CHAPTER V.

first honouring my father’s grave,As the god bade us, with libations pure and tresses from our brow.

first honouring my father’s grave,

As the god bade us, with libations pure and tresses from our brow.

Electra at her father’s tomb says to her sister:

And then do thou,Cutting the highest locks that crown thy head,Yea, and mine also, poor although I be,(Small offering, yet ’tis all the store I have,)Give to him; yes, this lock, untrimmed,Unmeet for suppliant’s vow.

And then do thou,

Cutting the highest locks that crown thy head,

Yea, and mine also, poor although I be,

(Small offering, yet ’tis all the store I have,)

Give to him; yes, this lock, untrimmed,

Unmeet for suppliant’s vow.

The first discovered traces of the return of Orestes are offerings laid on their father’s tomb.

Chrysosthemis, the younger sister, says:—

And lo! my father’s bier was crownedWith garlands of all flowers that deck the fields;And, seeing it, I wondered, and looked round,Lest any man should still be hovering near;And when I saw that all the place was calm,I went yet nearer to the mound, and thereI saw upon the topmost point of allA tress of hair, fresh severed from the head.

And lo! my father’s bier was crowned

With garlands of all flowers that deck the fields;

And, seeing it, I wondered, and looked round,

Lest any man should still be hovering near;

And when I saw that all the place was calm,

I went yet nearer to the mound, and there

I saw upon the topmost point of all

A tress of hair, fresh severed from the head.

On a previous visit to Kabylia, when living at a farmhouse in part of which resided a native family, I one morning heard alamentable cry, and running out, I, unperceived, observed what passed. A man sat crouched upon a stone, with burnous flung about him, and hands pressed against his bent-down head; his attitude was precisely that of mourning figures I have seen painted on Greek vases.

At his side stood a woman swaying backwards and forwards, with face raised as if questioning that stainless sky which seemed to mock her with its deep serenity, with wearisome iteration uttering the same piteous lament. She held her arms stretched upwards, and ever and anon her clenched fists descended with merciless blows upon her breasts. A boy, their first-born, had just fallen down dead in a fit. The parents rushed out of the house into the fields, and in this unaffected manner they showed their anguish. The image of that poor woman will ever remain graven in my memory, a picture of dire and bitter lamentation. What passionate gestures were these! How human! But how un-English! This vehemence, this spreading forth of hands when there was none to comfort, recalled Biblical wailings.

‘Behold, I cry out of wrong, but I am not heard: I cry aloud, but there is no judgment. He hath fenced up my way that I cannot pass, and he hath set darkness in my paths. He hath stripped me of my glory, and taken the crown from my head. He hath destroyed me on every side, and I am gone: and my hope hath he removed like a tree.’

The day after the funeral at Thililit, we returned to the same place and found two big vultures promenading slowly backwards and forwards over the fresh grave; they remained there thegreater part of the afternoon. What mysterious faculties have these birds, both of wing and scent. At Souk-el-Jemāa, we saw a flock of thirty or forty, sitting on the refuse of the slaughtered animals, whilst the market was still crowded, and we approached within twenty paces without disturbing their repast. There must be a great number in the high mountains, for some are usually in sight. When painting, I have heard a rushing noise overhead, have looked up, and seen one of these great birds sweeping swiftly along without moving a feather. Thus they wing their flight, soaring in any direction to a prodigious distance, performing this feat apparently by a mere effort of the will. The power this bird possesses of discovering its prey is attributed in the Book of Job to keenness of vision.

‘There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture’s eye hath not seen.’

‘Whence then cometh wisdom? and where is the place of understanding? Seeing it is hid from the eyes of all living, and kept close from the fowls of the air.’

Eagles also are common, some of great size.

One day last winter an eagle pounced on a chicken that was unconcernedly pecking about in front of a cottage in Taourirt Amokran. For an instant the bird remained half stunned by its rapid descent, and a Kabyle sitting in the doorway, threw his burnous and caught it alive. They are not birds to be trifled with, and I was told how, on another occasion, a Kabyle following a badly wounded eagle, was attacked by the bird, which struck at his head, clawed out one of his eyes, and would have killed him, had not a friend come to his assistance. Neither of us had providedourselves with guns, and our encampment would not have been well chosen for sport. The natives kill a few wild boars in the ravines, hares, partridges and quail; it was the closed season, but they bagged partridges nevertheless, going out with a call-bird to attract others. Quails are left almost unmolested on account of their nests being in the midst of the ripening corn. We continually heard their liquid note of contentment, for contented they no doubt were, living unharassed in the midst of such abundance.

A sportsman brought some birds of fine plumage, which I skinned; but having only salt to cure them with, the ants got at them, and few remained of any value.

