The land of the Bey
Date: 2023-11-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Tunis (Tunisia) -- Description and travel

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Title: The land of the Bey

Being impressions of Tunis under the French

Author: T. Wemyss Reid

Release date: November 30, 2023 [eBook #72265]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle, & Rivington, 1882

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72265

Credits: Galo Flordelis (This file was produced from images generously made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAND OF THE BEY ***

THE
LAND OF THE BEY.

BEING IMPRESSIONS OF
TUNIS UNDER THE FRENCH.

BY
T. WEMYSS REID,
AUTHOR OF “CHARLOTTE BRONTË: A MONOGRAPH,” ETC.

London:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
1882.

[All rights reserved.]

LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED,
ST. JOHN’S SQUARE.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
HOW I ATE BOUILLABAISSE AT MARSEILLES.
| PAGE

A mad holiday scheme — Prophecies of evil — Paris after rain — In the “Rapide” — Marseilles — A dish of Bouillabaisse, and a disillusionment

1

CHAPTER II.
ON BOARD THE “CHARLES QUINT.”

A noble ship — Fellow-passengers — The vivandière — Husbands and wives — A defect in the ship’s arrangements — “Why is an Englishman never sea-sick?” — Bone — Hair-cutting made easy — Colonel Allegro — The vivandière distinguishes herself — A sudden change

18

CHAPTER III.
A WHITE SQUALL.

A crowded deck — Rough seas — La Calle and its boatmen — A sea-fight on a small scale — Dinner under difficulties — Trying to sleep — The small miseries of life — The Gulf of Tunis — A beautiful prospect — Goletta — My friend Afrigan — Jewish women — French soldiers

38

CHAPTER IV.
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

57

CHAPTER V.
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

78

CHAPTER VI.
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

95

CHAPTER VII.
WALKS ABOUT TUNIS.

The English burial-ground — A sad spot — The author of “Home, sweet Home” — An Arab fortune-teller — On the top of a volcano — The “fanatical quarters” — More eastern than the East — Shopping in the bazaars — Mohamed the shopkeeper — Driving a bargain — Time versus money

116

CHAPTER VIII.
OUTSIDE TUNIS.

Risks outside the walls — A tantalizing prospect — The gates of Tunis — The Belvedere hill — The French camp — Typhus — A fine prospect — A visit to the Marsa — Mr. Reade’s country-house — A country drive — Taib Bey — The fall of Kairwan — The Bardo — The suzerainty of the Caliph — A quaint custom

137

CHAPTER IX.
ON THE ROAD TO KAIRWAN.

The story of a failure — Friendly warnings — Uxorious Afrigan — A change of diet — I start for Susa — An African thunderstorm — Susa — Troublous times — A busy scene — A miniature railway — The English Vice-Consul — Preparations for camping-out — A new servant — Disappointed — A “Parisian Hotel” in the Gulf of Hammamet — A risky expedition — A faithful follower

159

CHAPTER X.
A GALE OFF CAPE BON.

A night of misery — No chance of seeing Kairwan — The Great Mosque of Susa — The Vice-Consul’s house — An English captive in Susa — Arab revolvers — Old friends — On board the Ville de Naples — A disturbed meal — Running for shelter — Rounding Cape Bon — Glasgow for ever!

178

CHAPTER XI.
LAST DAYS AT TUNIS.

A retrospect — The captain of the Aristides — A curious meeting — Tunis again — Farewell visits — Rich shopkeepers — A last tussle with Mohamed — A real Arab gentleman — The Jeweller’s Bazaar — A visit to the Jewish quarter — An Arabian Night’s Entertainment — Dining, drinking, dancing

197

CHAPTER XII.
GOOD-BYE TO GOLETTA.

An Arab holiday — A state reception — A last look at the Bab el Bahr — The heir apparent — An English sailor’s courage — Italian greed — The Sicilia — Sea-sick Arabs

221

CHAPTER XIII.
HOMEWARD BOUND.

Malta — The Union Club — A delightful change — The harbour by moonlight — A thrilling scene — the Elettrico — Etna — Messina — Between Scylla and Charybdis — Sunrise off Naples — Home again

240

CHAPTER XIV.
POLITICS IN TUNIS.

A survey of the situation — M. Roustan’s policy — The first campaign — The Treaty of the Bardo — The insurrection — Bombardment of Sfax — Occupation of Tunis — March upon Kairwan — Capture of Kairwan — Results of the French policy — English interests — Estrangement of Italy

265

TO
W. H. MUDFORD, Esq.

My dear Mudford,—Although the days of patrons and of epistles dedicatory have passed away, it is still permissible to inscribe the name of a friend on the fly-leaf of a book. I venture, therefore, to associate your name with this trifling record of a pleasant holiday trip. I do so not because you were in a certain sense connected with part of my experiences in Tunis, nor even because in common with all who have any knowledge of the Press I recognize and rejoice in the great position you have gained in English Journalism; but because I wish to keep alive the memory of times long past, when you and I were bound together by the ties of an intimacy that was personal as well as professional, and that did not a little to cheer and strengthen me in a dark crisis of my life.

“Able editors,” though they are by no means common in this world, may still by a happy chance be met with at any period of one’s existence; but after a man has reached a certain age, if he does not cease to make friends he at least discovers that he cannot afford to part with any of those whom he made whilst he was still young. It is therefore rather to my old friend, than to the journalist who has done much to revive the best traditions of the English Press, that I ask leave to dedicate this simple story; and whilst I do so, may I add the expression of a hope that many years of usefulness and honour still lie before you?

Yours always,

T. Wemyss Reid.

Leeds, Feb. 20th, 1882.

INTRODUCTION.

Recent events have attracted so much attention to Northern Africa, and to that part of it over which the Bey of Tunis has hitherto ruled, that it seems unnecessary to offer any apology for the publication of this volume. But if an apology is unnecessary, an explanation is undoubtedly called for. Let me say then that I make no pretensions to any special knowledge of Tunis. I have not attempted to write a history of the Regency—though such a history could hardly fail to be intensely interesting; nor have I even sought to give a complete account of the country as it is now to be seen by visitors from a distance. Several circumstances made it impossible that I should do this. During the time I spent in Tunis, as will be gathered from the following pages, the country was not only in a state of war, but was under the influence of a very vehement anti-Christian feeling. That feeling had found expression in hideous massacres of Christians who had fallen into the hands of the so-called “insurgent Arabs.” French armies were in occupation of different points in the Regency, and were about to begin the march to the sacred city of Kairwan; and Tunis itself had, as a matter of precaution, been strongly occupied by the soldiers of the Republic. As a result of this state of things it had become dangerous for any Christian to go beyond the very limited districts in which the French troops were actually posted. Even in Tunis itself it was perilous to visit certain quarters of the city at any time, and after dark no European could walk about the streets safely. Consequently it was not possible for a visitor at this particular moment to see so much of the country as he could have done under happier circumstances—or, indeed, so much of it as he may see now, when there appears to be a temporary lull in the excitement of the Arab population. My story therefore is not a complete one. But I have endeavoured to tell, as simply and honestly as possible, the tale of a brief visit paid to the Regency at a very exciting time, and to give some account of the many scenes and persons of interest I encountered during my sojourn in the Land of the Bey. As it happened, I had some advantages as a traveller which enabled me to meet with people and to enter houses not usually accessible to Englishmen; and I have sought to tell an unvarnished and straightforward story about them. I might have added a great deal of information about the Regency generally, and the city of Kairwan in particular, for I gathered not a little knowledge of these subjects whilst I was in Tunis; but since I left the country Kairwan itself has been visited by Europeans, and is now accessible to travellers, and I do not think it desirable therefore to inflict my secondhand evidence upon the reader. If what I have written of my own experiences and actual observations should induce him to follow my example, and to spend a holiday in Tunis, I feel certain that he will consider himself well repaid for his pains by the enjoyment which the novel and picturesque sights of that strange and romantic land cannot fail to afford him.

THE LAND OF THE BEY.

CHAPTER I.

HOW I ATE BOUILLABAISSE AT MARSEILLES.

A mad holiday scheme — Prophecies of evil — Paris after rain — In the “Rapide” — Marseilles — A dish of Bouillabaisse, and a disillusionment.

“Go to Tunis!” cried all my friends, when I intimated my intention of taking a holiday in that little-visited district of Northern Africa; “why, you must be mad to think of it.” And then from each in succession there was poured forth a catalogue of the dangers, difficulties, and hardships which I was certain to encounter if I ventured into the dominions of the Bey. “Do you not know that the country is in a state of war; that a French army is on the point of occupying the city of Tunis itself; that the Arabs are murdering every European they can catch, and the French, not to be behind them, are doing the same by the Arabs?” “Have you read those horrible revelations about the prevalence of typhoid fever in Tunis? They say they are dying there by hundreds daily.” “Do you know what the African climate is? Have you any conception of the heat of an African sun?” These were but specimens of the admonitions poured into my unheeding ears by my kind friends.

The truth was that my determination to visit Tunis dated from a lovely day in October, 1880, when, sailing in the good ship Sidon towards Malta, I had the entrance to the Gulf of Tunis pointed out to me. Until that moment, although I had often looked at the place upon the map, I had never thoroughly realized its nearness to the shores of Europe. Tunis had seemed like Morocco or Timbuctoo or Lake N’gami, a mysterious spot shut out from the civilized world. But when I saw that this land in which the manners and customs of the East are to be found to-day in a degree of perfection which is unknown at Stamboul, was within four-and-twenty hours’ sail of Malta, I inwardly resolved that, if the Fates were propitious, I should make it the goal of my next year’s holiday.

Between that trip in the Sidon and my voyage in the following year a good many things had happened at Tunis. M. Roustan, aided by his accomplices in Paris, had planned and carried out the greatest act of international brigandage upon record, and unoffending Tunis had been violently seized by the French army in the name of a gang of mercenary conspirators. The hot-blooded Arabs and Moors of the regency had not been slow to resent the usurpation of the infidel, and a bitter war had begun. It was in the very midst of this war, on the day on which a French army entered the city of Tunis itself and made themselves masters of the capital, that I set off on my journey from a Yorkshire town to an African State. I propose to tell the story of that journey in some detail in these pages; for it was one of singular interest, albeit accompanied by more than one unpleasant adventure, and attended at times by an amount of discomfort that often caused me to smile grimly at the notion that I was engaged upon a pleasure excursion. In describing my experiences, I shall quote largely from the diary which I kept from day to day all through my journey; but if at any moment I feel inclined to dwell upon a particular scene or incident, the reader will forgive me if I lay my diary aside, and enlarge upon the rough notes made upon the spot. I can promise him that whether in quoting from my diary or in giving a detailed description of the various scenes I witnessed—some of which were of more than ordinary interest—I shall do my best to keep most strictly within the limits of the truth.

Circumstances not unconnected with an important incident in the political history of Leeds reduced the amount of time at my disposal for preparation for the journey to a few hours. Still the time was sufficient to enable me to lay in the stock of light summer clothing that I required. I shall not soon forget the amazed look of a certain shop-keeper in Briggate, when on a stormy October day I ransacked his stores in search of his lightest neck-ties, handkerchiefs, stockings, and hats, such as, in his opinion, could only be worn in the hottest days of an English summer. A revolver, a box of quinine pills, and some other simple medicines, a portable filter, a very large bottle of vermin powder, and a goodly flask filled with the finest brandy formed part of my equipment. The brandy, like the medicine, was carefully set aside for an emergency; not to be used, in fact, save in case of illness. In due time the emergency arrived, and I then found the provision I had made for it invaluable.

Wednesday, October 12th, 1881.—There is always something to be done at the last moment. Starting from my hotel this morning to catch the tidal express at Charing Cross, I made the melancholy discovery that I had lost the key of one of my portmanteaus, which accordingly could not be locked. I knew what a railway journey from London to Marseilles with an open portmanteau portended, and not wishing to lose half my effects before I reached the shores of the Mediterranean, I set about procuring another key. There was very little time to spare. I dashed into one shop after another in the Strand, and finally, just in the nick of time, got what I wanted. There was a great crowd of passengers at Charing Cross, and the usual bustle and confusion in getting the baggage registered. But at eleven o’clock punctually the train started to run through the beautiful country between London and Folkestone. The day was dull and raw, and the southern suburbs of the metropolis looked melancholy enough in that damp atmosphere; but one’s eye rested lovingly upon them, as each successive name at the wayside stations recalled some happy incident in “the days that are no more.” My travelling companions to Folkestone were a returned Australian, who had left England when he was two years old, and an Irish gentleman and his pretty sisters. “Remember, girls,” said the Irishman as we drew near to Folkestone, “that sea-sickness is not an affection of the stomach but of the brain. All you have to do is to bear that fact in mind, and there will be no fear of your being sea-sick.”

Folkestone was in gala dress when we reached the place. In spite of the wind and rain the little town was crowded; bands of music were playing, flags were flying, and cannon were being fired. The Prince and Princess of Wales were laying the foundation-stone of some new docks, so that our last look at England showed us a loyal population yelling themselves hoarse round the carriage in which rode the heir-apparent and his pretty wife. Before we got clear of Folkestone harbour the wind had increased to half a gale, and no sooner were we outside than our wretched little boat began to pitch and roll horribly. Then followed the usual scene. There were 220 passengers on board, and before long fully 200 of these were groaning and writhing in the agonies of sea-sickness. Even those who were proof against the malady—among whom I could happily count myself—had an uncomfortable time of it, for the vessel shipped an immense quantity of water. I had, of course, packed my waterproof in one of my portmanteaus, so that I was quickly drenched to the skin, my through ticket to Marseilles being reduced to something like a state of pulp. Among the earliest of those who succumbed to the sea was my Irish friend of the railway train. Either there was a flaw in his theory concerning sea-sickness, or, like certain other preachers, he expounded doctrines which his own faith was too weak to enable him to accept. The grey, storm-laden sky, the broken foam-topped waves, and the labouring boat, wrapped in its cloud of spray, made up a fine picture; but the groans of misery all around me, and the sights and smells of the vessel detracted greatly from one’s enjoyment of it.

After a passage of nearly three hours’ duration we reached Boulogne. Some of the passengers had suffered so much that they decided to stay there for the night, but, of course, most of us went on to Paris, after paying the usual exorbitant tax to the keeper of the buffet. We had a curious assemblage in the carriage in which I found a seat. There was a shabbily-dressed old gentleman who persistently smoked a black wooden pipe, and whom I eventually discovered to be an English general on his way to his post in India, another Indian going out to manage a newly-discovered gold-mine, a smart young fellow bound for China, myself for Tunis, and three pleasure-seeking tourists intent upon Paris and the Rhine, one of whom I recognized as an old schoolfellow of my own. We reached Paris at 10.30 instead of eight. So much for Sir Edward Watkin’s performances as compared with his promises. After a long detention at the Custom House, where, however, the usual civility was shown to us, I and the two travellers to India found quarters in the Grand Hotel, the familiar courtyard of which I find is now lighted by electricity.

Thursday, October 13th.—A beautiful morning after yesterday’s rain and storm. Paris was looking her best when I strolled out after my first breakfast, to secure a place in the sleeping-car for Marseilles and a berth for Tunis. The sleeping-car, alas! is not yet on the line. “It will be put on to-morrow.” I always find when I miss a good thing of this sort that if I could only wait till to-morrow it would be all right. Among misleading proverbs there is none that more urgently requires revision than that about “the early bird.” Or perhaps I am one of those unfortunates who are doomed by circumstances to take the worm’s view of the situation. I do not find there will be any difficulty in getting a berth in to-morrow’s steamer from Marseilles to Tunis. “Monsieur, nobody goes there at present,” says the clerk in the office of the Transatlantic Company when I inquire upon the subject. I drive up the beautiful Champs Elysées to call upon the L.’s. How charming Paris looks to-day in the bright sunshine, with the trees just beginning to assume the tints of autumn! One feels all the temptations of the spot strong upon one, and there is an urgent desire to inquire whether a later boat might not be just as suitable as to-morrow’s for the voyage.

After luncheon, during which Mrs. L. expresses her horror at the notion of any one visiting Tunis for pleasure at this moment, I go to the Ministry of War, accompanied by L., in order to ascertain if any special permission is needed to get into Tunis. A very polite official distinctly assures me that nothing of the kind is required, and that I can not only enter Tunis, but travel about in it as freely as I please. “Or rather as the Arabs please,” I think of suggesting; but upon second thoughts it strikes me that the joke might not be appreciated. Before I tear myself away from the flesh-pots of Egypt, I must have one good dinner at least; so we betake ourselves to Champeau’s, close to the Bourse, and there indulge in those “luxuries of the Salt Market,” which I cannot hope to carry with me across the Mediterranean. The dinner, which is begun with oysters, is fairly good; but the bill for it is unfairly big. This, however, is nothing to what I have to face at the Grand Hotel, where I am charged thirteen francs for my room on the fourth floor! As I sit smoking a last cigar in the well-known courtyard, meditating upon merry parties I have joined in here in former days, the evening papers bring me the announcement of Parnell’s arrest. At that moment my travelling companion of yesterday, General A———, passes me, and I tell him the news. “Hurrah!” shouts the general, regardless of the fashionable crowd around him, and his battered hat goes spinning up into the air in token of his joy.

