easels at the foot of the cemetery of Thililit. We were quickly surrounded by a little crowd, who sat down to watch our proceedings, and remained the whole afternoon chatting good-humouredly. Having discovered their mistake in believing us to be agents of Government come to trouble them in some way, they now seemed to be very pleased, and kept repeating ‘Inglese buono,’ ‘Français,’ then they shook their heads, and spoke earnestly. We in our turn took to shaking our heads, and the Kabyles seemed disappointed that we could not understand them.In civilised countries, if curiosity should bring a spectator to a painter’s side, he would probably say to himself after a while, ‘Now I must not waste time, I must be off and do something.’ In the more easy-going south, a Kabyle so placed would more probably say to himself, ‘Ah! here’s an opportunity for a new occupation, to watch this man.’

Tuesday, April13, 1880.—It blew mightily during the night, the wind roaring in the gulf beneath, and rushing over the crest on which our tent was pitched, canvas shook and pole trembled; and the possibility of tent-pegs being drawn, or cords snapping, caused us unpleasant reflections. On waking in the morning, we found a group of Kabyles waiting outside. They brought four handsome women’s garments, and bargaining began, which ended in our buying these dresses cheaply, considering the labour bestowed upon them. ‘It is naught, it is naught, saith the buyer; but when he is gone his way, then he boasteth.’

Besides satisfaction in possessing these cloths as costumes, we found them serviceable as warm coverlets, and were able to return the wraps we had borrowed; of this we were glad, thinking that the Fathers had none too many for themselves.

The Amine or village chief of Taourirt, next made his appearance with some friends to offer hospitality, saying that, if agreeable, he would send us a kouskous that evening. We thanked him, and said we should be very pleased; he had hardly departed when the Amine of Ouarzin, approaching, offered us the hospitality of his village, another kouskous for mid-day. We got one of the schoolboys to explain, if it were agreeable to him, we should like it deferred, thinking it impossible to eat two mountains ofkouskous. The Ouarzinites were not going to be cut out in that fashion, so we had to accept; before mid-day the dishes appeared. The company consisted of the Amine and some of the village counsellors, and three marabouts; there was a large bowl containing the kouskous well piled up, a boiled fowl, with a jug of sauce, another full of sour milk, a dish of boiled eggs, delicious honey, and dried figs. Kouskous is wheat ground roughly; two women grind it, sitting on the ground facing each other. The appropriateness of the Biblical saying is then apparent (‘two women shall be grinding at the mill, the one shall be taken and the other left’). Water-mills are also constructed on some of the streams. The flour is slightly moistened, passed through a sieve, and rolled out with the hand till it takes the form of little balls about the size of fine shot; this is boiled, moistened with gravy, and seasoned with pepper. Like macaroni, it is a wholesome satisfying dish. Placed in the midst of the company, each guest is served with a round wooden spoon, with which he attacks the heap, gravy is constantly poured on; in eating the chicken, he has to make use of his fingers.

The Pères joined in the meal; with their help we were able to follow the conversation. A discussion arose between the two principal marabouts, as to whether photography and the painting of portraits is ‘hareem,’ ‘a thing prohibited;’ the elder, the more liberal-minded, contended that there was no harm in the matter, the other declared that there was; the elder, being a Hadj, was voted to have most authority. The third marabout, a man with light-coloured hair and dull expression, had nothing to say. I think kouskous must have got into his head. One of the Amine’sfriends started the opinion that if a man possessed the portrait of another he also possessed a power to work him mischief; though he could not say he believed it himself, others did; might there not be some truth at the bottom of the notion? Was it proved certainly false that if one man bearing malice were to bury another’s portrait, the original of the likeness would sicken and die? This belief was much ridiculed, though they had all heard it before. We expressed regret at not having our cartes-de-visite to offer, that he might plant them in his garden.

[Illustration]

When we had finished, the dishes were handed to Dominique, who served himself, while muttering his disgust at native cookery. The rest then made a circle, and the remaining provisions were quickly disposed of.