The hoopoo is common; we often heard its thrice-repeated flutelike note, or saw it with crest proudly erect, perched on the topmost branch of a tree. A young one was brought us which we thought of rearing, an odd little bird, always looking as if going to topple over; it had no tail, and the crest and long bill looked out of all proportion; it perhaps resented being laughed at, for it had a furious temper, which we knew not how to conciliate; and when the little creature was discovered one morning to be missing, it was not followed by many regrets. The golden oriole is not uncommon. Other birds more familiar were not wanting; frequently we heard the home-reminding notes of the cuckoo; and swallows flitted about all day. At dinner-time they would perch on a figtree within six feet of us, gently chatter, skim through the air, and return to chatter again.

Of butterflies I noticed none that are not native to England; but I found a curious insect, simulating exactly a decaying leaf ofevergreen oak; under the microscope it has the appearance of being covered with crystallised spikes.

When it became hot, ants were busy in every direction; one sort, with a big red head half as large again as its black body, was remarkable for long legs, it ran more quickly that any other ant I ever saw; there were lots of these always in a hurry. I noticed one enter a nest of small black ants, and afterwards reappear without commotion ensuing; probably a hot-headed freak of curiosity. If I were to bolt into the houses of the Kabyles in that manner, thought I, I should meet with a very different reception.

Several times I saw swarms of wild bees. I have seen the boys, who were quick in detecting the approaching hum, spring to their feet and rush off in wild excitement, I knew not at first why. They tried to change the course of the swarm by throwing dust into the air; it was a pretty sight—eager boys with draperies tossed and flying about, and an afternoon sun lighting up the handfuls of dust and the swarming bees.

Thus in the season of unclouded spring,To war they follow their undaunted king,Crowd through their gates, and in the fields of lightThe shocking squadrons meet in mortal fight.(. . .) this deadly frayA cast of scatter’d dust will soon allay,And undecided leave the fortunes of the day.

Thus in the season of unclouded spring,

To war they follow their undaunted king,

Crowd through their gates, and in the fields of light

The shocking squadrons meet in mortal fight.

(. . .) this deadly fray

A cast of scatter’d dust will soon allay,

And undecided leave the fortunes of the day.

On this occasion the scattered dust had no effect, for the winged army poured on.

Dusky they spread a close-embodied crowd,And o’er the vale descends the living cloud.

Dusky they spread a close-embodied crowd,

And o’er the vale descends the living cloud.

Another evening, two lads returning home with our paintingtraps suddenly put down their loads. One of them, Kassi, troubled with great animal spirits, always up to mischief, made passes with a stick at a bush by the wayside, protecting himself by throwing his burnous about his head. We found him in great excitement, thrusting at a wasp’s nest hanging in the bush. It reminded me of another of Homer’s similes in the ‘Iliad.’

As wasps, provok’d by children in their play,Pour from their mansions by the broad highway,In swarms the guiltless traveller engage,Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage;All rise in arms, and with a gen’ral cryAssert their waxen domes, and buzzing progeny.

As wasps, provok’d by children in their play,

Pour from their mansions by the broad highway,

In swarms the guiltless traveller engage,

Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage;

All rise in arms, and with a gen’ral cry

Assert their waxen domes, and buzzing progeny.

In this case the guiltless travellers remained unstung, and Kassi was called off before he learnt that the wasps could fight like Greeks; for Homer says again:

When wasps from hollow crannies driveTo guard the entrance of their common hive,Dark’ning the rock, while with unweary’d wingsThey strike th’ assailants, and infix their stings.A race determined that to death contend.So fierce these Greeks their last retreats defend.

When wasps from hollow crannies drive

To guard the entrance of their common hive,

Dark’ning the rock, while with unweary’d wings

They strike th’ assailants, and infix their stings.

A race determined that to death contend.

So fierce these Greeks their last retreats defend.

And again—

So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o’er),Repuls’d in vain, and thirsty still of gore;Bold son of air and heat, on angry wingsUntam’d, untir’d, he turns, attacks, and stings.

So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o’er),

Repuls’d in vain, and thirsty still of gore;

Bold son of air and heat, on angry wings

Untam’d, untir’d, he turns, attacks, and stings.

Formidable wild animals are rare, but are still to be found in fastnesses where wild boar offer means of subsistence; they are occasionally driven abroad from their lairs into populated parts, by winter’s severity. Then the unhorned tenants of the wood, sorelygrinding their teeth, roam the thickets; ‘then truly are they like unto a man that goes on a stick, whose back is well-nigh broken, and head looks towards the ground; like such an one they roam, shunning the white snow.’

