Then the Greeks they groan’d and quiver’d,And they knelt and moan’d and shiver’d,As the plunging waters met themAnd splash’d and overset them;And they call in their emergenceUpon countless saints and virgins;And their marrow-bones are bended,And they think the world is ended.And the Turkish women for’ardWere frighten’d and behorror’d;And shrieking and bewildering,The mothers clutch’d their children;The men sung “Allah! Illah!Mashallah Bismillah!”As the warring waters doused them;And splash’d them and soused them;And they call’d upon the Prophet,And thought but little of it.Then all the fleas in JewryJump’d up and bit like fury;And the progeny of JacobDid on the maindeck wake up(I wot those greasy RabbinsWould never pay for cabins);And each man moan’d and jabber’d inHis filthy Jewish gaberdine,In woe and lamentation,And howling consternation.And the splashing water drenchesTheir dirty brats and wenches;And they crawl from bales and benchesIn a hundred thousand stenches.
Then the Greeks they groan’d and quiver’d,And they knelt and moan’d and shiver’d,As the plunging waters met themAnd splash’d and overset them;And they call in their emergenceUpon countless saints and virgins;And their marrow-bones are bended,And they think the world is ended.And the Turkish women for’ardWere frighten’d and behorror’d;And shrieking and bewildering,The mothers clutch’d their children;The men sung “Allah! Illah!Mashallah Bismillah!”As the warring waters doused them;And splash’d them and soused them;And they call’d upon the Prophet,And thought but little of it.Then all the fleas in JewryJump’d up and bit like fury;And the progeny of JacobDid on the maindeck wake up(I wot those greasy RabbinsWould never pay for cabins);And each man moan’d and jabber’d inHis filthy Jewish gaberdine,In woe and lamentation,And howling consternation.And the splashing water drenchesTheir dirty brats and wenches;And they crawl from bales and benchesIn a hundred thousand stenches.
Then the Greeks they groan’d and quiver’d,And they knelt and moan’d and shiver’d,As the plunging waters met themAnd splash’d and overset them;And they call in their emergenceUpon countless saints and virgins;And their marrow-bones are bended,And they think the world is ended.And the Turkish women for’ardWere frighten’d and behorror’d;And shrieking and bewildering,The mothers clutch’d their children;The men sung “Allah! Illah!Mashallah Bismillah!”As the warring waters doused them;And splash’d them and soused them;And they call’d upon the Prophet,And thought but little of it.
Then the Greeks they groan’d and quiver’d,
And they knelt and moan’d and shiver’d,
As the plunging waters met them
And splash’d and overset them;
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrow-bones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for’ard
Were frighten’d and behorror’d;
And shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutch’d their children;
The men sung “Allah! Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah!”
As the warring waters doused them;
And splash’d them and soused them;
And they call’d upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas in JewryJump’d up and bit like fury;And the progeny of JacobDid on the maindeck wake up(I wot those greasy RabbinsWould never pay for cabins);And each man moan’d and jabber’d inHis filthy Jewish gaberdine,In woe and lamentation,And howling consternation.And the splashing water drenchesTheir dirty brats and wenches;And they crawl from bales and benchesIn a hundred thousand stenches.
Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jump’d up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the maindeck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moan’d and jabber’d in
His filthy Jewish gaberdine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches
In a hundred thousand stenches.
For Greeks read Algerians—and really I hardly think it is necessary to change theword—and one has a very fair picture in Thackeray’s delightful doggerel of the white squall of this afternoon.
Two hours after leaving Bone we reached La Calle, a small, desolate-looking town pitched at the bottom of a deep bay, and, like all these North African ports, surrounded by an amphitheatre of brown hills. La Calle is famous as one of the great seats of the coral fishery, and this fishery is carried on by a colony of Italians. Unfortunately for the comfort of persons wishing to visit La Calle, these Italians are employed to convey passengers from the steamer to the tiny little harbour, and this afternoon they gave us a “taste of their quality” which was worthy of the very worst days of the Sicilian and Neapolitan banditti. The sea was running, I won’t say mountains, but certainly hillocks, high, and the steamboat was rolling incessantly. Under the best of circumstances the transfer of the passengers from the vessel to small boats must therefore have been a work of considerable risk. Indeed, at one moment you saw a little cockle-shell of a boat waiting to convey passengers twenty feet off in the trough of the sea, and the next instant it wasbeing jammed against the ladder which the trembling voyagers had to descend. But to add to the ordinary perils of transhipment under such conditions, the worthy coral-fishers of La Calle, who I am convinced had left their country for their country’s good, engaged in the fiercest struggle over each hapless passenger as he got to the foot of the ladder. They shrieked and swore and tore their hair; they uttered blasphemies so foul and horrible that one was thankful that their language was to a great extent unintelligible; they aimed furious blows at each other with oars and boat-hooks, and thought nothing of endeavouring to stave in the side of a rival boat, though they must have known that its occupants would assuredly have been drowned if they had succeeded. It was a naval battle on a small scale, and I confess that as I looked at it, as I saw these frail little craft tossed to and fro by the boiling sea, and beheld their owners, apparently possessed by the most maniacal fury, striking and cutting and cursing at each other, regardless of imminent danger to themselves, I became as much absorbed in the spectacle as though I were looking on at a new Trafalgar.
But when the unfortunate passengers, trembling girls and women, and men who seemed to share their terrors, became involved in the struggle, rage and indignation came uppermost in my breast, and I was strongly tempted to try whether the sight of a revolver might not have reduced these ruffians to some degree of quietude. It was really piteous to see one poor woman, evidently in a very delicate state of health, and perfectly livid with terror, led down the heaving ladder. In the extremity of her alarm she implored us all, as we were Christians, to let her die in peace on board the steamer. She had been exceedingly sick on the passage from Bone, and one would have thought she would have hailed the prospect of reaching land with delight. But the horrors of that middle passage from the ship to the shore were too much for her. And then as she clung convulsively to her husband and a stout sailor on the slippery plank at the foot of the ladder which the waves every moment threatened to submerge, the ruffians in the boats made straight for her, and literally endeavoured to tear her from her husband’s grasp. At eachmoment I expected to see the whole group fall into the sea; but at last the poor creature was flung, almost senseless from fright, into the bottom of one of the boats, her baby was tossed in after her as though it had been a bundle, and the husband, after finding himself buried to his waist in a green sea which suddenly swept up the side of theCharles Quint, was permitted to join them. So the work went on for an hour or more, forming one of the most painful and exciting spectacles I ever beheld. I am not particularly timid about matters of this sort; but I confess I would not have landed at La Calle this afternoon under any pressure short of that of absolute necessity. Many persons are drowned every year on this coast in the attempt to land, much of the risk and consequent loss of life arising from the atrocious misbehaviour of the boatmen.
At last, when the shades of night were closing in, we turned our backs upon La Calle, and once more made direct for the Gulf of Tunis. By this time we were in something more than a mere squall. The wind was blowing strong from the south-west, and the sea was following the bigsteamer in huge green waves which seemed trying to catch and overwhelm us. How we pitched and rolled, and staggered and tossed and thumped along! The dinner-bell rang, and I turned into the saloon. Of course the “fiddles” were on the table; but even those detestable instruments did not prevent half my soup being emptied into my waistcoat, or a bottle of Bordeaux from pouring in a crimson tide over the tablecloth. Colonel Allegro was the only passenger who joined me at the meal; and it was eaten under difficulties of no ordinary kind. At one moment the colonel seemed to be lying on his back immediately below me, whilst plates, knives, forks, and glasses all appeared to be slipping towards him, with intent to disappear in his huge open mouth; at the next he was glaring down upon me from an inaccessible height, from which he was discharging at my devoted head the crockery and cutlery he had just been upon the point of swallowing.