Friday, Oct. 14th.—A night in a French train is always a painful penance, and my journey from Paris to Marseilles has been no exception to the rule. We started from the Lyons Railway Station at twenty minutes past seven last night. Of course the carriage was full. Happily, I succeeded in getting a seat facing one of the windows, and I was thus able to ensure the admittance of a little fresh air. Presently, as we stole onwards during the raw, dark night I saw that the window at the other end of the carriage was also open. I blessed my fate which had sent me as a travelling companion a Frenchman who actually liked fresh air. I was still marvelling over the mystery of the existence of such a being when the gentleman who was keeping guard over that window, addressed me in excellent English. “Oh,” I said, “you’re an Englishman, are you? That explains your open window. But why did you speak to me in French before?” “Because I thought you were a Frenchman; and it was only when I saw your open window that I knew you weren’t.” Needless to say, the companionship of my new acquaintance, Captain A———, of the Carlton Club, beguiled the journey, at any rate during its later stages, when we had shaken off the somnolence of night.

It was quite cold towards dawn. When day broke we found ourselves running through something which bore a suspicious resemblance to an English November fog. And this was in Valence! Clearly the “sunny south” had not yet been reached. At Avignon, however, the fog had cleared off, and I could get a good view of the famous ruins and admire the beautiful situation of the town. From Avignon to Marseilles the sun became hotter and ever hotter. The scenery on either side of the line reminded me much of bits of Malta. There was the same scanty covering of earth upon the white chalk-like rocks, and the same semi-tropical vegetation. At last Marseilles itself was reached, about an hour and a half behind time. Here it was as hot and as glaring as on that day when the story of “Little Dorrit” began, goodness knows how many years ago. I had some trouble in getting my baggage out of the train; but I had at the same time occasion to admire the courtesy and good arrangements of the railway officials. When my portmanteaus had been placed in the cab, an inspector asked me where I wished to be driven to, and then handed me a printed paper on which he had filled up the amount to which the cabman was entitled! I wonder when the unlucky foreigner arriving in our beloved London will meet with a similar attention.

Marseilles is much more picturesquely situated than I had expected. It lies at the bottom of a fine bay, with jutting promontories of high rocks running out into the Mediterranean on either side. Behind it is a range of barren hills in the form of an amphitheatre. The glare of white from the city and the surrounding country is positively painful. As for the town itself, it reminded me in one part of Glasgow—Glasgow with an Italian sky overhead!—in another part of Paris, and in a third of Syra. It seems, indeed, to present a curious admixture of different styles of street architecture; but the prevailing type is decidedly Oriental. As I drove through the glaring streets down to the dock where my steamer for Tunis lay, I saw the lazzaroni lying sleeping in the noon-day sun, and, among curious or unfamiliar spectacles, I had time to observe the professional letter-writer in the Market-square, to whom a girl was whispering some message of love or intrigue. It was delightful on reaching the steamboat, a splendid Glasgow-built vessel, belonging to the Transatlantic Company, to be able to indulge in a bath and a change of linen. After that, as much refreshed as though I had been in bed for the traditional eight hours, I set forth to keep rendezvous with my travelling acquaintance, Captain A———, at the Maison Dorée, in order that we might together partake of Bouillabaisse.

Do you know what Bouillabaisse is, good reader? Possibly not; and yet I can hardly suppose that you are ignorant of the name of this wonderful dish. It has as high a place in English literature as the roast pig immortalized by Charles Lamb. Has not Thackeray taken it as a title of his most beautiful poem? You must have read that noble Ballad of Bouillabaisse, and having read you can never have forgotten it.

A street there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve de Petits Champs its name is—
The New Street of the Little Fields.

And here’s an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

Ever since I first read those immortal lines, I had been longing for the chance of eating Bouillabaisse. I could no longer do so in “the New Street of the Little Fields,” for Terré’s Tavern has disappeared from the surface of the earth. But I knew that Marseilles was the headquarters of Bouillabaisse, the spot where alone it can be eaten in perfection; and so I waited for the opportunity which had now at last arrived.

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is—
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace.

So sings Thackeray. A———, who, like myself, had never tasted the dish before, quoted the lines to me with enthusiasm, and we prepared ourselves for a wondrous treat as we sat in that cool, shady best dining-room of the Maison Dorée, looking out through the green Venetian blinds upon the hot and crowded Southern street. Alas! for disillusionment. When the Bouillabaisse appeared we attacked it eagerly. It was a thick sort of stew, in which there were many fishes, chiefly of the bony, spiky description, a considerable quantity of red pepper, saffron, and garlic, and an inordinate amount of bread.

A——— was the first to succumb. “I don’t care for it,” he said, pushing his plate away, and gulping down a goblet of Burgundy. If I had spoken the truth, I should have made the same admission; but loyalty to my great Master kept me silent. Only for a minute or two, however. With profound thankfulness I recognized the fact that my plate was empty, and eagerly declined the invitation of the waiter to accept of more. And this dismal fish curry was the far-famed Bouillabaisse! Thackeray must have been more gourmand than gourmet if he really liked it. But I consoled myself with the thought that though Bouillabaisse might not be worth eating, nothing could affect the charm of the immortal ballad, and whilst I waited for the next course I quoted, quite inappropriately, a few more lines from it:—

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!

I mind me of a time that’s gone,

When here I’d sit as now I’m sitting,

In this same place—but not alone.

I had got so far in my sentimental rambling when a voice I recognized fell upon my ear. I looked up, and lo! at the next table sat a man whom I had last seen standing in front of the Treasury Bench in the House of Commons, Sir Charles Dilke, the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. And he, too, was making believe to eat Bouillabaisse at the Maison Dorée at Marseilles. I hope he liked it.

CHAPTER II.

ON BOARD THE CHARLES QUINT.

A noble ship — Fellow-passengers — The vivandière — Husbands and wives — A defect in the ship’s arrangements — “Why is an Englishman never sea-sick?” — Bone — Hair-cutting made easy — Colonel Allegro — The vivandière distinguishes herself — A sudden change.

Marseilles, Friday, October 14th.—The Charles Quint is one of the newest and finest of the splendid line of steamers recently built at Glasgow for the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique of Marseilles. She was lying in the Joliette Dock when, accompanied by the kindly Captain A———, who seemed loth to part with me, I boarded her this afternoon. Nothing more luxurious in the shape of a sea-going vessel has ever met my eyes. The saloon is a marvel of beauty and elegance. Marble walls richly gilded, luxurious arm-chairs, crimson couches, mirrors, carpets, pictures, silver lamps, completely destroy for the moment the notion that one is on board ship. You seem to be seated in the splendid apartment of some palace. The state-rooms, too, are large, airy, and well found. My own is nearly amidships, so I am well away from the grinding of the screw, whilst close to me is a beautiful bath-room, the accommodation of which I have already tested, where a bath of pure white marble might tempt even the most nervous of Frenchmen to unwonted ablutions.

But it was not the remarkable completeness and elegance of the furnishings of this noble ship that occupied my attention this afternoon when, having at last said good-bye to my genial fellow-countryman, I lounged on the broad hurricane-deck awaiting the hour of our departure, which had been fixed for five o’clock. The starting of a steamboat is always an interesting spectacle, whether one witnesses it in a grimy Liverpool dock, a crowded harbour in the Levant, or here under the glaring sunshine of Southern France. But a special interest attaches to the Charles Quint on its present voyage. She is bound for the wars, and the passengers she carries are, in many instances, leaving their native country for the first time in order to take part in a campaign in which the full amount of peril must be encountered. What a mixed and picturesque company we have on board the ship! There are a number of unmistakable Algerian colonists, male and female, stout in figure and swart of complexion, returning to their homes on the other side of the Mediterranean. We talk of the French faculty of dressing. I wonder how long it would take for England to produce, among the respectable middle classes, such a picture of unkempt dowdiness as that which is presented by one of our passengers, the only lady apparently who has secured a place in the first saloon. Next to the Algerians, who have been kissing, laughing, crying, and shouting for the last hour, as one by one they parted from their friends, we have a number of commercial travellers; smart fellows, who “know their way about,” and who are already beginning to make themselves as comfortable as possible during their sojourn on board ship.

But it is in the people who are actually bound for Tunis and the war that I am chiefly interested. We have about a score of officers on board, chiefly doctors and captains of infantry. Poor fellows! They pace up and down the deck with rather melancholy faces, casting many a longing eye towards the white houses and white hills of Marseilles. Nobody has come to see them off. Nobody seems inclined to take much notice of them. I should certainly not gather from the manner in which they are regarded by the outer world that the war is very popular in Marseilles. Nor does the army seem to occupy a very brilliant social position in the estimation of the French people. Will it be believed that no officer under the rank of a major is permitted to travel first class on these boats? So our rueful-visaged captains troop off presently with clanking swords and downcast heads, to take their appointed places in the second saloon.

But who is this that suddenly appears upon the hurricane-deck—a vision, well, hardly of beauty or of joy, but still of a very uncommon kind? Five-and-twenty years ago, at the time when illustrated histories of the Crimean war were common, and when my young imagination was being fed upon the stirring adventures of the French and English allies under the walls of Sebastopol, I was quite familiar with such a figure as this, for it was one which was constantly appearing in the pages of the aforesaid illustrated histories. But I had almost forgotten that such beings had ever existed until this moment, when a real live Vivandière, clad in her full uniform, with plumed hat, frock coat, military trousers, and shining boots complete, stepped upon the hurricane-deck and saluted me with bland dignity. She must be no ordinary vivandière either, for on her breast glitters a row of medals, crosses, and decorations of all kinds, that would do credit to a prize ox at Smithfield, whilst round her neck is a red ribbon, which must surely be that of the Legion of Honour. Nor are these the only distinguishing marks she bears. On her arm is a broad band of canvas, bearing the sign of the Red Cross. So my vivandière is not going to Tunis to sell wine, but to succour the wounded. I think of one of Ouida’s novels, and cry to myself, “Brava, Cigarette!” though all the time I wonder to what extent the Arabs are likely to respect that Red Cross. She is a brisk, comely woman of forty or thereabouts, with a sharp, shrewd eye, a pleasant smile, and a ready jest for everybody. In less than five minutes after her appearance on board she has made friends with some of her fellow-passengers, and is volubly explaining to them the mission on which she is proceeding to Africa.

At five o’clock sharp the last bell rings, and the visitors leave the ship and range themselves alongside the dock wall. I lounge over the rail of the upper deck, smoking my cigarette, and watching a dozen little dramas of domestic life that are being played out under my eyes. Wives, some tearful and others gay, are parting from their husbands. Alas! for the “contrariness” of human nature. In my cynical mood this afternoon I cannot but observe that where the wives are in tears the husbands are all smiles and jokes; whilst a blithe face on the part of a wife means a grim and melancholy countenance on the part of her spouse. But at last the welcome sound of the screw puts an end to my observations. The stately ship begins slowly to glide out of the basin, and ten minutes later we are fairly clear of the port of Marseilles, whose white towers and rocks and hills begin slowly to fade away as the Charles Quint ploughs her path onward through the blue waters of the Gulf of Lyons. As one turns seaward towards the Mediterranean it is impossible to forget that twelve months ago to-day I was sailing on this same sea, in the company of as joyous and genial a little band of travellers as ever traversed the ocean. Alas! of that small company two of the bravest and the best have already reached the end of the long voyage of life; whilst the others are scattered far and wide all up and down the world; and I am here alone to-day, the solitary Englishman on board this vessel. As I sat after dinner smoking a last cigar on a comfortable deckseat, and watching the stars blaze out in their southern magnificence, whilst the ear was soothed by the solemn melody of the ocean, it was a difficult matter to drive away those pensive feelings which must come to all men when they revisit scenes once familiar to them, and reflect upon the changes which have been wrought since they last were here. But even whilst I mused I was suddenly aroused by a very trifling yet significant incident. My cigar dropped out of my nerveless hand, and I started up shivering, to find I had fallen asleep on the open deck. Then I recalled the fact that I had not been in bed last night, and made haste to turn into my comfortable cabin.

Saturday, October 15th.—I awoke refreshed after a good night’s rest. Presently turning out upon the deck, I found that I was in the full enjoyment of real Mediterranean weather. The sun was bright and hot, and one was glad to get shelter from it beneath the awning, where the pleasant breeze produced by the rapid motion of the boat made the temperature quite agreeable. The water was of that wonderful blue colour which you see nowhere except in the Mediterranean; but the waves were crested with white, and made the blank sea, upon which not a sail was to be discovered, itself a glorious spectacle. As I sat in the full enjoyment of the scene I could not help thinking of last Saturday, and contrasting my surroundings then, when I found myself one of thirty thousand human beings packed into the Leeds Cloth Hall yard—or rather, into the fine “Gladstone Hall” erected on that spot—with the situation in which I am placed to-day.

I have already discovered that there is one serious defect about the arrangements on board the Charles Quint. Everybody who has travelled by sea knows that the two principal occupations of well-disposed passengers are eating the meals provided on board and then grumbling at the cookery and the quality of the provisions served. With a perverse want of consideration for the passengers, the Compagnie Transatlantique have resolved apparently to deprive them of at least one of these occupations—and possibly the favourite one—that of grumbling. Nothing could well be better than the manner in which we are fed on board the Charles Quint. At seven in the morning the usual French “first breakfast,” consisting of coffee and bread and butter, is provided. After that I have my bath, and my first walk on deck. At half-past nine comes the regular breakfast, beautifully served in the saloon. At the head of our table sits the captain, a handsome and refined-looking man of fifty, who speaks French with a strong southern accent, and who is quite a model of mingled dignity and suavity. To his right and left are seated two smart young gentlemen in elegant uniforms, one of whom is the purser and the other the doctor, and whom I have already christened the Corsican Brothers, not merely because of their striking resemblance to each other, but because they invariably walk the deck together, and seem almost as inseparable as the Siamese Twins themselves. Then, each of us in a comfortable revolving arm-chair, come the ten or twelve saloon passengers.

A very sociable party we make; and how we enjoy our food, to be sure! At breakfast this morning the following was the menu, all the dishes being served in a style which would have done credit to Champeau’s:—Radishes, anchovies (excellent), omelette of mushrooms, calves’ head, hot lobster with sauce piquante (excellent), filet de bœuf with potatoes, cheese, and fruit. Admirable white and red wine is supplied in abundance during the meal, and the usual coffee and cognac afterwards. With a cuisine like this, and in so pleasant and airy a saloon as ours, the most squeamish of travellers might fairly tempt the “dangers of the deep.”

A very amusing conversation occupied the company at breakfast. They thought proper to engage in an edifying discussion on sea-sickness, accompanied by realistic—indeed, occasionally too realistic—illustrations on the part of most present of the peculiar manner in which they were affected by the malady. Eventually some one propounded a knotty problem for solution. “How is it,” he asked, “that Englishmen are never sea-sick?” Alas! poor innocent. I thought of the revelation that awaited him whenever he made his first passage from Calais to Dover; but in the meantime I listened eagerly for the answer to his question. It came from the captain, and was as follows: “You see it is all an affair of the imagination, this sea-sickness. Now, the English have no imagination, and consequently they are never sea-sick. Voilà tout!”

But if my friends on board have limited ideas on some subjects, they are nevertheless—like most people in this world when you once get to know them—very good fellows, and they have shown an amazing amount of kindness to myself as the sole foreigner on board. One pleasant little “commercial,” bound for Bone, has insisted upon playing chess with me during the greater part of the afternoon; whilst after dinner the Corsican Brothers invited me to join them in the smoking-room at a game at dummy whist. There was a lovely sunset this evening, and to-night the stars are shining with marvellous brilliance, the Milky Way reflecting a perceptible track of light upon the ocean. The moon is burning, a crescent of red fire, high in the heavens. Before turning in for the night the long low line of the African coast became visible in the distance. Strangely enough, I last saw it on this very day twelve months ago.

Sunday, October 16th.—Hardly had I fallen into my first sleep last night when I was aroused by the din of our arrival at Bone. Everybody on board the ship apparently seemed to think it necessary to jump out of bed and forthwith to make the greatest possible amount of noise. Shouting, laughing, crying, talking, and even playing the piano in the saloon, they evidently found that in no other way could they give expression to their feelings at having once more come within sight of land. One would have imagined that it was a voyage of a year instead of one of a day only that had come to an end. Then the “horrid winch” began to work, and for a couple of hours the uproar was really appalling. After that, apparently because everybody was exhausted, things became quieter, and I was able to get a few hours’ sleep.

At seven o’clock, when I rose and dressed, I found the vessel moored alongside the quay of Bone, and consequently lying snugly in the best harbour on the coast of Algiers. Bone is one of the most flourishing towns in the French colony in North Africa, and it attracts a considerable number of commercial travellers like those who have come with me in the Charles Quint. For the uncommercial traveller it has other attractions of a special kind. Thus the sportsman comes here because the railway from this place takes him to the nearest spot to England where that noblest of all the beasts of the forest, the lion, is to be found; whilst those who are interested in the past visit Bone because here St. Augustine lived and wrote his burning “Confessions,” and because near here his tomb is now to be seen.

The morning was bright and beautiful, though on the brown hills behind the town some rather ominous clouds were hanging. As I was about to take my first walk on the soil of Africa, I thought it advisable to array myself in my lightest attire, and accordingly I presently sallied forth in a guise which would have brought a mob to my heels in any English town. The scene was very picturesque. The town is of semi-French architecture, with a wide boulevard and a little square, besides many narrow streets. Everywhere Arabs, clad in the flowing white burnous and in the blue or red jebbas, were to be seen. Hundreds of black and brown children—genuine street Arabs these—were gambolling about the doors of the houses; and amid the swarthy elders of the famous race and their half-naked offspring, there strolled about, with that air of dignity which the conqueror, wherever he may be found, seldom forgets to wear, numbers of Frenchmen.