Last winter there was an unusually heavy fall of snow, covering Kabylia with a coat more than a foot thick; it still whitened all northern slopes and blocked the passes, when I visited the country six weeks later. I was told that the roar of a lion had been heard shortly before, in a ravine of the Aïth Ménguellath; this may possibly be true: the Fathers told us that they heard the laugh of the hyena.

Returning last winter to Algiers, whilst passing through the village of Tizi-Ouzou, a dead panther was brought in, shot by a native beside a stream ten miles off, in a populous district separated from the Jurjura by a broad valley; and a little later a second was killed in the same neighbourhood. Curiously, when I was at Tizi-Ouzou before, the same incident occurred; the panther had then been shot in the forests in the direction of Bougie. The only wild animals we came across while camping were jackals, which are numerous; on fine nights we heard their wild empty-stomached howls, when they prowled up from the valleys, and all the dogs in the villages would begin barking. These were the only discordant noises at night; more pleasant was the constant sound of distant frogs croaking in damp places, the welcome melody of nightingales, and the melancholy note of a bird called the Taab, which I believe to be some kind of owl.

And owls that mark the setting sun, declareA star-light evening and a morning fair.

And owls that mark the setting sun, declare

A star-light evening and a morning fair.

That solitary mysterious note, hardly uttered before answered in another quarter by some brother, suggested how, when rude settlements dreaded night attacks, the owl, harmless towards men, might from its sleepless vigilance have been chosen to symbolise a protecting goddess of wisdom.

We heard also little animals pattering over the tent in the dark, sometimes rustling the papers under our beds. Thinking of field-mice as likely to make these sounds, we sent for a trap; we caught a few only, and ultimately discovered that the noise was caused by harmless green lizards. I was not aware that these creatures run about in the dark; they must have singular eyes, for animals that are active by night do not usually dart about in the brilliancy and heat of noonday.

May21 toJune14, 1880.—The wet season came at last to a close, and we were favoured with the most perfect weather imaginable. The heat was by no means oppressive, and the air was bracing and life-giving, the sky was of exquisite colour, and the light so intense that the tops of the trees seemed frosted with silvery flashing lights. All snow had disappeared from the high mountains, except here and there a minute patch; a pale apple-green played on their slopes mixed with delicate rosy grey tones, a mass of subtle glowing tints softened by the purple bloom of distance. The azure of the sky appeared to soak into the landscape and blend with the flesh-tint of the distant soil. Fallow fields, as if stirred by a secret spirit of joy they could no longer restrain, brought forth a multitude of wild flowers, whilst the corn turned by degrees from green to gold. The natives changed their hours for going a-field, becoming more matinal. On the first signs ofapproaching dawn, the birds broke out in a concert of melody; this was followed by the pleasant chattering of the women going to draw water. When the sun rose and ‘tipped the hills with gold,’ the men appeared with their flocks.

Haste, to the stream direct thy way,When the gay morn unveils her smiling ray;Haste to the stream!

Haste, to the stream direct thy way,

When the gay morn unveils her smiling ray;

Haste to the stream!

Between ten and eleven they drove them home again; then they dined and reposed themselves, while the beasts were kept in the cool. After three o’clock men were again abroad, till deepening twilight ushered in the night, when lanes were crowded with flocks, herds, and tired peasants slowly mounting homewards. Except during these hours we saw few people, and felt at last like mariners stranded on a forsaken shore. This was because most of the male population betook themselves to the plains about Algiers and Constantine in quest of employment, as it was a time of year when extra hands were required for harvesting; on their return with a small store of hardly-earned money, as soon as the harvest of their own fields has been garnered, then is the season for feasts and marriages.

The effects at sunset were magical: the mountains would turn to warm violet and gold, set off by the greens and purples of nearer ranges. The sky was of a mellow Claude-like serenity, and as the sun sank rocks and trees glowed with a more than Venetian warmth of colour. It was curious to observe how differently trees took the light. Ash seemed to grow greener, whilst ilexes and corks lost their green altogether and appeared of a rich glowing bronze. We were not without good intentions of trying to representthis; but whenever the looked-for moment came, and splendours deepened about us, we put aside brushes with feelings of despair.

At this hour there was no fear of chill or fever, for the warm air in the confined valleys rose gradually.

Among the studies we painted in these days was one of the fountain; we had anticipated remonstrance, but none was made.

One day a party of men begged us not to go painting there, as a ceremony was about to be held, nor were the women allowed to draw water after their early morning visit. At mid-day sheep were slaughtered and cut up under the shade of the trees, the meat carried to the villages, and the greater part, I understood, was given away to the poor. The richer men had contributed the animals; the chief Marabout also assisted at the slaughter. After this some slight repairs were effected, stones that formed a rude paving in front of the fountain were relaid, and weeds growing too luxuriantly were pulled up.