Of course, we laughed and joked and made the best of it; but really the greatest joke of all was the attempt to eat under such circumstances. I was not surprised when my good friends, the Corsican Brothers, rose solemnlyfrom their chairs, held on hard whilst they made polite bows to myself and the colonel, and then staggered away with interlocked arms and white faces into the darkness of the deck. Even the captain looked uncomfortable, and, for my part, I frankly confess that I should at that moment have preferred the humblest fare upon a plain deal board on solid earth to the most sumptuous repast that could have been served on this table that was behaving itself like a rocking-horse bewitched. With profound thankfulness I drank my coffee and cognac, and recognized the fact that dinner was over. I tried to smoke on deck, but soon found that it would be necessary to be lashed to one’s seat in order to be secure; so I gave up the attempt and turned into my berth. Even here it was with the greatest difficulty that I could keep myself inside the berth, the ship rolling so violently that more than once I was flung out upon the floor of the cabin, much after the fashion in which a sack of coals is discharged from a cart. I picked myself up, bruised and sore, and tried to sleep. But the screams of the frightened passengers all around me, the crash of falling boxes, andthe thunder of the waves as they washed over the deck, made slumber impossible. So about eleven o’clock I made my way as best I could upon deck once more.
It was a magnificent sight which met my eyes, as I clung to the hand-rail of the hurricane-deck and peered out into the gloomy night. Heavy black clouds were flitting rapidly across the sky, the phosphorescent sea was boiling brilliantly on every side of theCharles Quint; on the starboard the long line of the coast could be seen, and through the heaving waves our noble ship went staggering along after the fashion of a Dover and Calais packet, whilst its progress was accompanied by the discordant shrieking of the wind in the cordage overhead. It was when I had finally turned in for the night, after giving a reassuring answer to an unfortunate fellow-passenger, who was convinced that all hope of our ever touching land again was gone, that I had occasion to undergo an experience which might furnish a theme for an admirable discourse. I had foolishly placed my watch under my pillow, and in one of my struggles to retain my place in my berth I broke the glass. It was avery small matter, but it is the small miseries of life that are the worst to bear; and I confess I was in no philosophic temper as, holding on like grim death to the side-board of my berth with one hand, I scraped up the broken fragments of glass as best I could with the other, and endeavoured to make it possible for me to get into bed again in safety.
Monday, October 17th.—After the storm a calm! When I awoke this morning, about seven o’clock, the brilliant sunshine was streaming in at my port, and all was perfectly still and silent in my cabin. It was difficult to realize the fact that this sedate little chamber had been going through all the antics which had tormented me a few hours earlier; but alas! there was evidence of the truth in the state of the floor, upon which the contents of one of my portmanteaus had been scattered in a promiscuous fashion. I did not lose much time in turning out, and then, indeed, I beheld a sight which more than repaid me for anything I had suffered on the previous day. The ship was at anchor in the Bay of Tunis. Do you ask me to describe the Bay of Tunis? Pray have you everread a description of the Bay of Naples, or the Bosphorus, or the Gulf of Smyrna? No words can do justice to the exquisite scene that presented itself as I stepped upon deck this morning. The great bay is almost land-locked. To the east is a fine range of billowy hills, called the Lead Mountains, famous both for their mineral treasures and their hot springs. In the dim distance the blue peaks of the Zaghouan range were to be descried, the range of mountains that look down upon the far-famed city of Kairwan. Directly in front of me were the white houses of Goletta, among which the curious water-palace of the Bey, built upon piles and standing out into the waves, was conspicuous. Away to the west was the stony amphitheatre, rich with the memories of two thousand years, where once stood Carthage, the very spot from which Dido looked with longing eyes upon the white sails of her hero-lover as they floated over this lovely bay; and beyond Carthage, with its great College of St. Louis now dominating the spot, was the lofty peak on the edge of which is built the walled Arab town of Sidi bou Said. Everywhere there were fine hills in gracefuloutline sweeping down to the fresh blue waters of the Gulf, and everywhere there were strange tropical trees, lofty date-palms and straggling prickly pears, to remind me that I was no longer in Europe; whilst at every point white-walled towns and rambling palaces or fortresses met the eye. And then for our foreground we had the bay with its crowd of shipping, among which was one beautiful craft, theBittern, from which floated the English flag. It was a lovely and refreshing scene, and as I drank in all its details with eager eye I felt thankful that I had not allowed myself to be deterred from coming here by any of the exaggerated tales of dangers and horrors which I had heard at home or on my way hither.
Small boats of curious Eastern shape and rig, manned by Arabs, negroes, or Maltese, were dancing along over the sparkling sea. There was much coming and going, too, of heavy barges between the shore and the huge French transports which were lying in a line not far from our own gunboat theBittern. Evidently great quantities of military stores are being unshipped for the use of the army. After a little delay one ofthe smaller boats came alongside theCharles Quint. I shook hands with the captain and the Corsican Brothers, who had now quite recovered their equanimity and good looks, and started for the shore. What was I to find there? Endless had been the stories of the perils to be encountered in Tunis which had been dinned into my ears during the journey out. But I had found that the nearer I drew to Tunis the less terrible those stories became, and though I had taken the precaution to load my revolver before seating myself in the boat, I had a firm conviction that I should find Tunis, upon the whole, at least as safe a place of residence as some portions of her Majesty’s dominions are at this moment.
The little harbour of Goletta—theGoletta, as it is universally called here—is guarded by a curious breakwater of time-worn stones. This breakwater is said, like the quaint Custom House which stands at one end of it, to have been constructed by the Spaniards of stone taken from the ruins of Carthage. Beyond the breakwater you enter a kind of canal, on one side of which is the crumbling fort of Goletta, which has more than oncestood a prolonged siege, which, indeed, had the honour upon one occasion to be assailed by no less a personage than Charles the Fifth. As I was rowed up the canal, under the walls of the fortress, dozens of Arab boys, playing on the banks in their brilliant costumes, pointed with jeers and laughter to the passing European; negroes, black as night, grinned with placid good-humour at my pale face and curious dress; whilst now and then a sullen Moor, wrapped in the graceful folds of hisburnous, shot forth a glance full of anger and contempt. Here at least I could feel that I had got beyond the reach of Mr. Cook and his “personally-conducted” flock, and that whatever experiences might await me, they would not be commonplace.
And yet my first experience of all upon landing was as commonplace as could be wished. I had hardly jumped ashore, at the foot of the shady main street of Goletta, when a swarthy young man approached me, and, lifting his hat, announced himself as the commissionaire of the Grand Hotel of Tunis! I might have been leaving a train at the Hague or Cologne. Yet let me confess that this interruption to mydream of Eastern adventures, though unromantic, was not unwelcome. Very quickly I placed myself in the hands of my new friend, Afrigan by name, who appeared to be an unusually intelligent and gentlemanly specimen of the order to which he belonged. [And here to anticipate the record of my diary, I cannot do better than state that Afrigan remained with me as servant and interpreter during the whole of my stay in the Regency, and that from first to last I found him most useful and trustworthy in both capacities. His honesty, good-nature, and intelligence, his remarkable knowledge of the current languages of Northern Africa, and his steadfast devotion to my interests, made him invaluable to me. I shall have many subsequent occasions to mention him in the course of my story; but it is only right that I should make this statement regarding him at this point in the narrative.] Under his care I first visited the Custom House. A very good-natured, gentlemanly Arab passed my portmanteaus through without troubling himself to look at their contents; and they were forthwith taken up to the little railway station and deposited there.