After the feast, we took a walk to Iril Boghni, the last village on the backbone of the mountain. On the way we had to pass the house where lived the beautiful girl; we hoped to catch sight of her, but the door was shut, and she would not come out. A Kabyle was sitting at the corner carving wooden spoons with an adze; we took the greatest interest in his occupation, and stood a long time watching; it was no good, the rude envious door was determined not to change the direction of its face, and hid the beauty from us. On our way back I made a great effort to converse in Kabyle with a man who addressed us. He seemed amused—I dare say with good reason—but politely invited us to step into his house. I thought he was making straight for the home of the beautiful girl—how attentive of him!—no, unluckily it was the next house that he entered.

We sat down at the entrance of a dark smoky room. Hespoke to a woman, who rose from her seat behind a loom; she went out and brought in milk and figs; resuming her work, the busy fingers were alone distinct, the threads of the loom forming a thin veil before her figure. This humble-minded artist was weaving a dress with elaborate patterns; yet she had no design before her to help, and moreover had to manufacture her own machine and arrange the threads. I was astonished at the simplicity of the loom; the warp was fixed in an upright frame made out of canes; she used no shuttle, but passed the woof from side to side with her fingers, and jammed it home tight with a metal handcomb, a most laborious method of weaving. But because the mechanical means were rude, let not the reader imagine that the work was so, for exactly the reverse is the truth. She brought an old dress made some years before, much used, but most beautiful in workmanship, design, and colour—indeed, as a piece of colour it excelled all other woven cloths that we saw in that part of the country. I made her understand that I had bought some dresses, and that I should like to possess that one, but she seemed loath to part with it. ‘Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates.’ ‘She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with double garments.’ She was past middle age, and strength and sight seemed to be failing; she had lost the sight of one eye, sitting ever working in that smoky atmosphere. A young and comely woman, probably her daughter, tended a sleeping babe, gently swinging its cradle slung from a beam in the roof.

So from her babe, when slumber seals his eye,The watchful mother wafts th’ envenom’d fly.

So from her babe, when slumber seals his eye,

The watchful mother wafts th’ envenom’d fly.

As I watched the figure of the weaver, distinct or half lost according as it approached or receded from the web before it, while the busy fingers peeped out now here, now there, moving ceaselessly, I was reminded of the description of the handmaids in the Palace of Alcinous:

Some ply the loom; their busy fingers moveLike poplar leaves when Zephyr fans the grove.

Some ply the loom; their busy fingers move

Like poplar leaves when Zephyr fans the grove.

I could not help contrasting her with those ladies at home who take part in the movement for Art needlework. I also unsuccessfully attempted to learn the nature of the dyes employed, and was shown some mysterious gummy substances. I could not understand a word of what the good woman said, but am under the impression that she must have been explaining that they were ‘Art colours.’

Let it be here remarked, that the women’s dresses are not dresses at all in the sense of being garments made up, or cut out; they are simply pieces of drapery disposed about the body, fastened beneath the shoulders with brooches, and confined at the waist with a girdle; but for the girdle and the overlapping of the edges of the cloth, the wearer’s person would be disclosed on one side. The width of the loom is the same as the measure from the chin to the ground. This given, weaving is continued until the cloth is completed; the length usually being twice the width; but sometimes they are made twice as long, giving a double thickness when worn. Shorter pieces are also woven, an extra protection for the back; these are fastened to the shoulder-pins, and confined by the girdle, but show the underdress about the bosom, andfor a few inches above the ankles. When the wearer sits down, this extra piece is seen enveloping the thighs and knees, while the underdress droops through below, in the way so often represented in Greek statues and bas-reliefs. Formerly I used to regard this arrangement as simply an agreeable artistic device, for allowing the folds of the outer garment to contrast with those below; it was not until I visited Kabylia, that I perceived that its trueraison d’êtrewas protection for the back. Before returning, we went to watch the women draw water at the fountain. There were groups of fine women showing well-rounded arms and necks, as they walked in a stately way with Greek-looking vases on their heads.