I did not hear of this custom in other tribes, and I could not understand what ideas they associated with it. It must not be confounded with the great Mahommedan festival that occurs later, when there is a general slaughtering of sheep, so that everyone can eat mutton. It looks like a relic of Pagan sacrifice, which may well be, in a country so unchanging. Have not the women from time immemorial carried their pitchers to the fountains just as they do now? An early Greek vase in the British Museum represents women carrying vases in the same way I saw here. When the pitcher is empty and more difficult to balance, it is laid on its sideupon a kerchief wound into a circle and placed on the head; the mouth of the vase projects in front; one handle kept lower than the other rests on the edge of the twisted kerchief, and helps to steady the vase; an arm raised to it is therefore bent. When the vase is filled and poised on the head, both handles are at a convenient height to be grasped when the arms are at full stretch.

The most interesting relic of ancient custom that I have met with in the country, was at a marriage festival at Aïn Soltān in the neighbourhood of Borj Boghni.

The bridegroom had gone to fetch his bride, and I waited with many others beside a stream that passed at the foot of the village, for his return. Suddenly we heard the sound of pipes, and saw the marriage procession streaming from the summit of a neighbouring hill, and then lose itself among the trees; a few minutes later it issued from an avenue near us, and ascended a slope towards the bridegroom’s house. First came the pipers, then the bride muffled up in a veil, riding a mule led by her lover. As well as I could judge, she was very young, almost a child. Then came a bevy of gorgeously dressed damsels, sparkling with silver ornaments, followed by a crowd of other friends, and Kabyle Dick and Harry. In front of the bridegroom’s house the procession stopped; the girl’s friends lined both sides of the pathway and crowded about the door. The pipers marched off on one side, while the bridegroom lifted the girl from the mule and held her in his arms. The girl’s friends thereupon threw earth at him, when he hurried forward, and carried her over the threshold, those about the door beating him all the time with olive branches amid much laughter. This throwing of earth, this mock opposition and good-naturedscourging, appeared to be a symbolised relic of marriage by capture, and was a living explanation of the ancient Roman custom of carrying the bride over the threshold of her lover’s house.

[Illustration]

In the evening on such occasions the pipers and drummers are called in, and the women dance, two at a time, facing each other; nor does a couple desist until, panting and exhausted, they step aside to make room for another. The dance has great energy of movement, though the steps are small and changes of position slight, the dancers only circling round occasionally. But they swing their bodies about with an astonishing energy and suppleness. As leaves flutter before the gale, so do they vibrate to the music; they shake, they shiver and tremble, they extend quivering arms, wave veils, which they sometimes cast over their heads thrown backwards like Bacchantes, and their minds seem lost in the‘abandon’and frenzy of the dance, while the other women looking on, encourage by their high piercing trilling cries, which add to the noise of the pipes and drums. They also deride the men by clapping their hands to the music and singing verses such as the following:—

Oh alack! alack! Oh dear one, most dear,Come now—to the place we have spoken of.Oh grafted apple! thy love kills me!An old grey head reposes on thy arm.Oh Thithen! Thithen! with the motley-coloured girdle,Oh sweet apple! grafted upon a root.Beauty to marvel at have the Aïth Ouagóuenoun,Their skin is sleek, their eyes are dark.Oh winged bird! rest thou near to her upon the figtree,When Yamina goes forth, kiss me her little cheek.

Oh alack! alack! Oh dear one, most dear,Come now—to the place we have spoken of.

Oh alack! alack! Oh dear one, most dear,

Come now—to the place we have spoken of.

Oh grafted apple! thy love kills me!An old grey head reposes on thy arm.

Oh grafted apple! thy love kills me!

An old grey head reposes on thy arm.

Oh Thithen! Thithen! with the motley-coloured girdle,Oh sweet apple! grafted upon a root.

Oh Thithen! Thithen! with the motley-coloured girdle,

Oh sweet apple! grafted upon a root.

Beauty to marvel at have the Aïth Ouagóuenoun,Their skin is sleek, their eyes are dark.

Beauty to marvel at have the Aïth Ouagóuenoun,

Their skin is sleek, their eyes are dark.

Oh winged bird! rest thou near to her upon the figtree,When Yamina goes forth, kiss me her little cheek.

Oh winged bird! rest thou near to her upon the figtree,

When Yamina goes forth, kiss me her little cheek.

Even amidst the pomp and splendour of imperial Rome, marriage festivals must have presented some curious resemblances to such primitive customs as I have described, doubtless owing to unrecorded common causes in the remote past.

The bride was brought home in procession, accompanied by the singing of a song and playing on the flute; she was carried over the threshold, and in the evening there was a marriage feast. This habit of carrying the bride was accounted for in various ways.