It wanted an hour and a half to the time for the starting of the train for Tunis, so not to lose one’s opportunities I set off, accompanied by Afrigan, for a walk through Goletta. The town consists of one short but wide main street, with shady trees growing down either side, and a number of wretched, winding alleys, opening into miserable unpaved squares. Everywhere there was plenty of life and activity. French officers in crowds were sitting drinking and smoking under the trees in front of the two cafés of which the place can boast, whilst all about were troops of Arabs and Jews, dressed in all the colours of the rainbow. One of the first things to strike my attention was the extraordinary costume of the Jewish women—a costume quite unlike anything I had seen before, either in Eastern Europe or Asia Minor. It consists of a short silk jacket and white tights, the latter displaying the shape of the limbs to advantage. In many cases these tight trousers were embroidered in gold or silver, and I am told that sometimes a pair will cost as much as twenty pounds sterling. The Arab women wear a somewhat similar dress; but the “cut” is by no means sosmart as it is in the case of the Jewesses; whilst they have in addition a large burnous enveloping them almost down to the heels, and in all cases their faces are hidden by thick black yashmaks, the effect of which is hideous in the extreme. The Jewish women wear either a coloured silk handkerchief gracefully folded in turban fashion on their heads, or a white cap with projecting horns, somewhat after the style of the head-dress of the girls of Northern Holland. What the Arab women look like I cannot, of course, say; but many of the Jewesses are really handsome—a fact of which they are by no means ignorant. Most of the Arab men whom I have seen at Goletta are also very good-looking, stalwart fellows.
As I sat sipping a cup of coffee in front of a café, large numbers of French soldiers on fatigue duty passed me, whilst ever and anon the echoes of the street were woke up by the rumble of a military waggon or a heavy piece of ordnance. The soldiers, poor fellows, are very young, and have a wearied and dispirited look. Most of them were carrying burdens which seemed to overtax their strength sorely.
A FIRST GLIMPSE OF TUNIS.
An African railway-station — Fellow-countrymen — Mr. Parnell’s arrest — The “Little Sea” — African scenery — Sketches by the road-side — Camels, Moors, Bedouins — Tunis — The Grand Hotel — The Bab el Bahr — Tunisian costumes — The “Grande Rue de Tunis” — The bazaars — The slave-market.
Monday, October 17th.—A railway-station in Africa, strange as it may seem to some persons, is not very much unlike a railway-station anywhere else. Still it must be confessed that there was a certain incongruousness between my surroundings in Goletta—the picturesque Moors, Arabs, and negroes, who abounded in all manner of quaint and startling costumes—and the high-roofed shed of commonplace appearance from which the trains start for Tunis. Half-past ten was the hour fixed for the departure of the train, and shortly before that time, accompanied by Afrigan, I strolled up to the station, took a first-class ticket at an ordinary “pigeonhole” for myself and a third-class for mycompanion, and then went to take my seat in the carriage.
My ticket, I observed, was printed in English, whereas Afrigan’s was in Italian. At first I was disposed to attribute this difference to the fact well known twenty years ago in Germany, that only princes, Englishmen, and fools travelled first class. It turned out, however, that these first-class tickets were a relic of the time when this Goletta-Tunis railway was in the hands of an English Company. They were, in fact, part of the stock handed over when the Italians took possession of the line some years ago. Clearly, there is no very great demand for first-class railway accommodation in Northern Africa.
But as I was listening to this explanation on the station platform, a welcome sound fell upon my ear. It was a sound commonplace enough to stay-at-home people, but one which can never become altogether commonplace to those who are in the habit of travelling. In brief, it was the sound of the English language, spoken by unmistakable Englishmen. Only two or three days had passed since I had parted with a fellow-countryman at Marseilles; but already I was prepared to welcome any chance Englishman whom Imight meet as a friend. The gentlemen whose voices attracted my notice at the Goletta railway-station this morning were three in number. They had already taken their seats in one of the shady compartments of the train, and I at once joined them and introduced myself. One of them was Captain P———, commanding theBitterngunboat; another was the unfortunate commander of theAristides, an English steamer which was wrecked two days ago near Bizerta, and the crew of which had been rescued by theBitternat some risk and not a little trouble; whilst the third was an English gentleman residing at Goletta and carrying on business at Tunis, Mr. P———. The first demand of my new friends was for news from England. I produced last week’sPunchandWorld, and theStandardof Wednesday, and soon they were busily engaged in mastering their contents. Then I remembered one little item of news I had learned after leaving home, and told them of Parnell’s arrest. “What! is he caught at last?” cried the captain of theBittern; “Hurrah!” and off went his hat in token of his approval of the new departure in the policy of the Government. I remembered how General A———had thrownhishat up in the courtyard of the Grand Hotel at Paris when I told him the same piece of news, and smiled to myself at the evidence which was thus afforded of the general agreement of Englishmen all over the world upon that particular subject.
Outside the carriages on the railway, broad covered balconies run, upon which in hot weather the passenger can stand and enjoy the breeze, whilst he gets a full view of the country through which the line passes. Taking advantage of this arrangement, I enjoyed my short ride up to Tunis immensely. The day was exceedingly hot, but here under the balcony-roof one was sheltered from the rays of the sun. The line runs seemingly upon a dead level all the way from Goletta to the capital. On one side of it is the lake called by the natives El Bahira, or the Little Sea, which extends from Goletta almost to the very walls of Tunis. It is said that this lake is now little more than an enormous open cesspool, all the sewage of Tunis being poured into it. This may be the case, but at least it has this in common with some other unwholesome things, that it is very fair to look upon. Nothing could bemore beautiful, indeed, than the aspect of this broad sheet of water as the train rolled in leisurely fashion past it this morning. Its waves were dancing and glittering in the brilliant sunshine, and the colour of the cloudless blue sky was reflected upon its surface. Little lateen-sailed fishing-boats were gliding hither and thither, suggesting strongly by their peculiar rig the pirate craft which in my earliest days I associated with the Gulf of Tunis; a strong fort, said to be of Spanish origin, stood out in the very middle of the lake, rising sheer from the water, after the manner of the Castle of Chillon; on the bank nearest to me the reeds grew in forests, enormous flocks of flamingoes and herons rising from them and sailing lazily away as the train passed; whilst on the further shore the waves broke against a splendid range of brown hills and dark grey crags, save where they seemed to wash against the gleaming white walls of Tunis itself.
It was a new revelation of beauty to me; and I wondered for a moment that in all that I had seen and read and heard of the picturesque spots of Europe, I had remained ignorant of the surpassing loveliness whichnow gladdened my eye. But I turned to the other side, and what I saw there served to remind me that I had passed out of the European range and of the circuit of the ordinary searchers after the picturesque. A vast yellow plain, on which not a blade of grass seemed to grow, but which was broken here and there by patches of olive-forest, the gnarled trunks and dull green leaves only serving to deepen the general impression of arid desolation which the plain produced: beyond the plain, ranges of low hills, with now and then a palm-tree raising its feathery crown against the deep, unbroken azure of the sky, and here and there a white house standing in the midst of a thicket of prickly pear. This was what I saw when I turned away from El Bahira, and looked westwards. I had seen nothing like this before in any part of the world. This yellow desert of sand, these groves of olives and palm, these tangles of cactus and prickly pear, and that marvellous sky with its infinite depth of blue, its fierce, relentless glare of light and heat, belonged not to Europe, but to Africa. And to one of the most famous parts of Africa withal; for this was oncethe Plain of Carthage, and the great city stretched hitherwards from the shore of the Gulf, until it almost reached to Tunis itself.