The liquid crystal fills their polish’d urns;Each nymph exulting to the town returns.

The liquid crystal fills their polish’d urns;

Each nymph exulting to the town returns.

Many of these handsome girls could not, I think, be distinguished from Italians, if transported to San Germano or Atina, and dressed like Italian peasants; but the majority are of course not handsome, and there is a type of countenance which is peculiar, as though there might be some admixture of Tartar blood—broad faces with marked cheek-bones, and thickish lips. Their hair is always of a raven black; I imagine they sometimes add that which they think nature lacks, because the men are not all dark-haired. The colour that warms the cheeks of these brunette beauties is also sometimes due to feminine art.

The men have good-shaped heads and marked features; before middle age they are strongly bronzed, furrowed, and rugged; most wear black moustachios and beards; now and then one will be found with hair as red as any Scotchman’s. There is undoubtedlymore variety than amongst the Arabs. The Arab has a high prominent nose, with a droop in the line of the nostril, like Dante’s nose; full projecting lips and invariable black hair. The Kabyle is wanting in all this; he is lower of stature, but has more expression of countenance. Unfortunately, the children have not the delicate beauty comparable to what one sees in an Arab town like Tlemcen.

At evening came our second kouskous from hospitable Taourirt. When all was finished, we handed round cups of tea—a beverage the Kabyles were not acquainted with, and appreciated; at dusk they took their departure.

The wind during the afternoon had dropped, but the atmosphere was ominously murky and sultry, the mountains barely visible, patches of snow on their summits just showing above their shadowy bodies. When the Kabyles left, the wind was rapidly rising, while a black dangerous-looking cloud stretched itself from one horizon to the other, the sky on either side remaining clear.

Wednesday, April14, 1880.—What a night this was a prelude to! Soon the wind, straight from the tops of the Jurjura, came rushing and raging over the abyss below, and shook our tent, as if it were a leaf on the point of parting from its bough. About midnight there was a lull; we hoped that the worst was past. No; we had as yet been treated only to the overture; the winds, which seemed to have been collecting and gathering evil strength in the valleys, suddenly rushed onwards again like wild beasts determined to destroy us, roaring as they swept in fury through the trees. I never heard such a storm, and we were sorely afraid that no tent could stand it for long; sleep was out of the question, we sat up all night ready against any emergency, for wedreaded a catastrophe every moment. The central support was made of iron tubing, with a cap at the top; this latter was carried away early in the evening—a mishap that let in the wind between the canvas and the lining; some of the attachments gave way, and the lining flapped in an ungovernable manner. When it became light enough to examine, we found most of the wooden pegs pulled out of the ground, and the ropes fastened to gravestones broken; six long irons only, driven in up to their heads, remained firm and had saved us. Thankful we were that the tent was standing; it had stuck on bravely to the mountain, like a limpet to a rock, when the rising waves rush over it. It was a sirocco not to be forgotten. ‘As whirlwinds in the south pass through, so it cometh from the desert, from a terrible land.’ Later in the day, the wind somewhat abated in its fury, but we remained in the tent, glad to take some repose.

In the afternoon we searched for a fresh camping-ground, as it was impossible to remain in safety where we were; this was not easy to find, uncultivated land being restricted, and not sufficiently level. We concluded that there was only one practicable spot, the corner of a fallow field, thoroughly protected from the sirocco by the hill; the next thing was to get permission to camp there.

Père Voisin good-naturedly helped us. The owner of the field was absent, but the Amine of Ouarzin gave leave, saying no one would disturb us. This settled, we lost no time; a party of Kabyles came down to lend help; half-an-hour later all our effects were transported on their backs to the spot, and as night fell, the tent was well pitched in its new position, and the fire lit to prepare our evening meal. On turning into bed, we congratulated ourselves,for we heard the tempest, howling and raging with renewed fury, above; but before reaching us its strength was broken and lost in the surrounding trees, and the tent remained in peace and quiet.