‘Concerning the bride they do not allow her to step over the threshold of the house, but people sent forward carry her over, perhaps because they in old time seized upon women and compelled them in this manner.’[5]

Another explanation, and I think a far less probable one, is that she thus avoided the chance of tripping at the threshold, which would have been considered an omen of bad fortune. To most people it would appear a sufficiently bad augury if she required help at such a moment to prevent her stumbling. Why should she stumble? ‘Carefully raise over the threshold thy feet, O bride! Without tripping begin this path, in order that for thy husband thou mayest always be secure.’

Let the faithful threshold greet,With omens fair, those lovely feet,Lightly lifted o’er;Let the garlands wave and bowFrom the lofty lintel’s browThat bedeck the door.See the couch with crimson dressWhere, seated in a deep recess,With expectation warm,The bridegroom views her coming near;The slender youth that led her hereMay now release her arm.

Let the faithful threshold greet,With omens fair, those lovely feet,Lightly lifted o’er;Let the garlands wave and bowFrom the lofty lintel’s browThat bedeck the door.

Let the faithful threshold greet,

With omens fair, those lovely feet,

Lightly lifted o’er;

Let the garlands wave and bow

From the lofty lintel’s brow

That bedeck the door.

See the couch with crimson dressWhere, seated in a deep recess,With expectation warm,The bridegroom views her coming near;The slender youth that led her hereMay now release her arm.

See the couch with crimson dress

Where, seated in a deep recess,

With expectation warm,

The bridegroom views her coming near;

The slender youth that led her here

May now release her arm.

In early times, the marriage banquet was not a mere matter of ceremony. It was desirable to have as many witnesses as possible, and such were the guests. At Greek marriages there was likewise a procession with song and flute accompaniment, a feast in the evening, and songs and dance before the nuptial chamber.

Theocritus in his ‘Epithalamium of Helen,’ describes the twelve first maidens of the city forming the dance in front of the newly-painted nuptial chamber. ‘And they began to sing, I ween, all beating time to one melody with many-twinkling feet, and the house was ringing round with a nuptial hymn.’

It was the custom both in Greece and in Italy, when the marriage procession halted before the bridegroom’s house, to salute it with a shower of sweetmeats. This recalls the ruder shower of earth that I saw in Kabylia, and which I took to symbolise a volley of stones. The custom still survives in Italy; for I have often seen sweetmeats thrown among the crowd when a newly-married couple have issued from church; great is the delight and eager the scrambling of small boys on such occasions.

[Illustration]

June16to June24, 1880.

E originally proposed to move about the country with the tent, though we had fixed on no particular limit or direction to these imaginary travels. But in the middle of the month of June here were we still in the Aïth Ménguellath, not fifteen miles from Fort National. We had plenty to occupy us at the place where we happened to find ourselves, and we reckoned that moving meant expense and new difficulties with natives, and that we might go farther and fare worse.

It was now too hot to wander. Muirhead being anxious to go to Constantine (which I had visited), we now determined to quit our encampment ‘under the greenwood tree,’ where we had met with ‘no enemy but winter and rough weather,’ he proceeding thither, whilst I returned with the tent to Algiers, where we should meet again.

I had foreseen that in such an out-of-the-way place, where themen are so jealous, I could not hope to get women to sit as models, and consequently came armed with a camera and gelatine plates. I now took a number of instantaneous photographs of subjects in motion, that I could hardly have sketched.

The narrow paths favoured me, for the natives were forced to pass the very spot I had previously focused, and got caught ‘unbeknown’ to themselves. Whether they happened to group well or ill at the instant I had to expose, was of course a chance, but if they did not appear interesting, I postponed my shot. The extreme damp of the tent caused me much anxiety about the plates, but the Indian bullock trunk in which I kept them was sturdy, and though some were spoilt, the majority turned out well. The Kabyles would ask to look into the machine, and I was always glad to show it, but first I blocked the light from the lenses, and with much ado spread the cloth over their heads. All that they then saw was the landscape at their backs reflected as in a mirror. Having regarded the lens as a sort of evil eye pointed at them, they were puzzled when they found that the machine apparently looked out from the back of its head in the opposite direction. I thought it kind on my part to show the images the right way up, and they were always much pleased with the effect.

The moments when figures group together harmoniously are so fleeting, that at the best there is barely time to note the leading arrangement. One combination is followed by another, and then another, and noting each in an imperfect manner, it is impossible to compare them justly. Photography has quite lately come to such perfection, that it is now possible with its aid to seize on those instants of time, and reproduce them with unerring precision; theycan afterwards be studied at leisure. Thus the camera can give new and admirable material for artistic taste and fancy to play upon. I certainly bagged records of passing combinations with as much certainty as a sportsman brings down birds.