Alongside the railway straggles the broad, sandy road from Goletta and the Marsa to Tunis. There was no lack of life upon this road this morning. Just outside Goletta a French camp is pitched, and here some hundreds of soldiers were washing or cooking, or trying to shelter themselves from the cruel sun. All round the camp I noticed that sentries were placed at very short intervals, and there were other indications of the fact that the French army finds itself in an enemy’s country in Tunis. Then, when we got clear of the camp and the soldiers, what an infinite number of picturesque groups and “bits” that would have delighted an artist were scattered along the road! Here was a train of camels plodding along in that grave and clumsy fashion peculiar to their race. These African camels are not to be compared in size or beauty—for, strange as it may seem, even a camel can be beautiful—to those of Asia. Nothing can exceed the awkwardness of their gait, unless it be the stubbornness of their tempers. A “rogue” camel is,indeed, anything but a pleasant customer to encounter in a narrow street. He has a delightful habit of laying about him with his teeth after the fashion of that legendary animal the American “snapping turtle,” and with the most aristocratic unconsciousness of your presence he will squeeze you flat against the wall by means of the enormous boxes he carries slung like panniers over his back, and pass on without so much as glancing round to see what mischief he has done. But at a distance, and with this background of sandy plain, which harmonizes so well with the colour of his own hide, he adds not a little to the picturesqueness of the scene—especially when he is attended by a jet-black negro from the Soudan, clad in the gay and flaunting colours which arede rigueurin that quarter of the world.
Then we passed a couple of Arabs in loose jebbas of dark-green hue, bare legs, enormous turbans, and brilliant yellow slippers, cantering gaily along towards Tunis on a pair of fine mules. Poor mules! What a burden they had to bear. The lowest part of the load seemed to consist of enormous sacks stuffed with grain of some kind; then therewere strings of pumpkins, nets filled with pomegranates, prickly pears, and red gherkins, baskets of unripe dates or olives, and bottles of oil dangling in a promiscuous way from all parts of the back; whilst on the top of all sat the owner plying his stick with vigour. The “seat” of an Arab on horse, mule, or donkey back, like the ways of the Heathen Chinee, is peculiar. He sits sideways, not as European ladies do with one leg drawn up in front of the other, but with both legs dangling side by side, exactly as though the animal he had mounted was a couch or a bench. The effect produced by this lazy and ungraceful mode of riding is very ludicrous; but, judging by all that I saw this morning, the seat is safe enough for those who are accustomed to it.
A little crowd of tawny Bedouin children, almost naked, flying across the plain towards the train, their black hair streaming behind them, and the savage dogs of their camp barking ferociously at their heels, came by way of welcome interlude to the long procession of quadrupeds. Then at the foot of a splendid palm-tree a group were seated, who looked as though they had steppedstraight out of some picture of “The Repose in Egypt.” A woman with veiled features and graceful form, a man of swarthy complexion and splendid symmetry of figure, and a beautiful babe! A world-old group this; but clad in these garments and in the midst of such a scene, strangely suggestive of the family of Bethlehem. And there were scantily clad Arabs ploughing in the fields behind two stout heifers, their plough an instrument so primitive that it can hardly have been changed in shape since the days when the towers of Carthage dominated this same plain; and here and there a group of women—all with yashmaks hiding their faces from the eyes of the curious—were gathered round a well, in the midst of a little oasis of acacia and prickly pear; and occasionally a heavily-laden, roughly-built country cart trundled on towards the city, carrying its burden of vegetables, or passed in the other direction laden with bags ofcouscousoo, and gaily-coloured dishes and vessels of native pottery; and once, a richly dressed Moor, on a splendidly caparisoned Arab, which he rode in European fashion, galloped past with a speed like that of the wind. And over all this scene,so strange in all its details, so picturesque in its general effect, there was the wonderful dome of cloudless blue sky, like the cupola of some vast furnace.
A very brief run brought us up to the station within the walls of Tunis. The throng of Arabs, Jews, and Jewesses, in their many-hued dresses, poured out of the carriages of the train, and passed from the shade of the station into the dazzling glare of the sunshine beyond in a brilliant cascade of colour. I parted from my new-found English friends, and set off with Afrigan to the hotel, a stout negro porter carrying my portmanteaus, travelling-rugs, and otherimpedimentaupon his back, in a fashion recalling the hammals of Stamboul.
The first glimpse of Tunis from the railway station is somewhat disappointing. The place looks too modern and too European for its reputation. In front of the station there is a broad, unfinished street, running down to the point at which it is intersected at right angles by a shady boulevard, the Marina. There is little about either the street in which the station stands or the Marina to show that you have left Europe or Algeria behind you.Most of the houses in these two streets are of a modified French or Italian style of architecture; so that one wondered at the fact that this was actually Tunis, the city where “the grateful Turk” of one’s “Sandford and Merton” days was once Bey, where many another legendary hero of my boyhood was once a captive, and where Mussulman lust and cruelty, whether Turkish or Moorish, for centuries indulged in orgies which make the name of the place still infamous. I have already learned once more to correct my first impressions, and have found that the real Tunis surpasses one’s expectations so far as picturesqueness of appearance is concerned; but it is worth putting on record for the benefit of future travellers, the disappointment occasioned by my earliest glimpse at the city.
The Grand Hotel, which is within three minutes’ walk of the station, is a handsome new building, and, like all the other buildings I have yet seen in Tunis, it is constructed of white stone or stucco. Indeed, at the first glance this morning, I was struck by the painful glare of white pervading the whole place. White walls, white roads, even white trees, for the fine dust has coated the trunksand leaves thickly, make the outlook in all directions dazzling in the extreme. A flag was flying from one of the windows of the hotel; a couple of French sentries were walking up and down in front of it, and French officers or orderlies were passing in and out of the open door like bees round a hive. At a respectful distance a small knot of Arabs were gathered, watching what was going on with sullen faces; whilst additional liveliness was imparted to the scene by the constant altercations between the sentries and a dozen street-boys, in native costume, who seemed to have all the impudence and a great deal more than the picturesqueness of the city Arab of London. The French have now been installed in Tunis for some days. They entered it at the earliest hour of dawn last Tuesday morning, the inhabitants waking up to find themselves in the power of a Christian host. Intense excitement and indignation have since prevailed in the native quarters of the town, and rumours of an impending rising are commonly current. Many of the Europeans, I am told, live in a state of perpetual alarm; but others have confidence in the power of the French to put down anyattempt to overpower the non-Mussulman population. The meaning of the appearance of the sentries in front of the Grand Hotel is, that it is the headquarters of General Japy, the French commander of the city.
The room in which I soon found myself installed at the hotel was big and airy, with tiled floor and walls of hard white cement. The light was carefully excluded by means of heavy wooden shutters. I ventured to brave the terrors of the sun, in order that I might see rather more of my apartment than it was possible to do whilst these shutters were closed. Perhaps I should have done better if I had remained in ignorance of the things which were revealed to me in the glare of the sunshine. Alas! my big, airy room was loaded with filth. The red tiles of the floor were thickly coated with the white dust of the broad road outside; whilst each particular corner had its cobwebs, and its own especial rubbish heap of more or less abominable dirt. However, a little of Mark Tapley’s philosophy never comes amiss under circumstances like the present. Having come to Tunis, it would be absurd to grumble because my bedroom is not altogether to my liking. One mustrather remember that this Grand Hotel is looked upon by the natives as a marvellous and bewildering exemplification of the European’s love of luxury. I breakfasted poorly, the chief portion of my meal being apparently a piece of goat’s flesh, the flavour of which was decidedly “high;” and then I went out with Afrigan for a walk through the bazaars.