Sunday morning though it was, the shops were all open. Those best worth examining were the photograph and coral shops. Coral is obtained in large quantities upon this coast; La Calle, a port a few miles to the east, being one of the seats of the coral fishery. The articles I was shown in the different shops were very cheap, but were poor in quality. I strolled into the fish and vegetable markets. In the former were many curious fishes, as well as some very fine ones. Among the curious fish were large quantities of a creature very like the octopus, which I was told was a favourite delicacy among all classes. In the vegetable market, besides an abundant supply of such vegetables as are only produced in England during the summer, there were great quantities of melons, oranges, lemons, and pomegranates. In the centre of the town is a small garden, in which tropical plants and trees were growing luxuriantly. Everywhere one could see traces of the struggle between the old and the new, and everywhere proofs were to be found of the success with which the French are establishing their own institutions on the soil of Africa, in spite of the dogged opposition of one of the most conservative races in the world.

The church bells were ringing, and I could not resist the temptation to attend the Catholic service in the town in which St. Augustine once ministered. In coming back towards the ship, I noticed that in many cases a bottle of live leeches was suspended as a sign in front of the barbers’ shops. In an evil moment I was induced to enter one of these establishments, and trust myself to the tender mercies of an Algerian hairdresser. It was a wonderful operation which I had to undergo. I had chosen the most fashionable establishment of the kind in Bone, and a stately Frenchwoman, seated at that little counter which is so dear to the ladies of her race, superintended the work of the shop, and received with dignity the fees of the shorn. The barber to whose care I was intrusted began by covering my head and beard with violet powder, causing me to look amazingly like an overgrown baby. This was not the worst of what I had to submit to, however, for when the hair-cutting was concluded, my tormentor produced an article, the sight of which recalled my own nursery days, to wit, a small tooth comb, and proceeded to apply it with exemplary diligence to my head! It was not without a feeling of profound thankfulness that I at last escaped from his grasp, and, returning to the Charles Quint, partook of the admirable breakfast which the chef had served up. This breakfast began with oysters and melons—which might have grown among the fields of far-away Cassaba—and ended with new oranges and curaçao.

All the saloon passengers who came with me from Marseilles have left the ship, but we have some new-comers in their place. The most important of these is Colonel Allegro, the notorious adventurer, who for a time filled the post of Tunisian Consul at Bone, and who, although in the service of the Bey, is well known as one of the most determined and relentless Arab-hunters in North Africa. He is now on his way to Tunis accompanied by Arab horses, Arab servants, and an immense amount of camp equipments, having just been offered the command of the cavalry in one of the columns which are destined to march upon Kairwan. A swarthy man with keen black eyes and resolute mouth, the colonel does not promise much in the way of agreeable companionship during our voyage to Tunis. The other new-comers are a young Italian with his remarkably pretty wife and their baby. This gentleman lives at Susa, one of the Arab coast-towns in the Gulf of Hammamet, and is returning to his dreary home after a pleasure-trip to Paris. His wife seems quite content at the prospect of exchanging the delights of Paris for the dull confinement of a house in such a place as Susa. The husband has already taken me into his confidence so far as to express his opinion not only about Colonel Allegro in particular, but about the French in general. There is clearly no love lost between Frenchmen and Italians at this moment.

Whilst we have been waiting here discharging or taking in cargo, my fair friend the vivandière has been distinguishing herself. Yesterday, smooth though the sea was, she kept her berth, and doubtless nourished those feelings towards the rest of the human race which only the sea-sick know. To-day she had recovered her equanimity, her good looks, and, I hope, her benevolence. At all events, she stepped ashore early this morning arrayed in her most gorgeous costume, feathers flying from her hat, and stars and medals glittering on her bosom. A crowd of a hundred solemn-faced Arabs, among whom a few lively-looking Frenchmen were mingled, quickly formed round her, and escorted by this guard of honour she set off into the town. She returned at twelve o’clock in the highest state of delight. Her guard had increased from one to five hundred, whilst she enjoyed the satisfaction of being tenderly supported on either side by a private soldier of the line. I must say these soldiers looked rather sheepish, half proud and half ashamed, in fact. Not so mademoiselle, however. It was evidently one of the brightest moments of her life. She embraced her two friends with fervour on parting from them; and then, leaning over the bulwarks of the Charles Quint, she discharged a whole armoury of messages of remembrance and affection to her brave comrades of the 91st regiment. How the Arabs stared; and how the jolly handsome-looking young negroes on the quay showed their gleaming white teeth as they grinned at the amazing spectacle.

They had something else to grin at presently. A shuffling young fellow, aged twenty or thereabouts, in the red breeches and blue coat of the infantry, came listlessly along in the direction of our vessel. As soon as she saw him our vivandière became greatly excited. “Ho! Adolphe! Adolphe! Venez ici!” she shouted at the top of her somewhat shrill voice. Adolphe seemed not particularly anxious to respond to the invitation. He grinned idiotically; thrust his hands deeper than ever into his breeches’ pockets, and blushed vividly. But he made no motion towards the gangway connecting the ship with the shore. For a moment mademoiselle seemed puzzled as to what she should do: then, after telling him that he was nothing but a great stupid, she tripped lightly down the ladder, sprang upon the quay, seized Adolphe’s ear between her dainty little finger and thumb, and amidst the loud laughter of the spectators conducted him in triumph on board the Charles Quint. Why she wanted him there goodness only knows. Perhaps to scold, perhaps to pet him. I do not know. But in a couple of minutes she reappeared with her captive at the gangway, bestowed upon him two sounding kisses, and then patting him on the back, sent him down the ladder looking more doltish than ever. I think she must have seen a suspicious twinkle in my eye. At all events she turned to me, and with a mocking little curtsey said, “C’est mon cousin, monsieur!” But I confess I have my own ideas about that kind of cousinship.

CHAPTER III.

A WHITE SQUALL.

A crowded deck — Rough seas — La Calle and its boatmen — A sea-fight on a small scale — Dinner under difficulties — Trying to sleep — The small miseries of life — The Gulf of Tunis — A beautiful prospect — Goletta — My friend Afrigan — Jewish women — French soldiers.

Sunday, October 16th.—The Charles Quint left Bone at two o’clock on its voyage to Goletta. Unfortunately, before the hour of sailing the weather underwent a complete change. Heavy clouds settled down upon the hills encircling the town, swathing them in a grey mist, so that the scenery suddenly seemed to change from that of Africa to that of Scotland. Indeed, these African hills at all times bear a strong resemblance to the brown highlands of our own country. Then a fresh wind sprang up, and sharp showers of rain began to fall; whilst the sea rapidly lost its beautiful blue colour, and turned to a pale green like that of the German Ocean. I was glad to betake myself to my cabin, and there lay aside the white garments in which I had clad myself in the hot early morning, returning to a warmer and more sober dress.

At last, at two o’clock, the moorings were cast loose, and we set sail amid the chattering of the excited crowd of Moors and negroes on the wharf, and the dismal groaning of our deck passengers, whose prophetic souls had apparently already enabled them to foresee the trouble that was to come. It is one characteristic of French and Italian steamers, and not altogether an agreeable one, that the whole deck is free to the passengers of all classes. The saloon is, of course, reserved for those who pay for its accommodation: but everybody is at liberty to walk upon the hurricane-deck, or to sit in the snug corners which abound near the poop. This afternoon accordingly I found many Arabs, many Jews, and not a few dubious-looking Christians, scattered about on the upper deck. Below, in the ship’s waist, were the horses and tents of Colonel Allegro, and a swarm of Mohammedan women squatting under Turkish carpets, and apparently endeavouring to persuade themselves that they were going to have a fine run to La Calle, the first port on the way to Goletta. Alas! no sooner had we got clear of the harbour of Bone than we found ourselves in the full enjoyment of all the experiences of a white squall. Only a few hours had been needed to turn the placid sea of yesterday into a boiling, angry ocean, upon which our brave Charles Quint pitched and rolled like a cork. Woeful was then the scene among our deck passengers. One after another they succumbed to their inevitable fate, and before long there did not seem to be a single person among them who was not horribly sick.

The misfortune was that they simply “lay where they fell” like so many logs, so that a promenade upon the upper deck could only be enjoyed at the risk of trampling upon some prostrate Arab, Turk, or Jew. I thought of Thackeray’s description of “the white squall famous” which he encountered nearly forty years ago in the Levant. Many of his lines were appropriate to the situation on board the Charles Quint as, tossed about upon the raging sea, she resolutely fought her way onwards towards her destination:—

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 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 the word—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 was being 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 each moment 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 the Charles 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 big steamer 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 solemnly from 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, and the 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 the Charles 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 a very 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 ever read 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 graceful outline 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, the Bittern, 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 the Bittern. Evidently great quantities of military stores are being unshipped for the use of the army. After a little delay one of the smaller boats came alongside the Charles 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—the Goletta, 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 once stood 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 his burnous, 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 my dream 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 so smart 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.

CHAPTER IV.

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 my companion, 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 I might 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 the Bittern gunboat; another was the unfortunate commander of the Aristides, an English steamer which was wrecked two days ago near Bizerta, and the crew of which had been rescued by the Bittern at 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’s Punch and World, and the Standard of 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 the Bittern; “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 thrown his hat 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 be more 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 which now 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 once the 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 are de rigueur in 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 there were 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 stepped straight 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 of couscousoo, 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 other impedimenta upon 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 trunks and 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 any attempt 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 must rather 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 waving above 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, and of 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 whose ghastly 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 pause near 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 unwonted sight 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 a caroub, 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 pillars in 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.

CHAPTER V.

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 the Bab 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 has no 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 dangerous collision 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 Tunisian house, 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 he himself 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 department that 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 a polite 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 and crowded 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 since the 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 the Charles 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 are now wearing.” “Oh, no, monsieur, no! Besides, me to 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 by different 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 events which 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 detestable entourage, 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 exasperation of 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 street below 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.

CHAPTER VI.

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, was Æneas 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 struggles with 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 with impassive 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 much cracking 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 growing in 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 olive or 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 in the 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 this spot, 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. But delenda 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 enrich the 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 the light 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 with rubbish 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.

These cisterns of Carthage certainly suffice to give one some idea of what the great city must have been in its prime. Nor are these the only traces of the efforts put forth by the inhabitants to obtain a constant supply of good water. Other cisterns, similar to those I have described, lie at a short distance from the shore. They are now, however, occupied by a tribe of Bedouins, and it is dangerous to visit them without an escort. Then, again, for miles across the sandy plain between Carthage and Tunis, a crumbling line of huge blocks of masonry may be seen. These are the remnants of the aqueduct which in later days brought the water from the Zaghouan hills to Carthage. Nowadays the Tunisians are supplied with water from these same hills, and it was but the other day that the Arabs, in order to avenge themselves upon the French, cut the existing aqueduct, and for a time deprived Tunis of one of the great necessaries of life.

Upon one point nobody who has visited Carthage can be in any doubt, and that is as to the surpassing loveliness of its situation. I know of no city, with the exception of Constantinople, that occupies a site which can be compared with this. Even that of Ephesus is inferior in splendour, if not in interest. The great city occupied an amphitheatre sloping gently down to the edge of the gulf. The blue waters of the Mediterranean must have washed against the marble steps of its palaces. Indeed, looking down to-day from the spot where, according to tradition, Dido’s palace once stood, I could distinctly perceive beneath the surface of the sea the vast blocks which once marked out the site of the jetties and quays of the ancient port. Beyond the glorious expanse of sparkling waves, there were the fine masses of the Lead Mountains, encircling the gulf; inland could be seen the silver sheet of the Lake of Tunis, whilst in the dim distance the hoary crests of the ever-present Zaghouan range pierced the cloudless sky. Amid the lassitude produced by the intense heat which everywhere prevailed, both mind and body were refreshed by the exquisite loveliness of the scene, and by the delicious breeze which swept down from the mountains, and came to us laden with the briny odours of the gulf.

Absolutely desolate as is the particular part of the site of Carthage where the principal remains are to be found, it must not be supposed that the entire space once occupied by the great city now lies waste. On the top of the chief hill enclosed within the boundaries of the place stands the College of St. Louis, an establishment conducted by the Jesuits under the protection of the French Government, where the children of most of the European residents in the Regency are educated. Down below, on the edge of the shore, are the houses of some Moorish notabilities—beautiful water-palaces, reminding me by their situation and architecture of those which line the Bosphorus. In other directions a few Arab farm-houses are scattered, each enclosed in its impregnable hedge of prickly pear; whilst hanging on the sharp crest of the hill to the west, which once looked down upon Carthage, is the walled Arab town of Sidi-bou-Said, now occupied by men so fanatical that the life of no European who ventured within it would be safe. It was with real regret that I turned away from this beautiful scene—so striking in itself, so interesting in all its associations—and began the long drive back to Tunis. There were many interesting spectacles along the way, one of the most curious being the appearance of the Caid or Judge of Tunis, clad in gorgeous raiment, and riding in a handsome brougham, escorted by Arab outriders. But the effects of the heat and the fatigue I had undergone were too great to be resisted, and before half the distance had been traversed I was sleeping soundly, unconscious even of the terrible jolting of my carriage in the deep ruts of an African highway.

“Adventures,” says Lord Beaconsfield, “are to the adventurous.” I have often consoled myself with the saying when, in the course of my little wanderings, I have met with personal adventures of a trying character. But really I have the strongest objection to being troubled by the adventures of other adventurous people. Like every other properly constituted tourist, I look down with a certain measure of contempt upon all others of my tribe, and am only anxious to give them the widest possible berth. Imagine, then, my feelings when, upon alighting at the Grand Hotel on my return, hot, hungry, dusty, and thirsty, from my trip to Carthage, I was coolly informed by the manager that he had been compelled to turn me out of my big, airy room, in order to make way for somebody else. “You see, monsieur, it was a double-bedded room,” he observed, in answer to my first expostulations. “And where, then, am I to be put?” “Ah well! monsieur, we cannot say at present; but you shall have a room before bed-time.” This was a particularly pleasant announcement to be received by a weary traveller who was anxious to refresh himself by plentiful ablutions. I kept my temper, however, until I had asked another question: “Where are my things?” My “things” were, of course, the contents of my two portmanteaus, which I had left scattered about my apartment in the early morning. In reply, the manager pointed to a heap in a dark corner of the dusty corridor. There were my books, my writing materials, my linen, my coats, my toilette apparatus, all heaped up together, promiscuously. Then—the storm broke. I was convinced that I had been treated in this infamous manner for the benefit of some French general. It was too much to be borne. I had just five minutes of it without interruption in the hall of the Grand Hotel—as good a five minutes of free, unlimited, polyglottic deliverance of one’s mind as I had ever enjoyed in the course of my life. I had, of course, the greatest personal satisfaction when I expressed myself in English; a double satisfaction, because not only had I the fullest command of words in that tongue, but I could use the strongest epithets with impunity, as neither the manager, who stood pale and scowling, receiving my outpouring of wrath with deprecating gestures, nor the attendants understood a syllable of what I said. But I was pleased to find that my French also was admirably adapted to convey some idea of the state of my mind on this occasion; and I chuckled inwardly as I reflected upon the fact that I had not mastered the argot of Paris uselessly.

Suddenly the door of the room from which I had been so summarily expelled was opened; I turned with a frown to see the man by whom I had been supplanted. O, horror! It was no man at all. There stood a woman, middle-aged, gentle, refined, evidently somewhat alarmed, and behind her a pretty young girl of seventeen, who was apparently more amused than frightened by the altercation. What did it mean? From what quarter of the world could this unexpected apparition in Tunis have sprung? The frown disappeared with marvellous rapidity from my face; I took off my hat and began to explain to them volubly that I was delighted to think that they had got such a good room, that I hoped they had not been disturbed by my scolding of the servants, that I should be only too glad to be of service to them, &c., &c. I said anything I could think of, in fact, to cover my shame at having been aroused to a somewhat unusual ebullition of temper by the sacrifice of my comfort to that of a couple of women, whilst at the same time I rejoiced to think that at least they did not understand the English I had been pouring out upon the devoted heads of the people around me. Alas! my confusion was made complete when the elderly lady said to me, “But you are an Englishman, are you not? And we are Englishwomen!”

There was nothing for it but to make an ample apology to them in my native tongue. They received it with the best possible grace, protesting, indeed, that it was they from whom apologies were due. And then the elder lady explained to me how it was that she and her daughter found themselves in Tunis. They were on their way from Genoa to Malta, where they meant to pass the winter, and they thought they would like to take Tunis on the way, “it was such a romantic place.” “But do you not know, madam, that the country is in a state of war? that the Arabs may rise at any moment, that even in Tunis one’s life is not safe?” No; they knew nothing at all upon that subject. They had simply seen that they could get a steamer from Genoa to Tunis, and another after an interval of twenty-four hours from Tunis to Malta. So these two unprotected Englishwomen had coolly come into Tunis, and were quite prepared to go for a walk by themselves into the very midst of the native quarter, if they were not warned of their danger! I enjoined upon them the necessity of taking their meals in their own room, “and a very comfortable room you’ll find it, ma’am,” I said, with the best smile I could summon up for the occasion; and then as I was to dine out by arrangement, at the Hôtel de Paris, to meet B———, M. Camile Pelletan, the French Deputy, and one or two other gentlemen, I lent Afrigan to them for the remainder of the day, warning them that they must upon no account disobey any orders he might give them. It was really wonderful how my righteous wrath had subsided when I found that it was for no French general, but for a couple of English ladies, that I had been turned out of my room. And yet what madness on the part of Englishwomen to come touring in Tunis at this moment!

CHAPTER VII.

WALKS ABOUT TUNIS.

The English burial-ground — A sad spot — The author of “Home, sweet Home” — An Arab fortune-teller — On the top of a volcano — The “fanatical quarters” — More eastern than the East — Shopping in the bazaars — Mohamed the shopkeeper — Driving a bargain — Time versus money.