Thursday, April15, 1880.—Several paths converged at the point where we now found ourselves, the most frequented being a steep lane leading to the fountain. It was shaded by trees whose branches interlaced elegantly with pretty peeps on to the distance; from the entrance to our tent we looked straight down this lane, towards the spring about two hundred yards off. The word ‘spring’ would suggest to most people simply water bubbling up and running off in a diminutive stream; a better word to use in this instance is ‘fountain,’ the French ‘fontaine,’ which has a different meaning to ‘spring,’ ‘source’—inasmuch as it implies a basin, artificial or natural, combined with a natural welling-up of water. Unfortunately, the word ‘fountain’ is applied also to contrivances by which water is made to spout, the French ‘jet d’eau.’ The Kabyle fountain in question is a natural spring rising in the centre of a basin inclosed in a rude architectural structure, having a double arched entrance and gabled roof. The water is thus protected from dirt, dust, and the heat of the sun. By the side where the women fill their pots is a second structure, much dilapidated, reserved for the watering of beasts. The overflow is conducted into a basin where the women wash clothes, and then runs gurgling down the mountain-side. In an embowered nook, where there are neat terraced beds of vegetables, little gutters are arranged, so that at the end of the day the overflow can be conducted there; when the bed nearest the fountain has been saturated, the water is blocked off from thefirst trench with a spadeful of earth, runs on to refresh the next, and so on till all the garden has drunk its fill; when the rivulet, having done its work, regains its liberty.

So when a peasant to his garden bringsSoft rills of water from the bubbling springs,And calls the floods from high to bless his bowers,And feed with pregnant streams the plants and flowers;Soon as he clears whate’er their passage stay’d,And marks the future current with his spade,Swift o’er the rolling pebbles, down the hills,Louder and louder purl the falling rills.

So when a peasant to his garden brings

Soft rills of water from the bubbling springs,

And calls the floods from high to bless his bowers,

And feed with pregnant streams the plants and flowers;

Soon as he clears whate’er their passage stay’d,

And marks the future current with his spade,

Swift o’er the rolling pebbles, down the hills,

Louder and louder purl the falling rills.

I had not to wander far to find a subject for painting, and lost no time in getting to work in the lane. A bewildering number of interesting groups kept passing; women and girls bearing pitchers, classical-looking herdsmen, driving sheep and goats, little kids, calves, and heifers; and husbandmen would go by with mules and donkeys, on their way to till the land, or to hew and collect firewood.

Soon the path was blocked with people declaring that I was in everybody’s way, and that I could not remain there painting; for the women said (so I gathered from a man who spoke a few words of French) that they were afraid to pass, being especially alarmed at my umbrella. This was too ridiculous; though the umbrella was certainly large, I considered it too useful to be put on one side, or indeed to be treated slightingly.

One morning, when passing through the market-place in Algiers, I had noticed a man selling jewellery under an enormous umbrella; it struck me that such a one would suit me exactly for painting. Admiring its noble proportions, I went up andspoke to the owner, who obligingly left his stall in charge of a friend, and introduced me to the maker. I forthwith ordered another. It was made to take to pieces—each rib about four feet long, and practically, it was more serviceable than a small tent. It had a big iron spike, which could be rammed into the ground almost anywhere; it could besides be steadied with guys; it was large enough to shade me and my work, and it had a cover impervious to light; moreover, I could unloop the cover from the ends of the rods, and roll it up, so that without difficulty I could let in light in whatever direction I pleased. I was determined not to desert such an umbrella for all the women of Kabylia, so I let the men talk and gesticulate, and went on painting as if I heard them not.

[Illustration]

When Muirhead returned, I beat an orderly retreat, to ‘déjeuner.’ He too had had his trials, being quite baffled by the strong wind, which swept over the crest where Uncle Zaïd’s kouba stands.