The walk was a comparatively short one, but it sufficed to open my eyes to the reality about Tunis, and dispelled any sense of disappointment I had experienced on my first entrance into the city. Leaving the Marina, I passed under a fine Moorish archway of the familiar horse-shoe pattern, into a little square beyond. This gateway, known as the Bab el Bahr, is of great antiquity, and on either side of it are sculptured stones bearing long inscriptions in Arabic; Afrigan, unfortunately, though he speaks Arabic “like a native,” could not decipher these inscriptions. The miniature square beyond it is the central point of the old European quarter. On one side is the fine, massive building, with its immense enclosed balcony, occupied by the English Consul-General, Mr. Reade. It was a pleasant sight to see the English flag wavingabove so many strange and curious objects. A smaller house, separated from the English Consulate by a narrow street, is the residence of the German Consul, and I believe the Austrian Consul also has his dwelling in the square. A couple of cafés, chiefly frequented by fez-wearing Jews and Maltese; a station-house for the police, whence every two hours issue, in Indian file, as melancholy a string of soldiers as Falstaff himself ever beheld; and one or two shops for the sale of groceries, &c., over one of which I saw the words “English stores,” complete the square. But the houses are nothing compared to the people who swarm in this little open space. What costumes, what complexions, what figures, what faces! No kaleidoscope ever yet presented such a variety of forms and colours as you may see here, whilst you sit under the shade of an awning in front of one of the two miserable cafés. How I longed for the pencil of an artist this morning, for it is only by the graphic method that one can convey even the faintest idea of the composition of the ever-dissolving groups that all day long fill this little place of meeting. Very few women are to be met with in the crowd, andof these not one in twenty is in European costume, although, as I have said, this is the centre of the European quarter. But the dresses of the men are sufficiently picturesque to make up for the lack of female costumes. The Italians and Maltese, who constitute the greater part of the European element, wear the fez; but by far the largest number of the people here are clad in the full Arab costume, consisting of yellow slippers, a pair of baggy white trousers reaching to the knees, a gay silk sash, a white shirt, a jebba or burnous of coloured silk or wool, and a magnificent turban. I can’t say that all the colours of the rainbow are represented in these dresses; but at least we have blue and green and red and yellow in profusion. Then the complexions! Here is a handsome fellow who might pass for a somewhat swarthy Frenchman, and next to him is a negro from the Soudan, with the jet black skin and the characteristic features of his race. Between these extremes one gets every intervening shade. Fine-looking men most of these Arabs are; though here and there one meets with some beggar, scarred and mutilated, hideous to behold, the mere sight of whoseghastly features sends a thrill of horror to one’s very heart.
I could have spent hours in the little square, but Afrigan urged me forward, and I went up the narrow winding way leading to the bazaars. This, as my companion informed me, was the “Grande Rue de Tunis.” I thought last year, when I walked up the Grande Rue of Pera, that I could never again expect to see so wretched a main street in a capital. But the thoroughfare through which I passed to-day is even more narrow, crooked, and wretched than the famous street of Constantinople. It led me, however, very quickly into the heart of the Arab quarter. At intervals the street was arched over, the houses being built right across it, so that one had, as it were, to pass through a succession of tunnels. At the top of the long thoroughfare was a small open space, at one side of which was the entrance to the chief mosque of Tunis. The door was jealously closed. It had been shut since the entry of the French into the city. No Christian or Jewish footstep has ever defiled even the outer court of any mosque in Tunis; and to-day I have been warned that it is not safe even to pausenear one of the mosques in the present excited temper of the people. So I merely ventured upon a passing glance at the flight of stairs leading up to the main entrance, upon which half a dozen sullen Arabs, clad each in a thick white burnous, were lounging in the sun.
It was delightful presently to plunge into the dim, cool arcades of the bazaar. I entered by the bazaar of the perfumers, and on both sides of me from the little open shops, similar in style to those of Stamboul, though still smaller in size, there issued scents more pungent than agreeable. The henna leaf, by means of which the Arabs dye their finger and toenails a deep red, seems to be one of the most important articles in this bazaar. It bears a strong resemblance to the green tea leaf. Next to the perfumers came the workers in leather, hundreds of them squatting in their dark little caverns, busily working at the yellow leather slippers universally worn, or smoking a tranquil cigarette, or reading some quaint Arabic MS., probably an invoice or a letter of advice from the interior. None of them tried to attract my attention; no one sought to secure my custom. They looked up at the unwontedsight of my European dress for a single moment, and then generally turned away with something like contempt depicted upon their swarthy faces.
I must say that it takes the conceit out of an Englishman to find himself alone in the midst of such a place as this. He has a “creepy,” uncomfortable feeling concerning the necessity of his being upon his best behaviour if he is to succeed in passing unchallenged. Once somebody gently touched my arm. I looked round. A hideous hag, with face only half hidden by her black yashmak, implored my charity. I gave her acaroub, and did what I could to conceal the shudder of disgust occasioned by her appearance. Presently we came to a little open space, with arched roof and heavy pillars, in the very middle of the bazaar. This was formerly the slave-market. The slave-market of Tunis! It was here, then, that “the grateful Turk” of “Sandford and Merton” discovered his early benefactor languishing in chains and misery. Thousands upon thousands of miserable Christians, captured by Turkish and Moorish pirates, have been exposed here for sale, chained to these pillarsin this dismal vaulted square. Men now living in Tunis can remember the time when slaves were sold here; it was, indeed, the father, and the predecessor of the present English Consul, the late Sir Thomas Reade, who succeeded in putting an end to the abominable traffic. I was glad to turn away from the bazaar, and to take a walk with Afrigan through those higher and more aristocratic parts of Tunis which are reserved for the native population, and in which no Christian or European is allowed to dwell.
THE ENGLISH CONSULATE.
Mr. Reade — His appointment as Consul-General — Changed circumstances — The Consul at home — Walls of blue china — The Consul’s duties — An offensive globe-trotter — A drive round the city walls — The Spanish aqueduct — The forts of Tunis — An awkward dilemma — My vivandière in trouble — An English home in Tunis — A sudden alarm.
Monday, October 17th.—Returning from my walk with Afrigan, I changed my dress and made a formal call upon the Consul-General, Mr. Reade. I have already spoken of the fine building occupied as the English Consulate in the little square of theBab el Bahr. This building was erected in the lifetime of Sir Thomas Reade, the father of the present Consul. Sir Thomas is still remembered in Tunis, where for very many years he was honoured and trusted as the representative of no other Power was. The Bey of his time enjoined upon his successor, when he himself was drawing near to death, that in any difficulty he must follow the advice of the English Consul: “he is an honest man, and England means well by Tunis, and hasno secret intrigues to carry on against us.” So when it was made known a couple of years ago or more that the son of Sir Thomas, born during his father’s tenure of office here, and therefore a native of the Regency, had been promoted from the Consulate at Smyrna to the Consul-Generalship here, there was general rejoicing throughout the country, and Mr. Reade was welcomed with enthusiasm by all classes. I well remember how last year in Smyrna I heard on all sides expressions of regret at the loss which the British community there had sustained when Mr. Reade was removed: and I can also remember hearing of his own delight at being sent back to that which is in reality his native land—a country which was then, just two short years ago, one of the most prosperous, peaceful, and well-ordered States in the world. I wondered how I should find Mr. Reade under the changed circumstances in which he is now placed. The easy and pleasant life to which he doubtless looked forward when he came to Tunis is for the present at an end. For the past nine or ten months he has been living in the midst of a whirl of exciting events, and has had to keep a clear head and a steady eye in order to avoid a dangerouscollision with one or other of the intriguing factions which have been at work here. Nor is this all that he has had to pass through. I have spoken of the enthusiasm his return to Tunis excited among all classes of the community. On his first arrival he was received by the Bey with the greatest cordiality, and down to the month of May last he was consulted by his Highness upon all matters of importance. Since then all is changed; the French are here in actual possession of Tunis, M. Roustan is supreme at the palace; and Mr. Reade has been compelled to sink to a comparatively subordinate position. One was curious to ascertain how our representative had borne such a reverse of fortune as all this implies.