Saturday, October 22nd.—The story of my life from day to day in Tunis might be apt to weary some people if it were told in the fulness of detail which might be used. It is a story of walks and drives in and around this wonderful city; of visits to the quarters inhabited by the most fanatical of the Arabs, of risky trips into the surrounding country, when it has been absolutely necessary to watch closely any chance wayfarer whom one might encounter, in order to be ready to have the first shot in case of need; and of interviews with some of the notabilities of the place. Perhaps I cannot do better than sum up in one general survey the events of the past three or four days, and my experiences during that time. On the morning after my visit to Carthage I was up betimes, in order to speed the two English ladies who had dispossessed me of my room, on their way to Malta. They were very proud of having made a hurried raid into the bazaar under the guidance of Afrigan on the previous afternoon, and they bore away in triumph a piece of loot in the shape of a large brass salver, curiously engraved in Arabic.

Having seen mother and daughter safely deposited in the train for Goletta, I set off to visit the English burying-ground. I have seen many burial-places in the course of my life, but none by which I have been so much impressed as by this last resting-place of so many of my fellow-countrymen in “a strange land.” It is very small, certainly not more than half an acre in extent, and is entered through a vaulted archway. The gate is kept locked, though I believe that no outrage has ever been committed. Passing out of the crowded streets of the native town into this silent and deserted graveyard, a strange feeling of unreality came over me. Somehow or other, I was reminded of the wonderful passage in “Esmond” in which the hero describes his visit to his mother’s grave in the burying-ground of the Belgian convent. Like Esmond, I seemed, as I moved across that solemn plot of ground, to be walking beneath the sea and treading among the bones of shipwrecked men. But here there were no nuns raising their voices heavenward, nor any chapel into which one of my own faith might creep to meditate and pray. All round were the high walls and barred windows of the Arab houses—a strange, unfriendly outlook from these mouldering graves. The noise of the city penetrated even into the silent place of the dead; but it was a strange and unfamiliar noise, having little in common with the sounds of city life at home. The fierce sun was beating down upon the narrow graveyard; all round me were tombs and flowers.

For nearly two hundred years those of our race who finished their days in this strange country have been buried here, and the rose, the heliotrope, and the myrtle have been left to flower and fade luxuriantly above their dust. Many English Consuls are buried here; some of them having been the representatives of England at the Court of the Bey at the time when Tunis was a nest of pirates, and when cruelty and lust such as nowadays it hardly enters into one’s mind to conceive were rampant on this spot. And there are “merchant adventurers” of the last century, who must have had bold hearts when they came hither in search of fortune. All that remains of them now is, here and there, a quaint inscription telling us how they feared God and honoured the King; how they loved their fellow-men, and amid all the temptations of Babylon were true to the faith of their fathers and of their far-off native land. Then there are the graves of women, the wives of the few Englishmen who have from time to time sought fortune here; and—saddest of all—the graves of little children who bore English names and had English blood in their veins, but who were fated never to know the dear mother country and the blessings of home. My heart was too full for utterance, as I moved about among these graves. Only some two or three of my fellow-countrymen were to be met with in the whole Regency among the living; but here among the dead I found myself surrounded by many familiar names, and by inscriptions in the English tongue, which bore texts of Holy Writ that were graven as deeply upon my own heart as upon the stones of the burial-ground.

For the first time since I came to Tunis a great wave of home-sickness swept over me. How far off we—I and the silent dead beneath my feet—seemed to be from the land of our birth! And even as this thought was surging through my heart, my eye fell upon one special grave for which I had been searching. There was a plain stone slab, surrounded by a little bed of heliotrope and dwarf roses, and it bore an inscription telling how beneath it lay “Colonel John Howard Payne, a citizen of the United States of America,” and how this monument had been erected by his grateful fellow-countrymen in honour of the author of “Home, sweet Home.” Strange indeed is the irony of Fate. We shape our own destinies in fancy; we plan and plot and labour and contrive; and each one of us for himself has formed his own ideal of the end at which, in due season, in the fulness of his time, he is to arrive: and probably not once, in the whole history of the human race, has that end, when it did come, been in harmony with the visions thus indulged in. But surely, of all the strange freaks of malicious fortune, there has been none stranger, none sadder, than that which sent the man who wrote “Home, sweet Home” to die an exile on African soil, and which has left him to a grave here among our English dead of Tunis! I cleared away the mass of fallen leaves from that gravestone, and reverently plucked a spray of heliotrope and a few leaves from the rose-trees, and turned and went on my way again, filled with the feeling that, for a brief season, I had been moving in quite another world from that of the living, and that within the narrow boundaries of that pathetic graveyard of my kinsmen in a strange land, I had been holding the most solemn and the most real communion with the dead.

It was on the following day that, returning from a walk with Afrigan through the bazaars, I encountered a curious figure seated at the roadside which instantly attracted my attention. This was an Arab fortune-teller. At the moment when I came up to him he was busy unwinding the long folds of his turban; and like most of the Arabs with whom I came in contact in Tunis, he showed no disposition to court my support. In front of him was a tray on which fine sand was spread. This I need hardly say is the ordinary writing-tablet of the Arab, the slate by means of which he makes his calculations. At the side of this slate were a pile of tattered Arabic books, a dirty pack of cards, and one or two other articles appertaining to the trade of divination. My fortune-teller was a shrewd, elderly Arab, with a quick and sinister eye, but a not unpleasant expression upon his somewhat greasy face. Afrigan acting as interpreter, I explained to him that I wished to consult him. I was told to take a caroub (a penny) in my hand and to think meanwhile of the person or subject on which I wanted information, and then to give the coin to the fortune-teller. This I did accordingly. The Arab looked earnestly for a moment at the caroub, and then began to count with great rapidity, at the same time marking down various figures upon his tray of sand. When he had arrived at certain results he smoothed the sand, thus wiping out the figures, and began again. This went on for a considerable time, until at last he seemed to have reached his desired end. He gave a last triumphant dash of the hand over his curious slate, and then turning to me, said, “You are going away soon; you will have a stormy voyage and a long one, but you will travel in safety; those about whom you were thinking just now are quite well, and they are thinking much of you now, when you are absent; more even than they did when you were with them. All is well.” What could be more satisfactory than this, and how could I avoid giving the man an extra fee for his good news?

Strange, indeed, are the workings of the human mind. I knew perfectly well that the cunning old Arab was the veriest charlatan, and that the glib phrases he had uttered were merely the common-places with which he gratified all travellers who came to him for advice, whether they were tawny Bedouins from the Sahara, coal-black negroes from the Soudan, or pale-faced infidels from beyond the seas: yet I declare I positively resumed my walk after my short interview with the rogue in better spirits than I had been in before. After all, was he not probably right? I said to myself; and were there not kind thoughts speeding across land and sea in my direction from those whom I loved at home? Let it be noted in passing that one or two of the fortune-teller’s fellow-countrymen had gathered round whilst he was thus foretelling my lot, and that evident gratification was depicted upon their faces when they found that my fate was to be a favourable one. After all, even in the midst of this seething mass of fanaticism, a great deal of “human nature” is to be found; and so far as my experience of it goes, human nature is, as a rule, very apt to be kindly and lenient in its disposition.

And yet what a volcano is that upon which we are treading here in Tunis! Yesterday afternoon my good friend Mr. B———, who is showing himself most kind and attentive in all possible ways, went with me for a drive through the worst quarters of the town. B——— did not conceal either from himself or from me the fact that there was considerable risk in the expedition. But he believed that it must be undertaken if I were to have any real knowledge of Tunis; and therefore, disregarding the chance of a stray bullet being directed at us by some fanatic, we set off to explore those parts of the city where the natives are most closely packed together, and where the anti-Christian feeling runs highest. Without the aid of a pencil, or rather of a brush glowing with colours of many hues, I cannot pretend to give any adequate idea of the sights that I encountered during that delightful and exciting ride. Very soon after leaving the Marina we found ourselves involved in the midst of a labyrinth of the narrowest, the most tortuous, the most tumble-down lanes and alleys that ever represented the streets of a great town. Very often the carriage grazed the walls on both sides as it passed along. At other times we found ourselves traversing long dark vaulted passages beneath the houses, which in Tunis, as I have already said, are often built over as well as at the side of the thoroughfares. On each side of us for almost the entire distance were shops and Arab coffee-houses. They all looked as though they had been transferred bodily, by some deed of magic, from the pages of the “Arabian Nights.”

There was nothing that I had seen in Stamboul to compare with the orientalism of the scenes that now met my eyes. Every interior was in itself a perfect picture. Here was a row of small shops occupied by the workers in iron. Each particular smith was squatting on his haunches on the raised floor of the little apartment, hammering some metal vessel into the required shape, or blowing the brazier of glowing charcoal with a pair of bellows of primitive construction. Here again was the quarter occupied by the dealers in earthenware, whose gay stores of Arab pottery offered to the eye a mass of rich and varied colour. But after all it was in the numberless coffee-houses and barbers’ shops that I found the chief attraction; for here the Arabs were at home, and their infinite variety of costume, complexion, and attitude was almost bewildering. As our carriage moved slowly along through these narrow, crowded streets, we passed literally thousands of natives whom our driver warned of our approach by hoarse cries. The women turned away, thickly veiled though they were, as though they were defiled by mere proximity to the hated Christian. As for the men, they regarded us for a moment with scowling faces and sinister eyes, and then ostentatiously averted their heads, evidently for the purpose of marking their resentment at our presence. I looked back quickly once or twice, and saw these sullen-faced Moors spitting upon the ground over which our carriage had passed, and cursing us in the name of Allah! It was altogether a novel and exciting ride. Once or twice when our carriage was stopped in some particularly narrow thoroughfare my companion showed signs of alarm, and one felt upon the whole glad that a revolver formed part of one’s equipment; but any risk that there might be was more than compensated by the strangeness and picturesqueness of the scenes that everywhere presented themselves in those winding and tortuous streets, with their quaint Moorish houses and their numberless specimens of all those races who are the followers of the Prophet.

I have varied my somewhat monotonous life by frequent visits to the bazaar. Here are to be found not only many specimens of the fine silk and woollen fabrics for which Tunis is famed, but some of the beautiful carpets made at Kairwan by the chief ladies of the holy city, as well as a great number of swords, knives, and fire-arms of antique make. Oriental bazaars are all very much alike, and the same may be said of the bazaar-keepers; though here the apathy shown by the dealers as the European, who is a possible customer, passes, is somewhat strange. No attempt is made to attract the custom of the infidel, and it would almost appear as though the shopkeepers would rather not have his money, even if it were to be offered to them. This is not, however, the case with my friend Mohamed, who is the chief dealer in curiosities and carpets, and with whom I have already had many transactions. Mohamed is a very handsome and intelligent Arab, whose frank and friendly manner affords a pleasing contrast to that of most of his fellow-shopkeepers. I suppose that from the nature of his occupation as a dealer in curios and antiquities he has been brought into closer contact with Europeans than most of the Tunisian merchants. At all events, he always looks pleased to see me, and more than once, through the medium of Afrigan, I have had an interesting political discussion with him.

I do not go to Mohamed’s, however, to talk politics, but to endeavour to add to the small store of objects of interest that I have at home; and in doing this I have to pass through some very amusing experiences. In the first place, I find that it takes a long time to buy anything in Tunis. If one is in a hurry, then farewell to any idea of securing a bargain. A week or ten days may be easily spent in the purchase of a single article. In the next place, although Mohamed is undoubtedly a very honest fellow, you must understand that he considers it not only his right but his duty to cheat you if he can. He is there to sell his goods to the best advantage, and if he can induce you to pay for them three or four times their value, so much the better for himself. As for your share in a transaction of this kind, Mohamed will console himself with the reflection that you are in all probability rich enough to afford to give sixty francs where you ought only to have given twenty. Both of these considerations must be borne in mind by the purchaser if he does not wish to rue his dealings with Mohamed. By keeping them steadily in view he will probably find that he is able to get what he wants from that worthy individual at a comparatively moderate price. For let it be understood that Tunis has not yet, happily, been altogether spoiled by the globe-trotter or the bric-à-brac hunter. You may still pick up bargains here if you understand how to do it, as well as gain possession of articles that are really rare and curious.

The process of purchasing anything at Mohamed’s is, it will be gathered from what I have said, a somewhat prolonged and complicated one. After writing my letters and making my usual morning calls upon Mr. Reade and Messrs. B——— and P———, from whom I learn the latest news as to the proceedings of the French, I set off for the bazaar, generally accompanied by Afrigan. Nobody takes any notice of me as I thread my way through the narrow and crowded alleys of this great place of merchandise, until I turn into the particular street where Mohamed has his place of business. Then, however, a signal of some kind seems to be passed along from shop to shop until it reaches the spot where my friend conducts his transactions; for either Mohamed himself will at once come forth to meet me, or the smart Arab youth who acts as his assistant will dart away in search of him. In either case I shall very soon find myself seated on a carpet in the narrow entrance to the shop, surrounded by obsequious Arabs, whining beggars, and curious children who have come to see the infidel cheated.

At this point it may perhaps be desirable to explain that the shop of the chief dealer in carpets, silks, and curios in Tunis is not exactly such a place as is conjured up by the mention of the name in the mind of the ordinary untravelled Briton. The “shop” is nothing more than a closet with an open horse-shoe archway facing the bazaar, through which light is admitted, and ingress or egress afforded. The closet itself is possibly ten feet in depth and eight in width: and these, for the bazaar of Tunis, are rather extravagant dimensions. In front of the horse-shoe archway which serves both as door and window, are a couple of seats, on which Mohamed and the customer for the moment can sit cross-legged whilst they are engaged in the operation of bargaining. Within the shop the walls are covered with shelving, upon which is packed, in apparently hopeless confusion, the various fabrics and articles in which the merchant deals. No attempt is made to preserve these articles from injury during the time they are in Mohamed’s possession. They are simply stuffed pell-mell into the shelves—scarves, jebbas, carpets, rugs, turban cloths, curtains, burnouses, being all squeezed together as closely as possible; whilst knives, pistols, and rifles are pushed in wherever a vacant corner shows itself. Probably the stock is worth many thousand pounds; yet the outward show which is made by it is considerably less than that of a very ordinary marine-store dealer’s shop in Whitechapel. The tradesmen of Tunis have not yet, it is evident, learned to appreciate the value of plate-glass and “dressed” windows. But though they may be behind their brethren of Europe in some respects, they could teach them a great deal in certain other matters, notably in the way of conducting a bargain.

I shake hands cordially with Mohamed, and squat down upon the carpet-covered bench opposite to him. Cigarettes are produced and lighted; steaming hot coffee—coffee so fragrant and delicious that gold could not buy anything like it within the limits of the British Isles—is brought to us in wonderful little cups, and we sip it and smoke meditatively, whilst I answer the questions Mohamed puts to me concerning the state of my health, my movements since I saw him last, and my present opinion respecting M. Roustan, Madame Elias, and the other delectable people who represent in Tunis the honour of France and the incorruptibility of M. Gambetta. Then at last we proceed to business. Mohamed produces a number of particularly worthless articles—swords, flint-lock guns, inferior silks, &c. I toss them from me with unconcealed contempt, and prepare to depart. Mohamed orders more coffee, implores me to resume my seat, and brings forth from some hidden recess a beautiful curved Moorish knife, of great antiquity, in a fine sheath covered with arabesque work in silver. I puff a huge volume of smoke from my cigarette to hide, if possible, the sudden lighting up of my face at the sight of this rare and curious article, and say indifferently, “Well, what do you want for this?” “Ten pounds sterling,” is the immediate reply. I laugh with the greatest goodhumour, return the knife to Mohamed, and depart at once, telling him I shall come back again when he has recovered his senses.

The next day, perhaps, I reappear upon the scene; Mohamed rushes out to meet me, but I pass him with a mere nod, and go on to the inner bazaar where the goldsmiths are at work in hovels no bigger, and not much cleaner, than an ordinary pig-sty. In returning, Mohamed waylays me and insists upon my drinking coffee. Again we talk on all manner of indifferent subjects; again we look over the commoner articles of his stock; but nothing is said about the knife till I am on the point of leaving. “Have you sold that knife yet, Mohamed?” I say when I have risen. “No; it is here for your honour still.” “Well, I’ll give you one pound for it.” It is Mohamed’s turn to laugh now. He holds his hands up in pious horror, and shouting out, “Ten pounds, not a penny less, for it cost me more than nine pounds,” he leaves me to go on my way. Another day passes, and again I find myself squatting on that familiar carpet, discussing local politics with my worthy friend. I have been buying from him some of the pretty Tunisian scarfs, embroidered in gold, and we are in the best of humours with each other. Presently I say to him, “Now, Mohamed, what is your lowest price for that knife?” “Ten pounds, your honour, as I told you yesterday.” “Look here, Mohamed, I’m tired of talking to you about that knife. I shall either buy it now or not at all. If you have nothing else to say, let us say good-bye, and I’ll go somewhere else.” “Well, I am a poor man; but I would not like to offend your honour. You shall have it for six—no, for five pounds: and by the beard of the prophet! that is less than I gave for it myself.” “Mohamed, I’ll give you thirty shillings for it, and not one farthing more.” “Oh, Allah! was ever such a sum named as that? I shall be a ruined man if I take it. My own sons will mock at me.” I hand my coffee-cup to an attendant and prepare to go, merely repeating, “Thirty shillings; not one farthing more.” “Four pounds,” shrieks Mohamed; “four pounds; and by the beard of the prophet not one farthing less.” “Good-bye, then, Mohamed; I shall come here no more; may you prosper without me,” and I step into the ill-paved alley. A bland smile breaks over Mohamed’s face; he grasps my hand and retains me. “What, and do I really suppose that for such a small matter as this Mohamed would allow the light of his eyes to depart in anger? The knife is mine, and a rarer or a finer one he never sold.” The coveted article is handed over to Afrigan, who slings it round his neck with a matter-of-fact air; Mohamed and I interchange the friendliest of salutations, and we part, mutually satisfied, doubtless, with our respective shares in this comedy in three acts.