When painting under my umbrella, I found the cattle of Kabylia even more timid than the fair sex. The cows are small but nimble, the unusual appearance of a European is sufficient to scare them, and the umbrella added was altogether too much for their nerves; they would canter off gaily, to the consternation of the herdsmen, shortly reappearing in order to eye me warily. I stood as close as possible against the bank, keeping quiet, when suddenly there was a rush, and the cows scampered by in wild alarm at the frightful object. Instead of scowling and muttering curses, as I expected and considered my due, the cowherd always stopped and greeted me in friendly fashion, sometimespressing upon me a handful of figs, as though I had done him a favour. Perhaps he thought that friendly demeanour made amends for the ridiculous behaviour of his animals. At first I regretted causing all this trouble, and tried to express myself to that effect; after a time, discovering that they did not consider me to be a more obnoxious animal than the gadflies, which abound, I continued to paint with equanimity, glad to be looked upon as a natural evil.

After ‘déjeuner,’ two Fathers and a number of Kabyles paid us a visit. There were complaints of our tent being pitched close to the road where the women were obliged to pass; and words began to flow apace.

The Amine of Ouarzin (or the Ogre) having given us permission to camp there, the Ogres had nothing to say, but the people of the larger village of Taourirt en Taïdith (the Mount of the Dog) doggedly objected. They offered even to level a piece of ground, and transport our tent and luggage free of expense, if we would only move from the road. Through the good words and banter of the Fathers, ‘the Dogs’ at last left off barking, smiles took the place of frowns, ruffled feelings were composed, and a compromise effected. We remained on the conditions that we would leave the lane free between the hours of ten and four; and that we would send a native lad to the fountain in place of Dominique, who was to go no more at all, either to draw water or wash clothes, except at a little-used spring pointed out; to our dismay, a mere duckweed-covered puddle. So the storm was lulled.

Friday, April16, 1880.—I awoke, hearing the lively chatter of women. What a chirping there was! They spoke in a very highpitch of voice, and the language, as pronounced by them, sounded very different to that of the men. I peeped as discreetly as I could out of the tent, and behold! the lane was thronged; there were scores of them going to and fro, each with a pitcher on her head.

Alas! for the weather. The sirocco had been succeeded by a cold wind from the north, and the air was full of fog, it rained all day, and resembled more the climate of the Highlands of Scotland than what we anticipated the climate of North Africa would be.

We occupied ourselves with letter writing, reading, and trying to learn Kabyle, making persistent and comical attempts at conversation with natives who came to visit us; they were most inquisitive, but well-mannered, and anxious to talk. School hours over, the lads came to see us, pleased to air their stock of French, and equally eager to teach us words in Kabyle; this was just what we wanted, and we were soon excellent friends.

Saturday, April17, 1880.—To-day proved more spring-like. I remained unmolested in the lane, whilst Muirhead went off to the Kouba. Uncle Zaïd always behaved to Muirhead as an uncle should, presenting him every day with clotted milk, hard-boiled eggs, cakes and figs; he always refused payment, shook his head, smiled blandly, pointed upwards with his forefinger, turned up his eyes, and ejaculated ‘Errebbi, Errebbi!’ (God, God!) to indicate that he acted thus merely to please the Almighty; let us hope that he behaves as well to all poor folk who cross his picturesque hill. We retaliated by giving dinner to his son and grandson, who came once or twice to the tent; but the little chapel received nodonation from us. We continued our painting also at Thililit, and Thililit vied with Ouarzin and Taourirt in hospitality to the stranger. The Amine, a fine-looking man, with an agreeable countenance, offered us a kouskous. We feared it would be hopelessly cold before arriving at the tent; but it was so well wrapped up, that after a mile long journey it remained hot. To-day the Kaïd, or President of the Aïth Ménguellath, came over from Fort National on business. He called during our absence, and left a message with Dominique, that if the natives annoyed us, we were to complain to him. After this, we went where we would without interference.

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