At dawn on June 16, I bade Muirhead good-bye, and he started for Constantine. The same day I struck tent, and left for the neighbouring tribe of the Beni Ienni, where I proposed remaining a short time. This point was only a few miles away from my direct line of march.

After some trouble about mules, I started, and an hour’s ride down a steep path brought me to the foot of the mountain, where I halted for Dominique who was lagging behind. Here a broad watercourse of grey stones, with diminutive cliffs on each side, was overgrown with oleander, a profuse mass of delicate pink bloom. More beautiful than anything to be found in well-tended gardens, was this wealth of blossom in a spot so lonely; beloved but by the sunshine, unvisited but by wandering Zephyr. Nor were the oleanders alone in their happiness; numberless plants and flowers kept them company. The pepper-tree grew luxuriantly, and was particularly beautiful from its fresh and feathery foliage, and the interesting drawing of its stems. Dominique overtook me, and we proceeded. The ravine where I found myself joined a larger one, through which flowed a brisk stream utilised to irrigate adjoining fields. Besides flowering oleanders were well-cared-for plantations of oranges and pomegranates, the latter ablaze with exquisite flame-red blossoms; and vigorous wild vines, rejoicing in the hot sun, greedy to bear a burden of luscious fruit, half suffocated the more sober trees forced to supportthem. A plumy carpet of ferns spread about their feet. The wooded sides of the gorge rose abruptly, and brilliant light silvered the olives crowning precipitous heights. These mountain streams that ripple so refreshingly in the summer season, become boiling torrents in the winter time, after heavy rains, or when the newly-fallen snows on the Jurjura melt. Suddenly rising, they cut off all communication between the tribes.

So some simple swain his cot forsakes,And wide thro’ fens an unknown journey takes;If chance a swelling brook his passage stay,And foam impervious cross the wanderer’s way,Confus’d he stops, a length of country past,Eyes the rough waves, and, tired, returns at last.

So some simple swain his cot forsakes,

And wide thro’ fens an unknown journey takes;

If chance a swelling brook his passage stay,

And foam impervious cross the wanderer’s way,

Confus’d he stops, a length of country past,

Eyes the rough waves, and, tired, returns at last.

It was a hot pull up the mountain, but having got to the top, I followed a path to the school-house of the Jesuit fathers, where a very cordial reception awaited me.

I had been told that there was a likely place for camping near their house. On inspection I found it was shadeless, and so retraced my steps for about a mile, to a piece of public ground I had already noticed, where I set to work to pitch the tent. The situation reminded me of Thililit. This done I called on the Kaïd, who chatted in French of his experiences during a visit to the International Exhibition of 1878, and showed me a workshop attached to his house, where jewellers were busy. On leaving, he sent a young man to get me fuel, a matter about which I had left Dominique anxious. On returning to the tent, I found a party of merry inquisitive schoolboys, whose leader, a bright lad, was the son of the Kaïd, and spoke French fluently; they accompanied me on a walk.

The following morning I began a sketch of the village under which I was encamped, houses peeping picturesquely through foliage. Dominique was in his worst humour; his wages had been paid before leaving the Aïth Ménguellath, and having now some notes sewn up in his coat, and seeing Fort National in the distance, he thought he could do as he liked. I had to explain that I proposed remaining master. The upshot was, that flying into a fury, he picked up that wonderful cardboard box and a cage with a tame blackbird he had amused himself with rearing, and walked off. I watched his receding back with feelings of relief, and then pounced on the breakfast which still simmered on the fire. Afterwards, upon lighting my pipe I considered my awkward situation; for the tent could not be left a moment unguarded. About the end of the third pipe, the young man who had gone for firewood luckily made his appearance; I left the tent in his charge, and went to see the Kaïd again. Explaining my case, I added that I should prefer a native to serve me, if a trustworthy one could be found; he said the Fathers would know of someone; so, after a cup of coffee, he most politely accompanied me to the school-house.

The walk was just in the greatest heat of the day, and I began to fear lest this by no means too solid flesh should thaw entirely away on the road. The Fathers promised to send for a young man, a carpenter, formerly a pupil of theirs, who had cooked for them, and understood French. I supped at the school-house that evening, met and engaged him, and wrote out an agreement, signed one copy, and handed Mohammed another to sign. He hesitated; he had forgotten how to write his name. ‘Well, put a cross,’suggested the Father. He did so; an odd signature for a Mussulman.