CHAPTER VIII.

OUTSIDE TUNIS.

Risks outside the walls — A tantalizing prospect — The gates of Tunis — The Belvedere hill — The French camp — Typhus — A fine prospect — A visit to the Marsa — Mr. Reade’s country-house — A country drive — Taib Bey — The fall of Kairwan — The Bardo — The suzerainty of the Caliph — A quaint custom.

Monday, October 24th.—I have spoken of the country outside Tunis, and of its general characteristics. Excursions to various places of interest in the neighbourhood of the city have given me a thorough acquaintance with so much of the locality as it is possible at present to visit without being exposed to the most serious risk. To go more than a short distance outside the walls is at this moment sheer madness. Nothing is more tantalizing than to see open country roads stretching away into the interior, and to know that they are absolutely barred against one’s passage by an enemy, invisible, but still always present, and always ready to take advantage of the slightest rashness on the part of the stranger. There is a particular farm-house standing high up on the hills amid a grove of prickly pear and cactus, some three miles from the white walls of the city which has often attracted my attention, and which has exercised an almost uncontrollable fascination over me. If I were once up at that point I should not only see what life in a Tunisian farm-house is like, but I should be able to get a far finer view of the country than it is possible to obtain anywhere nearer to the town. The longing to visit the place became so intense the other day that I was on the point of gratifying it, when word was brought to me that this very farm-house, nestling so peacefully in a gentle indentation of the great upland slope that rises behind Tunis, had been visited the previous day by Arab marauders, who had pillaged the house and carried off the occupants. What the fate of any European who chanced to go there just now would be, is more easily imagined than described; but it is quite certain that my curiosity as to the country life of the Tunisians must remain for the present unsatisfied. Still there are one or two favourite drives which I have taken on several occasions. The one that I like best is that to the Belvedere Hill, lying between Tunis and Carthage, where a French camp is established.

The whole scene on the road to this camp is wonderfully picturesque. As you pass out of the arched gateway of the city, you find yourself in a wide open space caused by the meeting of several roads from different parts of the country. There is a well here, and around it may always be seen clustered a large group of horses, mules, and camels. The soldiers from the camp on the hill, the white tents of which are plainly visible from the city walls, come down here with their horses to give them water; or a fatigue party will arrive for the purpose of carrying the precious liquid up to the camp. Ragged and wayworn Bedouins from the interior are lounging about the fountain, or reclining against the huge pillars of the city gateway, whilst their mules or camels are enjoying a brief respite from labour, in the midst of the white and dusty highway. Women and children are begging alms, or are taking those deep draughts of water from the well which only the dwellers in “a thirsty land” are able to appreciate. Occasionally a gaily bedizened Moor, with brilliant turban, flowing burnous, and glittering array of knives and pistols, gallops up, scattering the crowd before him, and urging his splendidly caparisoned horse to the brink of the well. The city guards meanwhile, with their burnt faces, ragged uniforms, and deplorable old rifles, are on duty at the gate, and eye the passing European with vindictive sullenness of expression. Is there any other spot within so short a distance of Paris or London, where scenes like these are to be met with; where one can find one’s self not only in the midst of an actual campaign, but surrounded by the typical sights and incidents of a purely Oriental life?

Our carriage soon leaves this wonderful gathering-place outside the city walls behind, and after a sharp tug uphill we find ourselves nearing the French camp. Here, again, there are picturesque sights in abundance, though of a different order. No Arabs are to be seen near the encampment, but the Jews, who in dress so closely resemble them, abound. Many of them have brought trays of fruit or sweetmeats to the spot, and are conducting a languid trade with the soldiers. Then there are French hucksters, whose stock-in-trade seems to be a barrel of wine or a few bottles of beer or absinthe. They have constructed a rude shelter for themselves from the sun beneath the wide-spreading olive-trees, and you may always depend upon finding a few gentlemen in blue trousers sharing the hospitalities they have to dispense. The sobriety of the French soldier is evidently not incompatible with a very plentiful consumption of wine and bad spirits. A sentry now bars our way. He will listen to no explanation; he will take no message to the commander of the camp, and when one of us shows a slight disposition to walk past him, unheeding his stern “Il est défendu, monsieur!” his rifle is instantaneously brought down to a horizontal position, and his bayonet gleams in unpleasant proximity to the offender’s breast. But I have a good field-glass with me, and standing on the little entrenchment thrown up for the defence of the camp, I can distinctly see every portion of it. Truth to tell, there is not much to be seen. There are lines of tents—most of them bell-tents, though here and there the wretched little tente d’abri is to be seen, and there are long rows of soldiers stretched in the shade, sleeping peacefully. Here and there an orderly may be observed, or a fatigue party armed with water-buckets, or an officer, carelessly dressed, striding about with shiftless gait. You can see, too, that the camp is not a delectable place of residence—far from it. Pheugh! As I look there comes to me, borne on the breeze, an indescribable odour. I have experienced something like it before, frequently in a travelling menagerie; but only once before did I actually encounter this horrible and insufferable stench. That was more than ten years ago, in the gardens at Versailles, when my evil genius prompted me to look over the balustrades into the Orangerie below, where the captured Communists were herded together like caged wild beasts. It is not an odour to be forgotten. It seems to print the word “Typhus” in big legible letters upon the luminous atmosphere.

I turn away from the camp, and survey the lovely country which is spread out at my feet like a map—for it is not without reason that this hill is called the Belvedere. There lies the white city, with its multitudinous flat roofs, its labyrinth of narrow streets, its quaint ungainly towers, and its Kasbah, on which flies the French flag. Beyond it you see the semicircle of forts which at once defend it and command it. On these also flies the tricolour. Then there are the great ranges of hill, sweeping away to where the jagged peaks of the Zaghouan Mountains intercept one’s view, and the lake immediately below me dotted with the white sails of the fishermen, and in the distance the amphitheatre where once stood Carthage, and the blue waters of the Gulf. The whole scene is bathed in the brilliant sunshine of Africa. One has no wish, after feasting one’s eyes upon it, to resume one’s study of the interior of the French camp.

One day—that ought to be marked with a red letter in this discursive journal—I accepted an invitation from Mr. Reade to go with him to his country house at the Marsa. We travelled together by the mid-day train from Tunis, B——— and P——— accompanying us. After leaving Goletta the line turns to the west, and runs forward to the Arab town of Sidi bou Said. But before we reached the terminus the whistle sounded, and the train suddenly stopped. I looked out. We were in the middle of a beautiful and trimly kept garden. There was a platform of gravel, and in the centre of it a neat summer-house, but no other sign to indicate that this was an ordinary station. It was, in fact, the private station alloted to Mr. Reade, and it was his garden in which we had stopped. We descended from the train and were met by four or five bright English lads—the sons of Mr. Reade and of one of my companions. How strangely their talk, the talk of English schoolboys, sounded amid these unfamiliar scenes! We strolled up a beautiful avenue of cypress, date-palms, and cactus, to the house. It is a Moorish villa of noble architecture. Ascending a broad sweep of marble stairs in front, we found ourselves upon a splendid verandah, with screen of exquisite Moorish arches, and tiled walls and floor. This lovely covered terrace was cool and airy in spite of the intense heat of the day; and even without regarding the fine view which was to be had from it, one could understand how in the nine months’ summer of Tunis it was the favourite sitting-room and place of assembly of the family. A door opening from this verandah gave admittance to a vast and lofty hall, the walls of which were also lined with tiles; whilst beyond were suites of large rooms, furnished rather in the Moorish than the European style. Of the warm and graceful hospitality with which I was received by the lady of the house this is not the place in which to speak. It may not, however, be out of place to mention that I now for the first time had the opportunity of tasting couscousoo, the national dish of the Arabs. Most excellent it is, though it has perhaps the fault of satisfying one’s appetite rather too quickly. It is a preparation of semolina, meat, and herbs, and has all the characteristics of a very fine curry with added excellences that are peculiar to itself. Perhaps the nearest approach to the dish is the pilaff which you get in Turkey; but between couscousoo and either curry or pilaff there is one great difference. That is, that in the Arab dish rice is not an ingredient, semolina, or whole grains of wheat, prepared in some peculiar fashion, taking its place. My introduction to couscousoo was of such a character that I became straightway desirous to renew the acquaintance at the earliest possible moment.

After our mid-day meal—which formed in all respects a delightful contrast to the dismal and painful experiences in the gastronomic line which I had been hitherto passing through in Tunis—I went for a drive with Mr. Reade. In the course of this drive we got a splendid view of the Gulf and the surrounding country, including the entire site of Carthage. The dusty lanes lined on either side with hedges of cactus, prickly pear, and other tropical plants, presented a strange contrast to the scenery amid which the ordinary afternoon drive of an Englishman is enjoyed. We passed great numbers of Arabs. None of them took the slightest notice of Mr. Reade, though all must have known him, and must have been aware that he had proved himself to be in many ways their benefactor and protector. Returning to the house, we lounged on the verandah smoking, chatting, and watching the boys at their play—the garden ringing with their shouts and laughter. Then, after a delightful cup of English tea, we started for the little garden station. It was broad daylight when we left the house; but before Mr. Reade and I had strolled the length of the avenue it was almost dark, so swiftly does night fall in these latitudes. I noticed in the garden a lamp burning amid the thick boughs of a large tree or shrub, and inquired the meaning of its appearance there. It seems that the tree on which the lamp is hung is sacred in the estimation of the Arabs, who believe that a saint of peculiar holiness is buried beneath it. Accordingly this lamp is lighted every Thursday night in honour of the pious man, and devout Mohammedans come and pray beneath the shade of the tree. It is on the whole well for them that an Englishman happens to be the occupant of this house and the master of the beautiful garden. The kindliness which leads Mr. Reade to respect the shrine of which he has thus accidentally become the possessor, and not only to respect it, but to allow free access to it on the part of the people of the country, is somewhat different from the disposition shown by the nation which is about to add the proud name of Kairwan to the list of its conquests!

The day after my visit to the beautiful country home of the English Consul-General, I had another opportunity of seeing an interior at the Marsa. The Marsa, I ought here to explain, is not so much a village as a circumscribed district in which are gathered together the villas of many of the wealthiest and most important members both of the European and native communities. Thus M. Roustan has, like Mr. Reade, a country house here; and here also are the palaces of the brothers of the reigning Bey. It was to pay a visit to Taib Bey, the younger brother of the Bey, that I went to the Marsa on this occasion. That Taib is mixed up in many of the political intrigues of which the Regency is at present the scene, and that he would not be at all sorry to supplant his brother, is, I believe, perfectly true. The standard of morals prevailing here is—well, I think it will be better to call it Tunisian; and if all that I have heard, not only about the Bey and his brothers, but about many other distinguished people in Tunis, is to be trusted, the world would not lose much if an earthquake were to bring the whole Regency to destruction to-morrow. Mr. Levy, the gentleman whose claim to the Enfida estate is one of the causes that are said to have led up to the French invasion of the country, acted as my guide in this visit to Taib Bey, in which the principal part was played by my friend Mr. B———. Taib, it appears, was anxious to influence the English public on his behalf; hence his invitation to us. It was the first time that I had ever been honoured by being received by the brother of a reigning Sovereign, and perhaps I ought to have felt more impressed than I did with the greatness of the occasion; but as a matter of fact it is a little difficult for an Englishman to enter into all the niceties of Tunisian dignities—almost as difficult as it is for him to understand the feeling of delight with which the Frenchmen here, who have been decorated with the Order of the Bey, display upon their manly bosoms the vast pewter plate which is the chief of the insignia of that Order.

Mr. Levy’s three horses, harnessed abreast, made comparatively short work of the journey from Tunis to the Marsa. We found ourselves precisely at the appointed hour entering the large, rambling Moorish villa, situated in the midst of a pleasant garden, which is the residence of the illustrious Taib Bey. Half way up the garden we were met by the Bey’s secretary, a swarthy Arab, clad in gay yellow robes, richly embroidered. He conducted us through an inner court, in the middle of which a fountain was playing, into a small sitting-room, where the Bey’s son-in-law, a Turk, greeted us in the most friendly fashion. Here coffee was served in the usual manner, in delicate porcelain cups, placed in elaborately chased silver holders. Presently a good-looking boy of twelve or thirteen came to announce that the Bey awaited us. We were ushered up a narrow tiled staircase, and through an antechamber into a large apartment, where we found the Bey seated on a sofa. It would be doing violence to the truth if I were to say that the appearance of his Highness was prepossessing. His manners, it is true, were pleasant, and he was evidently anxious to put himself on friendly terms with us; nor can it be said that he lacked intelligence. But no one could mistake the meaning of the flabby chin, the loose and puffy cheeks, the watery eye, and lean and trembling fingers. The sensuality which is the curse of these Arab potentates had evidently broken his manhood. There was, too, a furtive cunning in his glance that put one instinctively upon one’s guard.

Taib Bey may be, as he professes, a better man than his brother; but he is not a man in whose mercy I, for one, should care to find myself. Of his conversation with us, carried on through the medium of an interpreter, and lasting for some twenty minutes, I need not say much. It was chiefly directed against the reigning Bey, the ex-Prime Minister, Mustapha, and M. Roustan. If the truth must be told, I was more interested in what I saw than in what I heard; and as Europeans are seldom admitted to the houses of these Arab princes, I was anxious to make the best use of my time whilst there. All the rooms which I saw were very poorly furnished, but the curtains, sofa covers, &c., were of clean and pretty chintz. The ornaments, even in the large apartment in which we were received, and which was evidently the chief reception-room of the house, were the tawdriest paper flowers, placed under common glass shades. The only things to be seen which were really rare or curious of their kind were two tall clocks at the foot of each staircase. These were very fine, and with all the ardour of a bric-à-brac hunter I felt half-inclined to sound Taib’s secretary as to the possibility of my purchasing one of them. I managed to resist the inclination, however; and perhaps it was just as well that I did so, as, unless rumour libels him, his Highness has a decidedly unpleasant way of making his anger felt when any one chances to displease him.

Friday, October 28th.—We received this morning the news of the entry of the French into the sacred city of Kairwan. Mr. Levy was the first to bring the intelligence, which was speedily confirmed. Nothing, however, was known of it among the inhabitants of Tunis, so that the excitement which may be expected to arise when it becomes known that “the Sacred City” is in the hands of the infidel has not yet been shown. I accompanied B——— this afternoon on one of the most interesting expeditions to be made at present outside the walls of Tunis—that to the Bardo Palace. The Bardo is the St. James’s of Tunis—the official palace, that is to say, where in ordinary times the work of the Government is carried on; where the Bey administers justice in the primitive fashion still adhered to in this quarter of the world, where he holds his audiences, &c. Near to it is his private palace, where he actually lives when at “the Bardo.” As for the Bardo itself, it is a walled town rather than a single building or group of buildings. In front is a wide, open space, in the middle of which a fountain is playing; whilst a row of rusty cannon, placed along the line of a dry ditch, are the ostensible defence of the palace. Driving along the road to the Bardo, which lies between two and three miles from Tunis, we encountered many trains of laden camels, and scores of Arabs cantering along on their mules. There were French patrols too passing up and down the road; for this is the route to Manouba, where the principal French camp and military hospital are situated. Passing through the exterior gateway of the palace—after having shown the pass kindly obtained for me by Mr. Reade—I found myself in a street in which there were coffee shops, shops for the sale of domestic utensils, and even a post-office. All the walls were whitewashed somewhat after the fashion used in English barracks, but everywhere signs of decay and neglect were visible, even the Bey’s flag which fluttered over the principal gateway showing an ugly rent.

After passing through two courtyards, in one of which was a fountain with fine marble columns, we alighted at the foot of the great staircase, which is guarded by lions in marble. At the top of the staircase is a large open verandah, with splendid pillars of marble or porphyry, brought from Carthage; and it was curious to observe on one of these the emblematic serpent, which carried one’s mind back to the days of the Phœnicians. From this verandah entrance is obtained to the central court of the Bardo and to the throne-room, where every Saturday during the winter the Bey is in the habit, of hearing the complaints of his subjects and administering justice in the quaint patriarchal fashion of the East. From the door of this throne-room, every evening from time immemorial it has been customary to proclaim the titles of the Sultan in recognition of his suzerainty as Caliph. Even now, when the French occupy Tunis, and the last shred of Ottoman authority has disappeared, this custom is kept up; and this afternoon, before leaving the palace, I was fortunate enough to witness the quaint and striking ceremony. Before doing so, however, I inspected the palace itself.

The first room to which I was admitted was a small but gorgeously decorated private reception-room. Gold was used lavishly in the adornment of the ceilings and walls; on the floor was stretched a handsome but somewhat faded Axminster carpet, the gift of the Queen of England, and the chairs were all in scarlet and gold. This apartment may be called the business-room of the Bey, that in which he sees his Ministers, the Consuls, and others who have official work to transact with him. Adjoining it was a very pleasant chamber, with a glass window running the whole length of the room, and affording a fine view of the Manouba road, on which the French patrols could be seen passing. On the walls some quaint portraits of the former Sultans of Turkey were hung. Passing up a very ordinary staircase, I was admitted to the great room of the palace, which in size is a really magnificent apartment, in this respect rivalling that ball-room in the palace at Amsterdam which I saw a few weeks ago, and which was described to me as the finest room in Europe. The furniture of this great room is very tawdry, and in spite of its size and the canopied throne which stands at one end, it has a mean and squalid appearance. There are hundreds of fine chandeliers holding dirty wax candles at every angle save the right one. The walls are adorned by life-size portraits of many of the sovereigns of Europe, presented to the Bey. The Queen of England is merely represented by a small engraving, and the Bey is said to be very indignant at her Majesty’s having omitted to send him her portrait in oil. The finest thing in the room is a wonderful piece of Gobelins tapestry—a portrait of Louis Philippe. This is really remarkable for colour, fineness of outline, and general effect. At a short distance it is impossible to distinguish it from an oil painting.