Passing through a vaulted hall, in which half a dozen cavasses, some of whom were unmistakable Turks of venerable aspect, were lounging, I was ushered up a broad stone staircase to the Consul’s apartment on the first floor. That which struck me most as I walked up this staircase was the exquisite effect produced by the Moorish tiles with which the walls were lined from top to bottom. It was my first experience of a Tunisianhouse, and it made a deep impression upon me. One felt as though one had entered a house built of porcelain. For cleanliness, coolness, and beauty of appearance there is nothing in the world that will compare with these old Moorish tiles; and I think I know one or two friends of mine of the æsthetic persuasion, who, if they were suddenly to find themselves at the foot of this staircase as I did this afternoon, would almost be inclined to ascend it on their knees, out of reverence for the cunning craftsmen who are responsible for its mural decorations.
Mr. Reade, a middle-aged gentleman of frank and open features and pleasant smile, received me most kindly. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that sense of boredom which must, I am certain, overtake our Consuls and Ambassadors abroad when they are beset by wandering Englishmen in search of enlightenment. Cigarettes were produced, he laid aside his work, and plunged into a lively conversation regarding Tunisian affairs, which afforded me more information on the subject in a quarter of an hour than I had been able to get from all my previous reading-up of newspapers and pamphlets. That hehimself felt deeply concerned regarding the events of the past year was evident; but though quite frank in speaking of affairs he was judiciously reticent when he alluded to men; and, strange to say, I actually took part in a conversation on matters in Tunis in which I heard no scandal, none of the gossip which had already begun to be poured into my ears from different quarters.
One would like to paint, for the satisfaction of readers at home, a picture of the position occupied by an English Consul-General in a city like Tunis. It is no sinecure which he holds. Here he is to be found day after day seated in his big chair at his big table, dealing with all manner of documents and applications on a thousand different subjects. In the outer room are the trusted clerks of the Consulate, and beyond that room is a little apartment arranged very much after the fashion of a tiny police-court. In this place an English judge administers justice for the benefit of the thousands of English subjects—chiefly Maltese by birth—who reside here. When I say an English judge, I ought to explain that Mr. Arpa, the gentleman in question, is not an Englishman, but a Maltese. He is, of course,subordinate in rank to Mr. Reade; and it is to the Consul-General, not to the judge, that all matters of importance are referred. Among these at the present moment the most pressing is probably the notorious Enfida case, regarding which the newspapers have been full for months past, and which is said even to have had some share in bringing about the French expedition against Tunis. But apart from this great suit—into the merits of which it would hardly be appropriate to enter here—Mr. Reade has plenty of occupation in connexion with the daily concerns of the Consulate. The shipwreck at Bizerta, of which I heard this morning, is of itself sufficient to supply him with at least a day’s work; for he must take the depositions of the captain and officers, provide for the crew as distressed British subjects, and exercise other functions in connexion with the affair. Then there are endless matters for investigation in connexion with the French occupation of Tunis. A British subject rushes in with some complaint that he has been ill-treated by a French soldier. Perhaps it is a Maltese cart-driver who has entered into a contract with some officer of the Commissariat departmentthat he has found to be unprofitable, and from which he wishes to be released; perhaps it is some poor fellow who has been really hardly treated by the rather arrogant Gauls. In either case Mr. Reade’s intervention is sought for, and will be given.
There is yet another duty which, I am sure, must press hard upon our Consuls in these parts; though, as I have said, Mr. Reade showed no sign of feeling the hardship during his interview with me. That is, the necessity of receiving and entertaining the members of the “globe-trotting tribe,” to which, I am afraid, I myself belong. Nothing can be more exigent, nothing more offensive than the demands which are sometimes made by the globe-trotter in search of information upon an English Consul. Some months ago a gentleman, whose sole excuse was to be found in the fact that he was very young and inexperienced, came to Tunis bent upon sight-seeing. He remained a week or more in the place. On the day of his departure he called upon the Consul-General. Mr. Reade happened to be at luncheon at the moment when he called, and it also happened that he was entertaining guests. He sent apolite message to the Englishman, who had sent up his card, stating these facts, and begging him either to wait a few minutes or to call again. Instead of taking either course, the young prig went off in a mighty dudgeon, and positively lodged a complaint at the Foreign Office concerning the incivility to which he had been subjected! Marvellous indeed are the ways of the travelling Englishman. Even more marvellous, however, is the fact that in spite of experiences of this kind our Consuls manage to keep their temper, and are ready—as the occasion demands—to give a cup of coffee or a good dinner to the wandering fellow-countryman who comes within their ken.
My interview with Mr. Reade was not the last experience of this eventful day. I called upon the gentleman whose acquaintance I had made in the train in the early morning, Mr. P———, and was by him introduced to his friend, Mr. B———, who occupies a prominent place in the very small English community in Tunis. Mr. B——— at once invited me to go for a drive with him outside the city walls, and accordingly we started in an open carriage and pair. Passing through the narrow andcrowded streets of the city, we quickly reached one of the gateways, now guarded by French as well as Tunisian troops, and passed out into the open country. Away from the city walls stretches a desolate yellow plain, interspersed with dense hedges of prickly pear. Running across this plain, in a long ghostly line of crumbling arches, may be seen the remains of the famous Spanish aqueduct which once supplied Tunis with water. It is not a work of very ancient date. Probably its age does not exceed three hundred years. Yet more than one visitor to Tunis who has afterwards recorded his impressions of the place in writing, has fallen into the ludicrous error of confounding this work with the Phœnician or Roman aqueduct by which Carthage obtained its water-supply.
In one respect the country round Tunis resembles that round Paris. Almost every height which commands the city is crowned by a fort. On nearly all these forts to-day the French flag was flying above that of the Bey. During the course of the ride we passed close to a large encampment of Bedouins from the interior, who have flocked in multitudes to the capital sincethe troubles began; and who are here, according to my companion, for no good purpose. Wild, dark-skinned men and women these Bedouins are. The women go unveiled when outside the city walls, and many of them have a savage comeliness of feature that affords a striking contrast to the European standard of good looks. There was no friendliness on their faces as we drove past them this afternoon. Near to their encampment is a picturesque little Arab village standing in a hollow by the wayside. Two days ago a French soldier, tempted by the bright eyes of a Bedouin girl, ventured into this village in pursuit of her. He has never been seen since; and no one doubts that he has paid with his life for his recklessness and folly. Unfortunately, it is not only the reckless or the foolish who are in danger. At any moment an Arab fanatic—and the whole race are seething with fanaticism just now—might take it into his head to secure a short cut to Paradise by means of despatching an infidel, and woe then to the first European whom he might encounter! A quick eye, a steady hand, and a good revolver would alone suffice to save him.
The sun had set, and the southern night had fallen with its usual rapidity before we got back to the town. We had a fright on finding the first gate we reached closed; for a night outside the city walls meant perils which were not lightly to be contemplated. Happily, we found the gate adjoining the kasbah, or citadel, still open, and through it we entered the city in safety. Scarcely had we done so when the heavy gates were closed and locked with a mighty clanging of iron, not to be opened again until after sunrise to-morrow. It gives one a curious sensation, that of being locked in—even though you are locked into a city as big as Tunis. Outside lies the wild, open country, where no man’s life is safe; where bands of Arab marauders are constantly wandering from village to village, robbing, burning, slaying; and where, if any European were to be found after nightfall, his life would not be worth an hour’s purchase. It may be a relief to feel that in closing these gates they have shut out the lawless forces of the desert; but on the other hand there is the uncomfortable feeling of being a prisoner, and of having for one’s fellow-prisoners nearly 100,000 men,each one of whom would esteem it a virtue if he were to kill you, and from whom, under certain circumstances, you need expect no more mercy than from the Bedouins of the parched and yellow plains outside.