It must always be a pleasure to praise the merits of an old pupil, but sometimes it is an imprudence, I reflected. However, Mohammed turned out gentle, obliging, and faithful, and he cooked sufficiently well for me, though he had not the ideal ‘Potages des Petits Menus’ of Dominique in his head. He filled up spare time by nicking a stick of wild-olive all over with ingenious patterns. If one should believe M. C. Souvestre, who has published a book entitled ‘Instructions Secrètes des Jésuites,’ it is a sign of little wisdom to apply to the Society of Jesus for a servant. I read that a certain worthy Père Valeze Reynald considers that, ‘Les domestiques peuvent prendre en cachette les biens de leurs maîtres par forme de compensation, sous prétexte que leurs gages sont trop modiques, et ils sont dispensés de la restitution.’ With such professors and a despised ‘cochon d’indigène’ for a pupil, I ought to have obtained something quite diabolical.

Night began to darken, the moon rose in splendour from behind the mountains, and a troop of merry boys walked with me along the narrow path among fields of ripe corn that led to my tent. I found four guards awaiting me, who rolled themselves up in their burnouses and passed the night as sentinels. I did not think them necessary, and the Kaïd told me that he apprehended no danger, but he was responsible for my safety, and that it was an old custom of the country, dating from before the French conquest, which he thought right to keep up. The guards spoke well of their Kaïd, as a man who kept things up to themark; in their tribe they did things proper, not like the Aïth Ménguellath, poor creatures, who go on anyhow. The Aïth Ménguellath had said to me, ‘Thou forsakest friends to fall among thieves in the Beni Ienni.’

To enumerate the settlements of the Beni Ienni contained in a circle within a radius of a mile, will show how thickly inhabited is Kabylia.

On the precipitous brow nearest to the Fort is Aït el Hassan, with a population of 1500 souls. A large cemetery, and a rise on which the Jesuit school-house is built, separate it from Aït l’Arba, with a population of 900. A little further is Taourirt Mimoun, a place of equal size. The ridge again descends to the flat piece of ground where I was. A quarter of a mile off is Taourirt el Hadjadj, somewhat smaller. Near Taourirt Mimoun, on a southern arm, is the fifth village, Agouni Hameth; a little below is the sixth, Thisgirth by name.

The nests of the Kabyles, like those of the eagles, are built on high in healthy mountain air. They are thus exposed fully to all the vicissitudes of the circling seasons. They first receive the white mantle that winter spreads, they first feel the gusty puffs of coming sirocco, and are earliest enveloped in the chill mist that the north wind sweeps from the Mediterranean. In the brightness of spring mornings they sparkle in sunshine, while white mists cover the profound valleys, like the waters of a lake. Later on, the sun stirs this sea of cloud, and lets through the day; then fleecy messengers surround the villages, hastening upwards to sail in silvery brightness through the sky, bearing afar glad promises of refreshment and abundance. In summer, when the human beeshave stored their harvest, like honey in a hive, then the little houses seem clustered together, that each may give kindly shade to its neighbour, scorched in the burning sunshine.

Thus the people live not estranged from nature, like men in cities, but from lofty outlooks are constant spectators of the wonders she works, and the beauty in which she delights.

I found the Kabyles in no way annoyed by my painting and photography, and as usual they had friendly ways, bringing figs and sour milk when I was at work, and refusing to be paid for little services. The camera was unluckily knocked down one day by an eddy of wind, and the falling shutter broken; a jeweller soldered it together for me, and refused to accept payment. Another day, a man brought a good bundle of wood to the tent, and would take no remuneration; another offered a couple of blackbirds as a contribution to my ‘pot-au-feu.’

The Kabyles have a reputation for dishonesty, and colonists have again and again told me, and have most positively insisted that they were all thieves; but having a limited belief in the fairness of such warnings, I was always incredulous, and practically found they deserved a very different character. A solitary instance of pilfering was all we had to complain of. As we were constantly surrounded by natives, we might easily have lost more had there been many ‘mauvais sujets’ about. I cannot say we were not tricked sometimes; what foreigner is not tricked? But as a rule I take the Kabyles to be hard bargainers, and afterwards men of their word; on more than one occasion I have trusted them, when they had every opportunity to be dishonest, and I have not been deceived. They are extremely thrifty, and close with theirmoney, as most men are who have a hard fight to earn it, and never earn much. I met with a remarkable instance of honesty when staying in the mountains two years ago. Alone, in an out-of-way place, sitting down to make a sketch, I unconsciously dropped my purse. Proceeding perhaps a quarter of a mile, I saw a Kabyle running in hot haste; he overtook me, breathless, but evidently amused about something. I felt much taken aback, when suddenly he handed me my purse. He accepted a present, and I felt most grateful for his honesty, since, though the purse was a light one, it contained every sou that I had in the country, and I by no means regarded it as trash.