My visit to the palace, where dirt reigned supreme, and signs of decay and neglect were everywhere to be met with, would have been most disappointing if I had not been privileged to see the ceremony of proclaiming the Sultan’s titles of which I have spoken. This was a most curious and interesting performance. A melancholy-looking man in tattered garments, beating a large drum, like himself considerably the worse for wear, crossed the courtyard, and, climbing the lion staircase, took up his position in front of the door of the throne-room. He was followed by a second performer on a kind of flute, from which he drew forth weird and ear-piercing strains. The door was thrown open, and two old heralds in scarlet and gold took their places on either side of it. Then, when the musical performance, which had lasted some considerable time, had ceased, one of the heralds, a venerable Turk, proclaimed in Turkish—and apparently by a series of dismal howls which reverberated through the corridors and courtyards of the palace—the titles and glories of the Sultan. It was a curious and memorable incident for one to witness in the middle of that crumbling building, outside of which the French troops were passing, all unconscious of what was happening within. Does M. Gambetta know, I wonder, that this formal declaration of the Caliph’s suzerainty is still kept up at the Bardo in spite of the treaties and despatches of the ingenuous M. Saint-Hilare?

[Since I wrote the foregoing account of Taib Bey, he has undergone a very remarkable change of circumstances. In January last Taib’s palace was suddenly surrounded by Tunisian cavalry, and the unfortunate Prince, dragged from his bed, was made captive and carried off to the Bardo, where they have a very easy way of getting rid of criminals or of those who happen to be obnoxious to the authorities. In the meantime Taib’s son, or more probably his son-in-law, who acted as master of his household, is reported to have escaped and taken refuge in the country house of Mr. Reade. These events will show my readers how different life in Tunis is from life in Europe. The beautiful villa at the Marsa, where I spent a delightful day last October, is now the sanctuary in which a hunted man has found a refuge under the shelter of the English flag; whilst Taib Bey’s palace stands desolate, and its owner is the occupant of a prison. The real reason for Taib’s arrest is that he refused to give a bribe of large amount which was demanded by a friend of M. Roustan, and that he offered to produce documents proving the criminality of Roustan and his connexion with a notorious adventuress. For these reasons he has now been made prisoner at the instigation of M. Roustan, and is in great danger of losing his life. That he has intrigued against his brother is perfectly true; but it is equally certain that his brother has not himself been willing to order his arrest. The information I have received on high authority from Tunis, since the arrest took place, is to the effect that the Bey was most unwilling to take any proceedings, and that it was M. Roustan who forced this particular measure upon him.]

CHAPTER IX.

ON THE ROAD TO KAIRWAN.

The story of a failure — Friendly warnings — Uxorious Afrigan — A change of diet — I start for Susa — An African thunderstorm — Susa — Troublous times — A busy scene — A miniature railway — The English Vice-Consul — Preparations for camping-out — A new servant — Disappointed — A “Parisian Hotel” in the Gulf of Hammamet — A risky expedition — A faithful follower.

Susa, Tuesday, November 1st.—The story of a failure is not the most pleasant reading in the world; and alas! the history of my attempt to get to Kairwan is the history of a failure. I found myself within less than forty miles of the famous Sacred City, “the Mecca of the West,”—I was nearly there; and I was beaten back by the force of circumstances over which I had no control. Still the account of my journey towards Kairwan is one which contains sufficient elements of interest to be worth repeating here. For some days I had been hanging on at Tunis, waiting for the moment when news should come that the French had reached Kairwan. Until they had done so, it would, of course, have been sheer madness to attempt a journey to the place. On Friday, October 28th, however, the news that the French columns had reached Kairwan and that the tricolour had been hoisted on the tower of the great Mosque reached Tunis, and I immediately prepared to start. It was amusing to listen to the dismal prophecies uttered on all sides regarding the certain fate of those who ventured to tread in the footsteps of the French army. My friend Mohamed in the bazaar shook his head dolefully when he heard I was going, and declared that even he would not be safe in Kairwan. The fanatics of that holy city were so intensely excited against all who had bowed the knee to the infidel, that they were prepared to fall upon any of the Arabs of Tunis, and to slay them for having permitted their venerable city, “the Burnous of the Prophet,” to be defiled by a foreign occupation.

I suggested to Mohamed that inasmuch as the Kairwan people now lay under the same condemnation, they might perhaps look more leniently upon the offences of himself and his brethren. But he shook his head in a doleful fashion, and pressing my hand warmly, commended me to the protection of Allah, as one who was about to go through a den of wild beasts. My next difficulty was with Afrigan. He had served me so faithfully and diligently hitherto, that I felt loth to part from him. “Will you go to Kairwan with me?” I demanded of him as we sat and smoked our cigarettes under the delicious sky of an African night, in front of a little café of which I had become a frequenter. “Well, you see, sir,” said he, with Scotch indirectness, “I have a wife.” “But what of that? I may have one also, and yet I am going.” “Ah, sir, you may have a wife,” said Afrigan, in a tone which implied the profoundest incredulity upon the point; “but she’s a long way off, so it doesn’t matter. You see, sir, my wife is in Tunis.” “And you won’t go, then?” “Well, sir, I am afraid she would not let me.” After this, argument of course was useless. I confined myself to inviting him to accompany me at least as far as Susa, whither I was to proceed by sea. Now, even at Susa, life is by no means safe. Indeed, constant reports had reached Tunis during my sojourn there of the shooting of Europeans in the streets of the town; and it was notorious that Arab raiders had cleared the country up to the very walls of the city. Afrigan, however, was quite ready to go with me to Susa; and forthwith I despatched him to pack a small portmanteau, whilst I made a few farewell calls upon French and English friends.

The next day there was a great disappointment. It was the day on which I ought to have started, and I had taken passages for myself and my servant. Suddenly news was brought to me that the steamer could not start for another day. It was a bitter termination to my hopes of getting to Kairwan, and it required all my philosophy to get over it. On that particular day, I may here mention, I and my two friends, B——— and P———, found ourselves so sick of the vile hotel fare, that we induced Montellacci, the Italian pastry-cook of the European quarter, to prepare us a meal of tinned soups and meats. It was a welcome change from the menu of the Grand Hotel, for we at least knew what it was that we were eating; and though perhaps Montellacci was a little puzzled by our preferring preserved hare soup and minced collops to the dainties of the table d’hôte, he did his best to satisfy us. We felt quite at home as we ate. How strange, too, is the power of association! As we were lunching in the confectioner’s shop there fell upon our ears the sound of music. Music, it should be understood, is almost the only form of recreation in which the people of Tunis are able to indulge. There is, however, no theatre—it was burnt down some weeks ago—and no concert-room; so that the musicians are compelled to wander from café to café, trusting to the liberality of the frequenters of those places for their reward. On this occasion it was a couple of Neapolitans, with violin and flute, who favoured us with the strains of a gay Neapolitan fisher’s song. Suddenly they passed from this to one more familiar to me; and hackneyed and vulgar though the melody was, it touched me in a curious way to hear the well-known “Grandfather’s Clock” performed there, in the narrow street where the Arabs were walking to and fro, and the innumerable dogs were playing their part as scavengers.

A night’s reflection brought me to the conclusion that I would go to Susa even now, and take my chance when there of getting on to Kairwan. Accordingly, on the next afternoon, having provided myself with a letter of introduction to the English Vice-Consul at Susa, Mr. Gallia, I set off with Afrigan for Goletta. By five o’clock I was on board a magnificent vessel of the Compagnie Transatlantique, the Ville de Naples. This is a sister ship to the Charles Quint, and, like the latter, was built upon the Clyde. It is, however, somewhat larger than the Charles Quint, and, if anything, is even more gorgeously appointed. As I was being rowed off to the place where the Ville de Naples lay at anchor, I passed close to the English gunboat Falcon, Captain Selby. The sailors were just being piped to tea, and it was right pleasant to see so many “jolly Jacks” of my own country and to hear once more the strains of an English bugle. Nor was it less pleasant to find oneself again on board a clean and well-appointed French boat, on which one could exchange the filth and bad food of Tunis for something like civilized cookery. There was some delay in making a start, and it was not until long after we had dined that the anchor was weighed. But I shall never forget that interval of waiting. All round us were the merchant-vessels and men-of-war gathered together in the safe anchorage of the gulf; whilst in the distance were the low ranges of hills, and the white and spectral towers of Tunis and Goletta. A change had taken place in the weather immediately after sunset. For the first time since my arrival it became, not cold, but cool. And now the most terrific storm of lightning I had ever witnessed suddenly burst around us. This African lightning is at once magnificent and terrible to behold. It played all over the surface of sea and land, in wonderful, tremulous flashes of the most intense violet. There was literally no interval between these flashes; and I saw further inland under their penetrating glare than I could have done in the sunshine. Even after the anchor had been raised and we had got well on our way in the Mediterranean, the lightning seemed to be following us, lighting up the crests of the waves, and throwing the rugged coast-line out in splendid relief.

The next morning, going on deck I found the ship running into the deep gulf at the bottom of which lies Susa. The Zaghouan hills were almost as distinctly visible here as they had been at Tunis, though it was at the other side of them that I now looked. Presently on the port quarter we sighted Monastir, an important centre of the trade in olive oil; and then Susa was opened up to us right ahead. It would be difficult to imagine a pleasanter-looking town than Susa—when seen at a distance. Built in a parallelogram, with high white walls running completely round it, and a huge kasbah or citadel dominating it in the background, it presents a most pleasing aspect from the sea. The country is much more fertile here than it is in the neighbourhood of Tunis; a rich belt of olive forest running along the seacoast, and many handsome Moorish villas and farm-houses nestling between the trees and the shore of the bay. Looking beyond the town inland, I saw ranges of sandhills of curious shape. Beyond these sandhills stretches a marshy desert reaching far into the interior. Riding at anchor in the harbour were two French ships of war, an Italian gunboat, and my old friend the Charles Quint! After breakfasting on board—a most “happy thought,” as I subsequently discovered—I landed under the walls of the town. These walls, it ought to be explained, run right along the beach as well as on the other sides of the city, so that the latter is completely closed in. How necessary such defence is, may be gathered from the fact that within the past six weeks every villa or farm-house outside the walls, including even those which are only a few hundred yards from the gates, has been pillaged by the insurgent Arabs. So near have these gentlemen ventured to the town that—as I subsequently found by unpleasant experience—it is dangerous even to walk or ride fifty yards beyond the walls.

Susa being the starting-point of one of the columns which has marched upon Kairwan, and being also the base of supply for the whole French army in that part of the country, is at this moment the scene of immense activity. No one landing here can fail to perceive that he is in a country in which an active campaign is being carried on. On the beach enormous quantities of matériel of all kinds are gathered, and the big flat-bottomed boats are ever bringing fresh supplies from the ships in the harbour. Arab labourers and French soldiers, mingled together in a picturesque crowd, are all talking wildly, rushing hither and thither, and generally doing the best they can to obstruct one another. It is amusing to contrast the shrill tones of the French with that extraordinary guttural sound which represents spoken Arabic, and which has for all the world so strong a similarity to the “gobble-gobble” of an infuriated turkey. The Arabs in Susa, or rather, here on the beach in the midst of the French transport department, seemed to have been roused from their ordinary apathy. I even saw some of them running, and one or two of them were evidently excited. Threading my way through the great mounds of grain and coffee bags, I came upon the starting-point of the little Decauville railway, which is being laid down to serve the army at Kairwan. The last time I saw one of these miniature locomotives was in the Steam Plough Works at Leeds. The railway to Kairwan starts from the beach, or rather from the yard of Messrs. Perry, Bury, and Co., an English firm engaged in the esparto grass trade, for whom Mr. Gallia, our Vice-Consul, acts as agent. It is as yet only completed to a point about twelve miles from Susa, and has to be constantly watched by patrols, in order to prevent its being destroyed by the Arabs.

Passing through a deep vaulted gateway, more like a tunnel than an ordinary entrance gate, and then through a second which was in the occupation of French soldiers in soiled and ragged uniforms, I found myself in the town itself. There was a labyrinth of narrow, ill-paved streets, along which one had to pick one’s way with the utmost care. A few Maltese coffee-houses, where vile adulterated spirits were being sold to the sailors and soldiers, and here and there a melancholy little shop, alone broke in upon the depressing monotony of the blank white walls, which here, as in Tunis, line the streets for the greater part of the way. After feasting one’s eyes upon the fair exterior of the city, it was indeed a disillusionment to enter it. With some little difficulty Afrigan and I found our way to the English Vice-Consulate, where Mr. Gallia, the son of an Italian father and of an English mother, was engaged in transacting business in a vaulted apartment, which would have looked like nothing so much as a stable or a cellar if it had not been for the beautiful tiles with which floor and walls were lined. Here I was received with kindness on the presentation of my letter of introduction. “Is it possible to get to Kairwan?” I asked. “Certainly,” was the answer, given with a businesslike promptitude to which I was quite unaccustomed in the Regency. “A French convoy will leave here at three o’clock this afternoon; you must get a pass and go with it, and you will be there in three days.”

I was delighted to find how the dangers, of which I had heard so much when in Tunis, seemed to have vanished as I approached them, and instantly prepared to go. But there was still much to be done before I could consider myself equipped for a journey which, counting the return journey, would last at least a week, and during the whole of which I should have to be entirely dependent upon my own resources both for food and for shelter. A thick Arab burnous, and a splendid fez, or sheshia, as it is called here, were procured for me by Afrigan; the English hat I wore being wholly unsuited to the climate. I may say here that no greater mistake than that of taking a very light hat into such a country as Africa can be committed. The head must have sufficient covering to protect it from the fierce rays of the sun. It was curious indeed to observe that when the heat was greatest in Tunis, the Arabs seemed to wear their thickest clothes and biggest turbans. After attending to these necessaries of dress, I engaged, on Gallia’s recommendation, a servant to replace Afrigan. A glance at the man showed that I had made a change for the worse. He was a Maltese, who spoke Arabic, Italian, and a little English, and was described to me by the faithful Consul as “not quite right in his head, and given to drink, but fairly honest.” He was, however, the only man who seemed willing to risk his life in a journey to Kairwan, so I was compelled to put up with him. Then a mule and a donkey had to be hired, and some sixty francs’ worth of tinned meats and bread bought, whilst knives, pannikins, a lantern, and some candles completed my outfit.

It was no light matter to have to rush about the streets of Susa making these purchases under the blazing mid-day sun. Afrigan, whose heart was evidently heavy at parting from me, did his best, and his dull successor was quite willing to suggest the most incredible purchases of meat for the journey. I saw his eyes glisten as each successive tin was added to the store I was collecting, and I thought ruefully of the share which he would undoubtedly claim for himself when the moment to divide these good things should arrive.

At last, panting and exhausted, I returned to the Vice-Consul’s to report the completion of my equipment. Alas! the first words that greeted me were an announcement that Mr. Gallia had been mistaken, and that the convoy had started at one instead of three o’clock. I suggested that I might easily overtake it, as it consisted of some hundreds of laden camels. He laughed at the notion. Even the half-hour’s start it had obtained was fatal to my chance of joining it. To go without armed escort beyond the city walls was to court attack. I did not credit this alarming statement at the moment; but a few hours later, when by an unpleasant experience of my own I had ascertained in a practical manner the presence of insurgent Arabs within a few hundred yards of the city gates, in the belt of olive wood outside the walls, I was compelled to give the Vice-Consul credit for having spoken the literal truth.

Of the miseries of the enforced sojourn at Susa which I had now to face I shall not say much. I parted with Afrigan, who went on board the Ville de Naples, which had been appointed to return to Tunis the same evening. Mr. Gallia had informed me that Susa had lately been blessed with a luxury, a “real Parisian hotel,” and thither I went to take up my quarters until the convoy for Kairwan should start, an event which we understood would take place on the following day. A real Parisian hotel! It was situated in an old Arab house, opposite the great mosque of Susa, an extraordinary building, of which I shall have something more to say presently. I subsequently found that this house was the property of Mr. Levy of the Enfida, who had let it recently to an enterprising Frenchwoman from Marseilles, who had come to Susa in the wake of the French army. The filth left behind by the last Arab occupants of the place apparently still remained undisturbed. A few articles of European furniture, a long wooden table, and a dozen cane-bottomed chairs had been put into one of the rooms, which by the process had been converted into a salle-à-manger. I asked to see a bedroom, and was led up a slippery outside staircase to a gallery from which the various sleeping apartments were entered. The furniture of that into which I was shown consisted of an old iron bedstead on which a bag stuffed with shavings was placed, a small table, and a three-legged stool. The tiled floor was thick with filth, and the heavily barred windows refused to open. However, there was shelter here from the sun, and though I had my suspicions as to the contents of that bag of shavings, it was at least possible to rest one’s weary legs upon it, whilst I covered all the native odours of the apartment with the grateful fumes of tobacco. After a while, too, I got a basin containing some water, so that I was fain to confess that civilization had indeed achieved a triumph in Susa when this “Grand Hôtel de France” was set up there.