Through the dark and winding streets we found our way at last to my hotel, where B——— dined with me, in a room swarming with French officers, who smoked and expectorated and otherwise indulged themselves on all sides of us, whilst we struggled through a distasteful meal. Outside, after dinner, I met with an old friend, and alas! a friend in trouble. This was my fair vivandière of theCharles Quint. With tear-stained face and broken voice she explained to me her deplorable situation. Would it be believed that a Frenchman, and a French general to boot, had been so cruel, so utterly wanting in gallantry, as to issue an order that she, a woman of reputation, decorated, celebrated, and devoted to the sacred work of charity, should put off her uniform? And here her self-command failed utterly, and she burst into passionate sobs. “But, madam,” I ventured to urge, “you can nurse just as well in an ordinary dress as in that you arenow wearing.” “Oh, no, monsieur, no! Besides,meto put on an ordinary dress! and to put off the uniform which I love—” and here she glanced downwards at that dual garment which the polite American hesitates to mention in the presence of ladies. Tears were in her eyes, sobs in her throat, grief in her heart, and, I regret to say, a strong suspicion of cognac in her breath. A young officer came up to console her, and she turned away in haste from the phlegmatic Englishman. The last that I saw of her was leaning upon the shoulder of her brave fellow-countryman, and plentifully bedewing his blue uniform with her tears, whilst the Arab servants in the hall of the hotel looked on in mute amazement.
I accompanied B——— to his house in the town. It lies in a narrow alley, approached by many windings and turnings from the Grande Rue. To an Englishman it seems astonishing that any decent person could live in this contracted and evil-smelling passage; which in dimensions, cleanliness, and airiness resembles one of those “fever-haunts of Leeds” with which in former years I had a painful familiarity. Things are measured bydifferent standards in the East and the West, however, and this black and ill-paved slum, decidedly worse in outward aspect than any ordinary London alley, is looked upon here as a suitable place of residence for an English gentleman, a barrister, and a man of influence. Once inside the house itself, of course, I found everything as it ought to be. The house is built on the true Moorish pattern; that is to say, it is in the form of a hollow square, the doors and windows of the various rooms on each floor opening upon an interior gallery. This form of building is common to hot countries, and it has the great advantage of warding off the rays of the sun from the various apartments. Indeed, the sun is here regarded as an enemy, and a fatal drawback to any house would be the fact that it had unsheltered outside windows. Tiled floors and walls and wooden ceilings gave a bare and unfinished appearance to my friend’s home; though there were pictures, bric-à-brac, couches, and valuable Kairwan carpets in abundance.
B——— is an enthusiast on all Tunisian affairs, and no man living probably knows more than he does of the disgraceful eventswhich have led up to the occupation of this city. He it was to whom the Bey confided the task of drawing up his protest against the insolent demand of M. Roustan for the signature of the famous or infamous Treaty of May 12th. That protest was telegraphed to all the European powers during the few hours of grace which Roustan allowed to the unfortunate ruler, whilst French troops were being drawn up round the Bardo Palace in order to compel the Bey’s final acquiescence. Needless to say, it was intensely interesting to hear from the lips of one who had been himself an actor in these transactions the narrative of the struggle against the intrigues of France. Graphic portraits were sketched by B——— of M. Roustan and his detestableentourage, the most prominent figures in the picture being a certain M. Elias and his wife, a lady whose career might well be made the subject of a (French) romance. The military operations, too, were explained to me by the aid of a map, and I was bidden to wait for the forthcoming march upon Kairwan. As for the actual situation in Tunis itself, B——— took the gloomiest view. The exasperationof the Arabs, he declared, was intense, and “anything might happen” at any moment. An insult offered by a French soldier to an Arab woman would suffice to set the city in flames, and a catastrophe of unexampled magnitude might follow. Indeed, according to my interlocutor, it was only the presence of the French troops in the city which prevented a general massacre of the Europeans; and there was really occasion to apprehend that such a massacre might be attempted by the more fanatical Arabs at any given moment.
This lively picture of the dangers of the situation, painted as it was in that quaint, gloomy, cavernous sitting-room in the strange Moorish house, was rather calculated to try the nerves of a new-comer, and as B——— depicted to me the dangers attending any wandering in even the most frequented parts of Tunis after nightfall, I began most fervently to wish myself safe again in the shelter of my hotel. Even as I was pondering upon the dark and intricate passages which I must traverse on my way to my sleeping-place, a sudden sound startled us both. It was the firing of a rifle in the streetbelow us. We listened, breathless, for a few seconds; and then, hearing nothing further, stepped out upon the quaint curved iron balcony overhanging the doorway. Nothing was to be seen except a group of cloaked Arabs, moving stealthily away in the distance. B——— pressed me to remain at his house for the night, but I thought it better to return to my hotel; and as he sent his servant—a good-looking young Jew in Arab costume—to show me the way, the only difficulty I experienced in passing through the unlit streets was from my constant stumbling over bits of broken ground, or my occasional encounters with the savage dogs, which are only less numerous here than they are in Stamboul.
A DAY AT CARTHAGE.
The pious Æneas — A street scene — A nondescript vehicle — The road to Carthage — A wayside tragedy — Bedouin children —Delenda est Carthago— An Empire’s dust — Dido’s Palace — The cisterns of Carthage — A lovely situation — The College of St. Louis — English ladies in Tunis.
Tuesday, October 18th.—A trip to Carthage is an event which recalls one’s earliest memories of classic lore. How many years, I wonder, is it since I was tearfully engaged in construing the well-thumbed pages in which the adventures of the lovely Dido and the “pious” Æneas are recorded? And wherefore, I wonder,wasÆneas pious? So far as schoolboys are concerned, that marvellous faculty of blubbering at will over his own misfortunes which this particular hero possessed has caused him to be generally regarded as something very like a milksop. But there has never been any doubt in the schoolboy’s mind regarding the beauty of Dido. Has he not had a due sense of it flogged into him in his very earliest struggleswith the Latin tongue? I vow that when I got out of bed this morning and prepared myself for a trip to Carthage, a slight sensation of alarm troubled me. The names of Dido and Æneas recalled quite too painfully the memories of good Dr. Birch, and of the times when I was at the mercy of his stern assistants. Little did I dream in those days of ever seeing Carthage itself. Yet here I was, just on the point of starting for the place where the wonderful city once stood; and that being so, why should I not find my lovely Dido still sitting there, watching with tear-dimmed eyes the flying bark of her faithless lover? I had left the world of sober realities behind me at Marseilles, and had come into a sort of Arabian Nights’ country in which anything might happen, and in which it was one of my main duties to be astonished at nothing.
The big airy bedchamber was hot enough when I awoke, albeit the heavy wooden shutters were closed and the light excluded. A detestable mosquito had been buzzing about my ears all through the night, and now there were certain small swellings on my neck which told where he had feasted upon my blood.The faithful Afrigan appeared upon the scene with the welcome tub, a small cup of particularly bad coffee, and a roll that was supposed to represent the nearest approach to Parisian bread to be obtained in this quarter of the world. Happily, he spared me the sight and the smell of the garlic-drenched oily abomination which passes here for butter. A cigarette, however, put matters right, and before my not very elaborate toilette was completed, I found myself standing upon the balcony outside the window surveying the brilliant street below me. Brilliant, indeed, it is; not only in the sunshine that lights up everything with an illumination the startling vividness of which no dweller beneath the murky skies of England can understand, but in the splendidly picturesque costumes and figures which go flitting past the house in an endless procession. There was not a single person in European costume to be seen in the street when I looked out this morning; but a hundred Arabs were going to and fro. There were men vending water, and fruit, and cakes; there were wonderful little shoeblacks, all aglow with scarlet garments; there were black mule-drivers trudging onwards withimpassive faces, and scores of sleek Moors in ghostly white marching slowly up and down the broad road regardless of the terrible sun which was pouring its fiercest rays upon their turbaned heads. Now and then some camels went past heavily laden; then a beggar trudged along, in rags and sores, raising a cry for pity in the name of Allah; then a stout old Jewess and her handsome daughters waddled slowly past, the latter with strange unwieldy gait, but flashing eyes and rosy lips; and then our sweet European civilization made itself visible in the shape of a detachment of French infantry, briskly marching to the rub-a-dub of the drum.