On leaving my lodging at Fort National one morning, some faggots were being bought of a poor Kabyle. The transaction was hardly concluded, when a Frenchwoman appearing from a shop next door, said she would take another lot at the same price. The Kabyle replied that on some former occasion she had tried to cheat him, and he would have no dealings with her; he quietly turned his back as he collected his bundles, and then trudged on. She was furious at what she called his insulting language, and called him all the names she could think of. It is a small incident to record, but it is characteristic. Is it credible, for instance, that a Neapolitan could act thus? He would rather esteem a person who had had the wit to overreach him, and scheme till he had cheated in return; he would certainly have been ready with a smooth answer. The story moreover illustrates the principle, that the more people are sinned against, the more they get abused.

The Kabyles are abstemious, tough and wiry; an overfat unwieldyKabyle is not to be found. Their sobriety, praise be to Mohammed, is absolute; they drink nothing stronger than coffee. Of course this does not apply to those who live in towns, where they learn to tipple, and I believe become more demoralised, if possible, than the worst class of colonists. It must in honesty be stated, that they are terribly lacking in that virtue which comes next to godliness. That they should not appreciate the luxury of soap and water is the more to be regretted, as it is an inexpensive one. Some of the shepherd lads who came hoping to earn a few coppers by carrying our traps, or by the sale of some trifle, when reproached with uncleanliness, replied, ‘I have not another shirt, nor money to buy one.’ They pointed out the fragile condition of the one worn, and expressed fear that the rough usage of washing might destroy it altogether. Truly such a situation must be embarrassing, so we said nothing more; nevertheless, clean shirts became less rare. I am sorry to say that the plague of begging urchins, to be seen wherever tourists go, has already commenced at Fort National. I have never been begged of in the tribes. The needy are given small contributions of food by those who can afford it. Any man, when eating, would as a matter of course and without hesitating, offer a portion to a stranger approaching. The Kabyles are sociable, with unassuming manners. Acquaintances on meeting do not shake hands, but lightly touch them, then raise their fingers to their lips, and kiss them;[6]then follows a string of expressions, such as, Peace be upon thee, mayest thou abound, goodbe with thee. A chief is saluted with greater deference; he bows to be kissed in return above the forehead. Compared with Arabs, Kabyles are industrious; compared with the English, very lazy. A man will work hard, but likes to do it at his own time; he does not appreciate the merit of slaving as hard as he can, when engaged by the day for others. I have watched them at road-making; as soon as the inspector’s back was turned, they would sit down for a quiet chat, or roll themselves up in their cloaks to take a nap, or squat and complacently watch a neighbour toil with all his force at ploughing his own land. I have hardly known which to admire more, the labourer at the plough, or the philosopher with hands folded in slumber. ‘Labor ipse voluptas’ might be the motto of the one; ‘Sans gêne’ that of the other.

One remarkable feature of Kabylia is the fertility even of the high ridges. In the tribe of the Beni Ienni there are fields of wheat and tobacco on the top of the mountain, both crops requiring deep soil. The plough is of the simplest description, and is carried out to the fields on the shoulder of the ploughman, who drives a couple of active oxen before him. The yoke is very long in order to give freedom of action to the beasts when turning on difficult ground.

The Kabyle begins operations by storing grain in his folded burnous; this he sows broadcast over the land; he next proceeds to plough in. The oxen scramble up and down, and in and out, among silvery-stemmed fig-trees; the driver urging them with a long rod, and with constant exhortations to work properly, such as, ‘Now forwards; keep higher, higher, mind the fig-tree, turn, now turn, forwards again, oh sons of infidel ones!’ Sometimes greatpains are taken with a field, it is ploughed twice or thrice, and all weeds carefully destroyed. Homer describes ploughing:

So when two lordly bulls, with equal toil,Force the bright ploughshare through the fallow soil,Join’d to one yoke the stubborn earth they tear,And trace large furrows with the shining share:O’er their huge limbs the foam descends in snowAnd streams of sweat down their sour foreheads flow.

So when two lordly bulls, with equal toil,

Force the bright ploughshare through the fallow soil,

Join’d to one yoke the stubborn earth they tear,

And trace large furrows with the shining share:

O’er their huge limbs the foam descends in snow

And streams of sweat down their sour foreheads flow.

A similar picture is given in the ‘Georgics.’

While mountain-snows dissolve against the sun,And streams yet new from precipices run,Ev’n in this early dawning of the yearProduce the plough, and yoke the sturdy steer.And goad him till he groans beneath his toil,Till the bright share is bury’d in the soil.

While mountain-snows dissolve against the sun,

And streams yet new from precipices run,

Ev’n in this early dawning of the year

Produce the plough, and yoke the sturdy steer.

And goad him till he groans beneath his toil,

Till the bright share is bury’d in the soil.

I give an illustration of this subject. A plough carves its way slowly through the soil, a crane stands attendant, another flies free along the valley.

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