I had invited the Vice-Consul to dine with me, and I scraped up an acquaintance with the landlady in order to secure her interest on the side of a good dinner. I knew the dinner would be the reverse of good; I knew that in such a place it must be detestably, execrably bad, but I was in hopes that there might be a little good wine in the house. Well, there was wine—champagne at fifteen and Bordeaux at ten francs a bottle. I hoped that my guest, if he could not eat the food, would at least be able to drink. Then, having done my best in preparation for dinner, I went for a walk—or rather a ride—to the outskirts of the town. It was then that I discovered that the Arabs were somewhat closer to the walls than I had anticipated. Nothing but an ignominious flight sufficed to save me from a fate which would have prevented any pages of this diary ever seeing the light of day. My little adventure satisfied me upon one point, and that was as to the thorough untrustworthiness of my new domestic. As soon as he saw me approaching danger, he simply turned and fled without a word of warning, leaving me to face the consequences for myself. And very unpleasant those consequences might have been! However, I got back safely into the town, and once more went to see Mr. Gallia. He took me for a walk through the streets into the little bazaar—a very bad copy of that of Tunis, though arranged upon the same plan, with the slipper-makers in one street, the perfumers in another, the vendors of linen in a third, &c. A curious crowd of Arabs followed us, and watched all my proceedings with the liveliest interest.

Then we strolled down to the beach and to the office of the harbour-master, where we sat drinking the hottest of coffee, and looking out upon the beautiful bay, so tranquil and lovely in the light of the setting sun. Suddenly the clouds overcast the sky, and the dust began to rise in volumes so dense as to make it almost impossible to breathe. Then, almost in an instant, the temperature fell many degrees, the rain began to fall in heavy drops, and a cold wind blew round us. We hastened back to the miserable shelter of my hotel; stumbling along the streets where the patient camels were sheltering themselves against the walls, and their drivers with their robes wrapped about their faces were endeavouring to screen themselves from the blinding dust. As we strode onward, no very lively feelings animating my breast, I heard a well-known voice behind me, and looked round. It was Afrigan! The faithful fellow had ascertained that his steamer would not start that night, and although I had now set him at liberty, he had returned from the comfortable vessel to share the miseries of a sojourn in Susa with me. With his aid my bedroom at the “Grand Hotel” was made at least a little cleaner than when I took possession of it.

In due time the dinner-hour arrived, and with it my guest. The dinner was even worse than I had anticipated; and I made haste to draw Mr. Gallia’s attention to the wine, hoping thus to divert it from the viands. Alas! he assured me that he had been a teetotaler from his birth. “And have you then no vices?” I asked. “Ah, yes; I have two very serious ones. I drink too much coffee, and that you know is thought quite as bad here as drinking too much wine; and I am always smoking cigars—when I can get them.” The latter statement was reassuring. I had just secured, before leaving the Ville de Naples, a packet of five-and-twenty Algerian cigars. I hastily drew them from my pocket, and almost before the keenest pangs of hunger had been satisfied, we pushed away our plates and began to smoke. I am afraid to say how many of those cigars were left when, after a most interesting talk respecting affairs in Tunis, my friend left me shortly before midnight.

CHAPTER X.

A GALE OFF CAPE BON.

A night of misery — No chance of seeing Kairwan — The Great Mosque of Susa — The Vice-Consul’s house — An English captive in Susa — Arab revolvers — Old friends — On board the Ville de Naples — A disturbed meal — Running for shelter — Rounding Cape Bon — Glasgow for ever!

November 3rd.—I have passed some miserable nights in the course of my life, but not many to be compared in absolute wretchedness with that which it was my lot to spend under the roof of the French hotel of Susa. Perhaps some of those nights that I passed some years ago in the detestable gasthof of the detestable town of Mohacs, Lower Hungary, may have been as bad as this; but distance lends enchantment to the view, and from my quarters at Susa I looked with longing eyes even towards the mud huts on the swampy banks of the Danube, where I had once sojourned in wretchedness. It was bitterly cold, so that as I lay upon a bed of shavings, wrapped closely in my camel’s hair burnous, I was chilled to the very marrow. The wind was howling round the corners of the house, and shrieking across the great open roof of the adjoining mosque, and the rain was beating heavily upon the window. As I lay there and thought of the six or seven nights I must spend in the open, with no better shelter than my cloak, whilst I made the journey to Kairwan, I confess that I did not feel in a particularly cheerful frame of mind. But far worse than wind or rain or gloomy thoughts was the Egyptian plague which tormented me within the walls of my chamber. Mosquitoes boomed about my devoted head all night long; and from the bag of shavings on which I lay came forth an army of creeping things to prey upon my flesh. How I longed for morning! When at last it came I rose quite unrefreshed, and performed my ablutions as well as I was able in the small basin of water which I had managed to secure on the previous evening. The room, I need hardly say, was innocent of such an article as a looking-glass; so that my toilette was completed under difficulties. There were two windows to the apartment, and both were heavily barred by means of that curiously curved grating which is one of the distinguishing features of Tunisian houses. From one of them, however, I was able to obtain a good view of the Great Mosque of Susa.

This building is of immense dimensions, and bears distinct traces of its Roman origin. Occupying a site in the heart of the town, its high walls, enclosing it in the form of an octagon, are the most marked architectural feature of the place. No Christian has, of course, ever been allowed to enter it; but by craning my neck from my bedroom window I was able to see probably as much of its interior as was ever beheld by infidel eyes. There was a great courtyard surrounded by a colonnade, the roof of which was supported by many graceful columns. In the centre of this courtyard there was a fountain, round which trees were growing. The mosque itself has not a domed roof such as is common among the mosques of Turkey; but a flat roof, from which rises a rectangular tower. The vast dimensions of the building, its curious architecture, and the mystery which attends its origin, make it a structure of great interest to the traveller, and I was unfeignedly sorry that I could not gather further information respecting it.

Afrigan made his appearance even whilst I was studying the mosque. His face bore a strange resemblance to a plum-pudding. “Oh, sir, the mosquitoes were awful all night,” said he, in lugubrious tones. “Better come on to Kairwan with me, then?” I responded blithely. “Well, you see, sir, my wife—” “Oh, but your wife is a long way off now; so what does it matter what she thinks?” said I, adroitly turning the tables upon him. Afrigan smiled as well as he was able with his swollen face, and he shook his head mournfully. Almost at the same moment there was a knock at the door, and my second domestic, the Maltese gentleman, entered. He was laden with some huge lumps of cheese, with half a dozen loaves, and with a ponderous lantern. Having added these to the store of provisions already accumulated, he proceeded to inform me, with great coolness, that we should not be starting for Kairwan that day. “What do you mean?” I asked, in amazement. “Well, honourable gentleman, the French Colonel says the convoy won’t go to-day, and he cannot tell when one will start.” This was pleasant news. I rushed forth breakfastless in search of Mr. Gallia. He confirmed the intelligence. Whether the Colonel had no wish to be burdened by the presence of an Englishman of an inquiring turn of mind, whether some good-natured friend had quietly put a spoke in my wheel, or whether the case was really as stated, I cannot pretend to say. What is certain is that I was solemnly told that I could not leave Susa that day, and that nothing could be said as to when I could leave. A convoy, it was true, was starting that morning. The Colonel could hardly deny this, inasmuch as I could see for myself some hundreds of laden camels, defiling through the narrow streets for the rendezvous at the Kairwan Gate; but it was only going as far as Wad Loya, the first station on the road, and I could not be allowed to go with it.

Thus once more my hopes of seeing Kairwan vanished, and on this occasion finally. My leave of absence was drawing to an end, and I could not hang on for an indefinite period at Susa. If I were not permitted to start at once, I must give up all hope of going at all. To this painful conclusion I was presently brought. So, after all, the tinned meats, the pickles, the cheese, the bread, the candles, had all to be returned to their vendor. Never in my life had I a harder task than that of inducing this gentleman to take back his corned beef and sardines. After a struggle, which lasted nearly an hour, he finally, as a great favour, consented to do so at a reduction of fifty per cent. upon the price I had paid him for the same things the day before. It was almost as difficult to get rid of my Maltese friend of the villainous countenance. I paid him handsomely for the very small services he had rendered me; and he went away cursing me audibly. “I think, sir,” said Afrigan, “that is an impudent man, and you might do a worse thing than to kick him.” I agreed with Afrigan from the bottom of my heart. As for Afrigan himself, he was in the seventh heaven of delight when he found that the expedition to Kairwan was abandoned. “Oh, sir, that is better. I could not bear to think of a gentleman like you sleeping among the soldiers on the open ground for a whole week in weather like this. I lay awake all last night—I could not sleep for thinking about you.” “Come, come, Afrigan: no humbug, if you please! You know it was the mosquitoes that kept you awake.” “Well, sir, the mosquitoes were very bad; that is quite true; but it was worse when I thought of you lying out in all that rain. But now we’ll go home and say nothing at all to our wives about Kairwan. I shan’t say anything to mine about Susa either.” And then Afrigan lighted a cigarette, and strolled off in search of a coffee-house, humming a gay Arab tune.

I went to breakfast with Mr. Gallia at his house. Nowhere in the world, I imagine, is a man’s house so entirely his castle as it is in these semi-savage Arab towns on the north coast of Africa. For the European resident in a place like Susa there is absolutely no attraction outside the walls of his own home. He has no society; such a thing as a dinner-party, or a party of any kind, is absolutely unknown. He cannot frequent the miserable Arab cafés or the still more miserable Maltese dram-shops: he cannot enjoy that unfailing resource of the Englishman who finds himself stranded in a dull place, a walk out into the country. My friend Mr. Gallia goes down once or twice a day to the office of the old Turkish harbour-master of Susa, and sits there for half an hour, smoking, drinking steaming hot coffee, and looking out upon the beautiful bay, whilst he listens to the gossip of the port. But these visits to the shore form the only variety in his monotonous life. All the other hours of the day must be spent within the walls of his own home, and the only society he meets with is that of his own family. It will be seen, then, of what importance the house is in a town like Susa. The exteriors of the houses here, like those in the Arab quarter of Tunis, are miserable in the extreme. The residences of even the wealthiest merchants bear a strong outward resemblance to stables or barns. But it does not do in this part of the world to judge by outward appearances; and just as the fairest features that ever adorned one of the houris of Paradise may be concealed under the hideous yashmak, so the most luxurious of abodes may be found within these rough whitewashed walls.

One peculiarity all the houses have in common, and that is that they are capable of being easily defended from attack. The house is generally built in the form of a hollow square. The ground story is occupied with cellars and offices; and one narrow flight of stairs gives access to the living apartments. All the windows being heavily barricaded, it is only necessary to defend the staircase in order to make the house secure; and as the precaution adopted in mediæval castles is used here, and the wells are carried up through thick stone walls to the first floor of the houses, there is every convenience for withstanding a siege. Mr. Gallia’s house presents all these characteristics of the local architecture. It has, besides, an historic interest. A hundred years ago Susa shared with Tunis and Algiers the distinction of being a favourite haunt of those seawolves the Turkish and Arab pirates of the Mediterranean, and at that time the house now occupied by the Vice-Consul of England was the home of the most notorious of the pirate chiefs. As I walked through the lofty, comfortable rooms, I could not help wondering whether any hapless fellow-countryman of mine had found himself here in servitude to his barbarous captor; and even as I thought of English captives in Susa, I found myself face to face with one. She was a willing captive, it is true; for she was the mother of Mr. Gallia. A fine-looking Englishwoman, with pleasant features and a kindly smile, she was, I need hardly say, a most welcome apparition in such a place. More than forty years before she had left her native town of Dover, in order to come to Africa, and she had never since seen England. There were no railways in her part of the country when she quitted it; for more than two-score years Time had been doing its work, and a thousand great changes had been wrought in the condition of English society. But she knew nothing of them. As the wife of an Italian gentleman, as the mother of a numerous family, she had lived her placid, uneventful life in this dull city, hardly venturing to quit the shelter of her own home, whilst the busy world outside was going on its own way. Mrs. Gallia had still a good command of the English language, and seemed not a little pleased to meet with one of her fellow-countrymen, the first whom she had seen for many months. After breakfast I inspected some of the chief objects of interest in the house. Among these were some of the magnificent carpets of Kairwan, the work of the chief ladies of that holy city. Still more interesting, however, was the large collection of arms which Mr. Gallia has formed. This collection is, I believe, unique in north Africa, and is well worth a detailed description. All manner of Moorish, Arab, and Negro weapons are represented here, as well as shields and headpieces. But perhaps the most interesting of all the specimens in the collection are a sword found at Gabes, which there is every reason to believe was a relic of the Crusades, and a remarkable Arab rifle with revolving barrels! Truly, there is nothing new under the sun. Here in Susa, in the old house of a Turkish pirate, I found a rusty time-worn weapon, certainly more than a hundred years old, in which the idea of that modern invention the revolver, was not only distinctly foreshadowed, but carried out in almost all its details.

And now the time came for me to say good-bye to Susa. I first made an expedition to the bazaar in order to purchase, if possible, a Kairwan carpet; but none were to be had. The war had for the moment put an end to the manufacture, or at least to the sale, of these carpets. Then I went down through the narrow, muddy streets, to the beach. The sky was gloriously blue; a strong wind was blowing, which tempered the heat of the sun; but still the warmth was quite as great as that of an English July, and one found it difficult to realize the fact that this was a November day. I had decided to return to Tunis with Afrigan by the Ville de Naples. It was disappointing, and even humiliating, to go back without having seen Kairwan; but there was no help for it. Susa, I must say, I was unreservedly glad to leave. Beautiful as is the situation in which it stands, and fair as is its outward appearance, it is, upon the whole, the most unpleasant place of temporary residence in which I ever found myself stranded.

The water in the bay was very rough, and when I stepped on board the little boat that was to take me to the ship which lay at the distance of half a mile from the shore, I told the men to get me on board as quickly as possible. They asked if they might wait for two gentlemen who were going to another vessel, and, somewhat reluctantly, I consented. What was my surprise and pleasure to find that these gentlemen were the purser and the surgeon of the Charles Quint, the “Corsican brothers” of my journey from Marseilles to Tunis. They came smartly along the wharf, arm-in-arm as usual, and with that look of sobriety, not to say solemnity, on their young faces which contrasted so curiously with their years. I think their pleasure at our meeting equalled my own. We shook hands warmly, and exchanged notes about Susa, of which we had formed precisely similar opinions. A very nervous twenty minutes was that which followed, as our little boat shipped sea after sea, and danced about in the most eccentric fashion on the top of the waves. At last, however, we reached the Ville de Naples, the side of which rose like a vast wall from the sea. I made a desperate jump and landed on the ladder, waved my adieux to my friends of the Charles Quint, and climbing to the deck, congratulated myself upon the fact that this splendid ship was far too huge in its dimensions to be disturbed by any sea she would be likely to encounter in the Mediterranean.

Alas! for my inexperience. I was now about to encounter the worst storm I had ever met with in any part of the world. The sole passengers on board besides myself were Afrigan and a young German, who was the agent of a Marseilles wine and sardine firm. The latter shared the saloon with me. About noon we sailed; the wind freshened immediately afterwards, and we soon found ourselves in the midst of a gale, whilst the motion of the vessel was so great that it became almost impossible to keep one’s feet. I had looked forward eagerly to the dinner-hour, remembering the privations of Susa. When it came I was surprised to find myself the only person at the table. Neither my fellow-passenger nor the ship’s officers appeared upon the scene; and the crash of the crockery on the table almost drowned the roar of the tempest outside. But we are creatures of habit. I sat in my comfortable arm-chair and enjoyed the good things spread before me without thinking of the storm, or of the somewhat white faces of the stewards who waited upon me. The sense of having escaped from the miseries of the hotel of Susa seemed to drown all thought upon other subjects.

It was whilst I was thus enjoying myself that the captain appeared, with a somewhat perturbed face, to inform me that he did not like the look of things; that the gale was increasing, and that the Ville de Naples being without cargo was not easily manageable. He had determined, therefore, to run into Kalybia Bay for shelter, provided he could obtain the assent of the passengers to his doing so. Now, I wished particularly to get back to Tunis as speedily as possible, in order that I might catch a boat that I knew was to start on the following day for Malta. Moreover I did not believe in the danger of which the captain spoke. No English captain, I thought, would have spoken of running for shelter under the circumstances. However, as any man who has travelled much must be aware, there is one golden rule from which the wise traveller never departs. That is, to leave the captains of ships and the drivers of carriages to manage their own business. So with unfeigned reluctance I expressed my assent to his proposal, and an hour later we found ourselves at anchor in smooth water under the lee of Kalybia Point. There were no fewer than five other vessels riding at anchor here, sheltering from the gale. One of these was a man-of-war. How strange it was, as I retired to rest, to look from my port at the lights of these vessels, which were so near to us, and yet of which I knew so little! We had all found shelter for a night in this little bay; all having run from a common danger. To-morrow we should be speeding each on his own path, and every trace of our meeting would have vanished.