But meanwhile Afrigan was awaiting me at the door of the hotel with a curious vehicle, not unlike a small four-post bedstead mounted upon wheels. Loose curtains hung all round the upper part of the framework, so that shelter could be obtained in any direction from the heat of the sun, whilst a pleasant draught of air could also at all times be admitted. A couple of good horses were attached to this nondescript conveyance, which was in the charge of a Maltese of most villainous aspect. Away we went, with muchcracking of whips and jingling of bells, through the crowded streets of the native quarter; past the coffee-houses, each one of which, with its wonderful, sombre interior, and its group of dark and sullen faces peering out at us as we drove by, would have made a delightful picture; under the quaint arches of the great gateway, and so out into the open yellow plain beyond.
It was a hot, a very hot drive of nearly two hours to Carthage. All the way our road lay across that sandy desert. The only things now growing upon it are the gnarled and twisted olive-trees, and enormous tangles of prickly pear, the leaves of which have attained so vast a size that if I were to venture upon figures I should no doubt have the eternal verities of Baron Munchausen flung at my head by the sceptical. But though the country through which we thus passed is so dreary just now, in the spring, when it is covered by a veil of living green, it must be wonderfully beautiful. And even as it is there are picturesque sights in abundance to compensate for the barrenness of the soil. Here we pass a kitchen garden. Perhaps a few stunted vegetables are growingin it; more probably it only shows you a few sticks rising two or three inches from the soil. But a couple of Arabs are hard at work gardening, and mark the cunning care with which they are constructing little canals of the loose soil, by means of which the water which the ox is pumping out of yonder well may be carried in any desired direction. Here a whole party of Arabs are engaged in building a wall round some native house that stands by the road-side, and even the bricklayers in this part of the world are picturesque. Then there are the carts, the mules, the camels without end which we meet upon the road. It is noticeable that no salutation is given as we roll past. A curious or sullen glance is the only intimation of the fact that we are seen by the wayfarers.
Up to this point we have been driving along the road which leads to Goletta, and the great lake has been glittering in the sunlight to our right. Now, however, we turn into the direct road for Carthage. There are few people to be met with here. A chance shepherd tending his flock, or a Bedouin man and woman resting beneath some oliveor palm-tree, alone break the solitude of the scene. My companion points out to me a stately date-palm, with magnificent feathered top, standing a little away from the sandy track which serves as a road. It marks the precise spot where a couple of weeks ago a foul murder was committed. The victim was one of the unfortunate Maltese coachmen of Tunis; the murderer a major in the service of the Bey. The major engaged the coachman to drive him to Carthage, and when opposite this palm-tree shot him through the heart. There were plenty of Arabs upon the road at the time, but none of them interfered. It was only a wretched infidel who had met with his deserts: why should they trouble themselves in the matter? So the assassin got clean off, and has not since been heard of; nor does anybody believe that he is likely to be punished. As for his motives, they were apparently, as in the case of most murderers, a little mixed. There was a good deal of religious fanaticism and political hatred at the bottom of the crime; but there was also one ugly fact in connexion with it which tends to deprive the murderer of the crown of glory to which he would be entitled inthe eyes of his co-religionists if he had taken the man’s life out of a pure hatred of the abominable Christian. That is the fact that he had previously shown himself not above borrowing money from the aforesaid Christian, and that he had forgotten to repay that money. Such is the tale with which Afrigan beguiles the way, as my carriage rolls rapidly onwards towards the hill once crowned by the towers of Carthage, and now marked by the imposing pile of the College of St. Louis.
As we approach that hill we have occasion to pass close to an encampment of Bedouins. The savage dogs from the tents rush out, barking furiously: the scarcely less savage children, tawny, naked, with long hair streaming in the wind, follow them, and fly towards us, shrieking out, “Caroub, caroub!” I fling them some small coins; they pick them up eagerly, and then, without a word or a gesture of thanks, but much after the fashion in which a hungry dog takes himself off with a bone, dart back towards their rude dwellings. And now the horses toil through a sandy cutting up a steep hill-side, and I find myself actually upon the site of Carthage. The impression which follows the first look round upon thisspot, once so important in the world’s affairs and still so famous in the records of history, is one of intense disappointment. Remembering what I saw a year ago at Ephesus, I had hoped to find here, as on the site of the famous city of Asia Minor, some striking and extensive remains of the ancient town. Butdelenda est Carthago! The Roman’s wish has been fulfilled, and of the once glorious city of Carthage it may now be said with literal accuracy that not one stone remains standing upon another above ground. Yet you tread here, in no figurative sense but in very truth, upon an Empire’s dust. The whole site of the city is strewn with the broken fragments of pottery, mosaic, sculptured marbles, pillars, and tiles. Everywhere, too, huge fallen masses of masonry are lying prone upon the earth. The site of Carthage, I believe, has not yet been explored with modern thoroughness. Day by day men come here from the College of St. Louis or the neighbourhood and dig for an hour or two; and sometimes the treasures which they turn up as the result of their desultory labour are of great value. The best of these treasures have been carried away to enrichthe museums of Europe; but no one can doubt that much still remains to be discovered, and I doubt not that thorough and systematic investigations carried on upon this spot would reveal many objects of value and interest which once adorned the streets and palaces of Carthage.
Stumbling over the broken blocks of masonry, among which the lizards, sole inhabitants of the city, were running swiftly, I walked a short distance seaward past the site of Dido’s palace, and came thus to the place where the only extensive remains of the greatness of Carthage are to be found. These are the cisterns which once furnished a portion of the water-supply of the city. Just as Professor Owen can reconstruct an extinct animal if only a single bone of its skeleton has been preserved, so it is an easy matter for those who have seen these wonderful cisterns to form an approximate idea of the grandeur of the city to which they belonged. They are vast subterranean structures, with heavy vaulted roofs, intended to shut out from the cool water in the mighty tanks the heat of the African sun. But time has made many a breach in these great arches, and thelight of day in consequence streams in upon corridors and chambers which eighteen hundred years ago were jealously shrouded in midnight gloom.
Some of the cisterns are circular in shape, and look like nothing so much as enormous wells; the majority, however, are of oblong form. In every case the masonry is of the most substantial description, showing how well the Phœnicians did their work. Even more remarkable, however, than the quality of the masonry, is that of the lining of cement upon the walls of the cisterns. It is as perfect to-day as on the day, probably more than two thousand years distant, when it was spread upon these walls. The very marks of the trowels used in spreading it are quite distinct, and here and there may be seen the coarse imprint of some workman’s thumb—a sight to ponder over at one’s leisure. I had a strange “eerie” feeling upon me as I trod the long covered corrider that runs the length of the whole series of cisterns, and thought of the time when above where I now walked the tumultuous life of a great city had rolled in its majestic fulness of power. Most of the cisterns were half filled withrubbish that had fallen when the arches of the roof gave way; but presently I came to some which seemed to be comparatively little injured, and at last to one that—so far as I could tell—was as perfect as on the day when the Phœnician workmen left it and the cool waters were first allowed to flow into it. It was a beautiful, dimly-lighted chamber, with walls and roof and floor white and clean; and it contained pure crystal water to the depth of five or six feet. So bright and refreshing was that water, so delightful the contrast which this cool, shady apartment presented to the burning heat and glare outside, that I looked about to see if there were any means by which I could descend and bathe in this vast tank. None, however, were visible; and after a while I had to leave the arched corridor and to return to the blaze of the sunshine.