Amid a very heavy gale from the south-east we started again for Tunis, about six o’clock in the morning. No sooner had we left the shelter of the bay than we found ourselves in the midst of a tremendous sea. Huge green waves, topped with foam, were sweeping down upon us with a force and might that was almost majestic; and the great ship rolled and tossed upon the troubled waters as if she had been no bigger or heavier than a cork. We came round Cape Bon at the very height of the storm, and a grander sight than that which was then presented to me I never beheld. I had been lashed upon the hurricane deck for safety, and as I sat there, at times almost losing my breath when the ship dipped suddenly, and at other times looking up in wonder upon the huge mass of the hull which seemed to be reared above my head as it mounted the waves, I felt like one who was looking on at the most glorious and exciting of contests. How our noble ship fought with those angry seas; and how resolute they seemed to be in their determination to overcome her! One wave after another came on in endless succession. There seemed no chance for the vessel; yet she met each successive foe with dauntless breast. The shriek of the wind through the rigging drowned all other sounds. The din was indeed appalling. The great rocky buttresses of Cape Bon, which I had seen a year ago bathed in summer sunshine, stood out as bulwarks against the raging sea, which broke upon every point in columns of spray that rose hundreds of feet in height. The motion of the ship, the splendour of the scene around me, the glorious freshness of the battling winds which buffeted my cheeks and almost tore my coat from my back, filled me with a strange sense of exultation. I could have shouted aloud with delight, as we rode royally over the billows, and resisted the tremendous pressure of the tempest, which strove furiously to drive us to our doom upon Cape Bon. Thoughts coursed through my mind even more quickly than the spray flew through the air around me, and my brain was quickened, my blood warmed, in a way of which I had known nothing for months. But all the time one knew how near we were to death. A break-down of any kind in the engine-room, nay, a momentary error on the bridge, would have been fatal to every soul on board.

Whilst I thus revelled in the “violent delights” of the storm, heedless of the “violent ends” to which they might be the precursors, poor Afrigan and my other fellow-traveller were in truly doleful state. There must be something demoralizing about sea-sickness, or rather about the freedom from it. How otherwise can one account for the fact that even the most amiable of men, if he were to find himself exempt from that malady whilst everybody else around him suffered from it, would feel puffed up with a sense of his own superiority, as though, forsooth, it was a matter of personal credit to himself that his stomach happened to be rather more like that of an ostrich than the stomachs of his fellow-passengers? Breakfast was not served until we had left Cape Bon far behind us and were running into the Gulf of Tunis. My forlorn fellow-passenger, the captain, first and second lieutenants, purser, and doctor came to the table when the meal began; but long before it was finished I and the first lieutenant found ourselves in sole possession of the board. The extraordinary motion of the ship had driven everybody else, including even the captain, away. My companion and I were busily discussing the beauties of Glasgow, when at last the ship was brought to anchor off Goletta. He was the only man I ever met with who declared that Glasgow was infinitely to be preferred as a place of residence to London! And he was no Glaswegian, but a sunburnt native of Marseilles.

CHAPTER XI.

LAST DAYS AT TUNIS.

A retrospect — The captain of the Aristides — A curious meeting — Tunis again — Farewell visits — Rich shopkeepers — A last tussle with Mohamed — A real Arab gentleman — The Jewellers’ Bazaar — A visit to the Jewish quarter — An Arabian Night’s Entertainment — Dining, drinking, dancing.

Thursday, November 3rd.—My last day on the shores of Africa has arrived; but before I say “good-bye” to my faithful Afrigan, to B——— and P———, and Mr. Reade, and to the wonderful streets of Tunis, I must indulge in a retrospect, and put together some notes from those pages of my journal which I have been compelled to skip in the course of this narrative. First of all, let me tell how, when the Ville de Naples cast anchor in the gulf yesterday, I was reassured by seeing the Italian steamer for Malta still lying at her moorings. The weather was far too rough to permit of her sailing; the consequence of this is that I shall, after all, be able to reach Malta before the close of this week. Even in the gulf, and within half a mile of the little breakwater of Goletta, the sea was so high that the Falcon gunboat was rolling in a fashion the mere sight of which might have made any squeamish spectator on shore feel sick. Six sturdy Arabs rowed me ashore from the Ville de Naples—a long and somewhat dangerous operation, for which, despite the remonstrances of the economical Afrigan, I felt compelled to pay double the usual fee.

The rain of the past night had converted the main street of Goletta into a swamp; but how gay and delightful the whole place looked after the wretchedness of Susa! Strange indeed is the extent to which our sense of comfort is relative merely. When I sat down under the trees in front of the wretched Italian café of Goletta, I felt almost as much pleased as though I had found myself in the Grand Café at Paris. There were French officers all round me, smoking, gossiping, drinking coffee, and reading the latest number of Figaro, which was being hawked about by a bright little Jew. Presently up came my old friend the captain of the Aristides, the English steamer which was wrecked off Bizerta two days before I first landed in Tunis. He has been kept here ever since, but with British impassiveness seems quite at home at Goletta, and well able to rub along comfortably, in spite of the fact that he speaks no word of any language save his own. We hob-nobbed together over our coffee, and the captain being, like all men in his line of life, a little of a doctor, began to prescribe for Afrigan. He, poor fellow, was in dismal plight. The gale had completed the work which the mosquitoes had begun, and I do not think that anybody could have recognized in this forlorn wreck the gay and lively Afrigan of a week before. But not a word of murmuring escaped his lips. His prevailing feeling seemed to be one of profound thankfulness at having survived the storm and reached land in safety. I expressed my regret for having induced him to go with me to Susa, seeing he had suffered so much from the journey. “Well, sir, you see, it is a good thing I did go. I always have said that I am the best sailor in Tunis, and that nothing would make me ill; but I know now that I did tell a lie when I said so.” And Afrigan shook his melancholy head, and declining to partake of any refreshment on the plea that all Goletta seemed to his dizzy brain to be dancing around, relapsed into silence and a cigarette.

For the first and only time during our acquaintance I was compelled to look after my baggage myself. A sturdy Arab porter was called, and hoisting my portmanteau and a long white waterproof coat upon his shoulders, he set off for the station. Presently, in a moment of carelessness, he let the portmanteau fall into the mud, thus making necessary the slight application of my stick to his back. As we were settling this little difficulty, I heard the voice of an unmistakable Englishman shouting “Bravo! bravo!” and looked round. The face of the speaker was strange to me, but I saw at once that he was a fellow-countryman. “An Englishman, I see,” I remarked casually. “Yes, sir; and you are Mr. Reid, I suppose. I knew it must be you as soon as I saw that English waterproof, for Mr. B——— told me of your being in the Regency. May I ask, sir, if that waterproof coat came from Leeds?” “Certainly,” I answered, feeling rather surprised at the question; “it came from Leeds, and so did I. But what do you know about Leeds?” “Why, I was born there, sir.” And then my newly found friend explained all about himself, and I discovered that his paternal home was within two hundred yards of my own house in a suburb of Leeds. The world is small, indeed; is it not? I have had so many experiences of the fact that I have almost ceased to be surprised at incidents of this kind; but I confess it seemed more than ordinarily strange thus to meet on the shores of North Africa a man to whom the sound of the Headingley Church bells was as familiar as it is to myself. It turned out that he was the locomotive superintendent on the line between Goletta and Tunis, and that he lived in Goletta with his wife and her mother.

Once more I found myself walking along the Marina of Tunis, and entering the Grand Hotel. Little as I liked the place, it almost seemed as though I were getting home again when I entered the familiar doorway and made my bow to Madame. Then I posted off to see B———, who started up in surprise when he saw me, believing that I must have got inside Kairwan by this time. A farewell visit to Mr. and Mrs. Reade, who have now come up to their house in Tunis for the winter, was the next duty I had to discharge. I found a pleasant, youthful-looking man taking afternoon tea with them in the closed verandah of the Consulate, through the Venetian blinds of which you may catch a glimpse of the busy scene in the square below. This gentleman proved to be Captain Selby of the Falcon, and we chatted for some time together, chiefly about the prospects of sport for the captain during the coming winter. He hopes to get some partridge-shooting in Albania, and looks forward to it as a delightful relief to the monotony of sea-life. Then Mr. Reade gave us an account of how he visited Kairwan some thirty years ago, and of the tremendous excitement of the populace when he went to the baths, from which the natives were rigorously excluded on the occasion of his visit. And then I said “good-bye.” May the genial Consul-General and his gracious wife long continue to prosper! So long as England is represented at Tunis by Mr. Reade, the best traditions not only of English hospitality but of English diplomacy are certain to be maintained. One other task still remained to be performed before I could join B——— at a farewell dinner. So once more I toiled up the narrow, winding street which leads to the Bazaar, passing all the well-known shops, where the same well-known figures, clad in their brilliant garments, were seated cross-legged on the little divans, amid the piles of candles, herbs, slippers, silk stuffs, and Manchester goods. Many of these shops it is notorious are not what they seem to be. Their owners have no wish to sell. A good many of them, indeed, could afford to buy up the richest of the visitors from abroad who occasionally come to pester them with their custom. They have simply opened these shops in the Bazaar in order to divert the attention of the Bey’s officials from their accumulated wealth. If they were to give up the pretence of business everybody would know that they had made money, and presently, under one pretext or another, a means of making them disgorge part of their wealth would be found. But as it is, so long as they sit here, in one of the quaint little caverns which are called shops in the Bazaar, they manage to go free from all except the collective extortion to which the whole community is at times compelled to submit. Moreover, the Bazaar furnishes the only source of amusement open to the Tunisian. It is here that he learns all the gossip of the day, and perhaps takes his share in inventing it. He knows nothing of the kind of hospitality which is familiar to us in England. The house of his dearest friend is closed against him, unless it be upon the occasion of a wedding or a funeral; but the Bazaar is his club, his exchange, his coffee-house, his news-rooms, and the chief pleasure of life would be gone if he were no longer permitted to frequent it. I picked my way over the broken pavement of the narrow darkened alleys of the Bazaar until I came to Mohamed’s. He was not in his shop; but his assistant at once ran to fetch him, whilst the inevitable cup of fragrant coffee was served for my benefit. Mohamed seemed much pleased at my return, but his face fell when I told him that I was about to leave for good. This fact, however, did not interfere with a very smart tussle between us over the price of a silk jebba—the principal garment worn by the town Arabs—which I was anxious to possess. I had sent Afrigan home because of his melancholy plight, so I was compelled to rely exclusively upon myself in conducting this bargain. I had, however, a very simple and efficient method of handling Mohamed. I allowed him to ask all manner of enormous sums for the jebba, simply contenting myself with repeating in a monotonous voice “Thirty francs”—that being just ten francs less than the sum I meant to pay.

Never was Mohamed more eloquent than upon this occasion. He had summoned an old Turk who spoke a few words of French to his aid, and this worthy expatiated as well as he could upon the beauties of the particular jebba upon which I had fixed my attention; its colour, its texture, its workmanship were all perfect, and it was worth at the very least 100 francs. When I thought that a sufficient amount of time had been spent in this way I rose, and shaking my head blandly, held out my hand to Mohamed saying as I did so, “Forty francs, and not a caroub more.” The good merchant seized my hand with the utmost cordiality, and the bargain was struck in an instant. Then he made a desperate attempt to induce me to buy some carpets, some of the curious inlaid Moorish tables, and similar articles, of which he possessed a large quantity. Finding, however, that I had now completed my transactions with him, and that no more money was to be made out of me, his whole demeanour changed. But it changed not in the way familiar to me in Constantinople, in Vienna, in Paris, aye and even in civilized London, where the cringing subserviency of the vendor too often turns to rank insolence when he discovers that he has extracted the last sou from the pocket of his customer. This Arab shopkeeper of the Bazaar of Tunis, despite those characteristic failings of which I have spoken, is a noble-minded gentleman; and as soon as he discovered that I had ceased to be his customer, he began to treat me as a guest.

More coffee was brought, cigarettes were lighted, and by the aid of the disreputable old Turk we struck up a friendly conversation, in which a great deal was said about Tunis, about England, and about the French. Mohamed is an Anglomaniac. He believes that the banner of St. George will yet bring freedom to the Arabs of Northern Africa, and he prays morning and evening for the hour when the deliverance of his country shall be effected by means of English courage. “Tell them when you cross the seas, illustrious Englishman, that the Arabs are waiting for your countrymen, and will welcome them with all their hearts; tell them that all that we have is theirs, and that we love them and long for them, because we know we can trust them to do us justice!” One could not look at that handsome, grave, beautiful face, which the picturesque turban set off to such advantage, without feeling that this merchant of the Bazaar was a true aristocrat, and that the race which could boast of such men could not be regarded as altogether effete. Then Mohamed when the time came for me to leave him, begged that I would stay yet a little longer; and presently he produced from some dark recess a small Tunisian purse in scarlet leather, richly embroidered with silver, and asked me to accept the trifle in remembrance of the man whom I had honoured with my patronage. So finally we shook hands once again, and “I went on my way and saw him no more.”

I still had one additional experience to encounter in the Bazaar, however, before I finally quitted it. I was anxious to obtain some of the silver coffee-cup holders which are used by the wealthy Tunisians, and for this purpose I had to visit the jewellers’ quarter. My readers will accuse me of exaggeration if I attempt to give them an exact description of this part of the Bazaar. I regretted whilst I was there that I had not provided myself with a measuring-tape, in order to ascertain the precise dimensions of the streets through which I passed, and of the shops and houses I saw. I seemed to have entered a sort of Lilliput Land; where, however, the inhabitants were of normal size, though all their surroundings were extraordinarily narrow and minute. The little unpaved alleys were in no instance more than three feet wide, and at certain places they were little more than half that width, so that two persons found it difficult to pass each other. The houses were of the size of ordinary English pig-sties, and I am afraid I must say that size was not the only matter in which the resemblance was to be found. Under the guidance of an astute Jew, I threaded my way through a labyrinth of these wonderful passages. On all sides of me were the shops where the workers in silver and gold were hammering the precious metals on tiny anvils, or melting them in little charcoal stoves. At last my conductor, stooping low, entered one of these shops, in which two workmen were busy. Passing them with a nod and a murmured word, he led me into a somewhat larger apartment at the back of the shop. I should think it was about seven feet square. Here, in a glass case, were the objects which I wanted. I bid him a price, but found that my rude method of bargaining was not effectual here. There is a fixed price for the precious metals; and even these delicate silver cups are sold by weight. I bought two of them for a sum which, if not literally “an old song,” was yet hardly more in the figurative sense.

This visit to the Jewellers’ Bazaar, where the business is chiefly carried on by Jews, reminds me of one of the most interesting incidents of my stay in Tunis—the visit I paid in the company of Mr. Levy to the Jews’ quarter of the city. It was one Saturday afternoon when Mr. Levy invited me to accompany him on a walk through the wonderful maze of narrow streets in which the Jews live. Saturday had, of course, been selected because it is the day on which the Jews are in the habit of showing themselves most freely, and also the day upon which the women put on their most gorgeous dresses. During the other days of the week the short silk chemise or jacket and cotton tights form the principal articles of their attire. On the Sabbath, however, instead of the cotton tights being worn, their shapely limbs are encased in glittering breeches, richly adorned with gold and silver embroidery; the silk jackets are of the gayest colours, and a quaint conical cap is worn on the back of the head—something after the style of the head-dress of Englishwomen in the days of the Plantagenets. The young men, too, wear on Saturday their newest and smartest burnouses, white, blue, and a pale olive green being their favourite colours. It is easy to conceive that a crowd of men and women thus attired wear a strange appearance in the eyes of the Europeans. Not a black coat or an ordinary bonnet is to be seen in such a crowd, but everywhere the most brilliant hues and the most graceful forms of drapery are mingled in a confused mass, the component parts of which it is almost impossible for the eye to distinguish. It was a wonderful network of narrow streets through which Mr. Levy led me. Few were more than five feet wide, many of them being still narrower; and everywhere the architecture showed that the Jew’s house in Tunis is of necessity his fortress also. Every window was heavily barred, the grating generally being of the curious curved shape which is one of the distinguishing features of street scenery in the Regency. The doors of stout oak were studded with heavy iron bolts, and secured by ponderous locks and bars. As in other parts of Tunis, the streets often run under a kind of tunnel, the houses being built over them for a considerable distance. In these places it was necessary to tread very carefully, for the thoroughfare was wrapped in darkness, and the pavement was always atrociously bad.

On this particular Sabbath all the doors of the houses seemed to be thrown open, and through them one caught glimpses of cool airy courtyards, where the children were playing, and the women in their quaint and—according to European notions—indecent attire, were gossiping together; the men of each particular family being squatted apart, solemnly smoking, or wagging their beards in grave conversation. Hundreds of young men and women—the faces of both sexes being strikingly beautiful—were promenading up and down the narrow winding lanes, but there was no love-making visible, and no intermingling of the sexes such as we are accustomed to in Europe. It is not the fashion here for a pair of lovers, even of the humblest class, to “walk out” together. Yet, even in Tunis, and in this dark and crowded ghetto, love asserts its rights, and women are true to their inborn nature. From a hundred grated windows bright black eyes flashed down upon me as I walked through the gloomy labyrinth of filthy lanes, and many faces dusky of hue yet beautiful of feature were to be seen; and once, as I passed one of the jealously barred windows, I noticed that the lattice was open, and I heard a musical “Bon soir! monsieur!” fall upon my ears like a benediction.

It was under Mr. Levy’s guidance that on one evening during my stay in Tunis I had the pleasure of enjoying an experience that I may well call unique—a real Arabian Night’s Entertainment. I had met at the house of Mr. Reade a Tunisian gentleman of high family and enormous wealth, General Ben Ayad by name. This gentleman is justly regarded as being the finest specimen of the Moorish aristocracy now living in Tunis. Strange to say, he is an English subject by birth; his grandfather having some fifty years ago got himself enrolled as a subject of the King of England in order the better to secure his property from the rapacity of the French, who, even at that time, had begun to cast covetous eyes upon Tunis. The possessor not only of splendid estates in the country, but of many fine palaces in and about Tunis, General Ben Ayad takes pleasure in showing hospitality to all English visitors to the Regency. He made many apologies to me for being unable to offer me any sport, explaining that the disturbed state of the country prevented his visiting his sporting estates. Learning, however, that I had not seen one of the characteristic native dances, he kindly sent me an invitation to an entertainment at his house, which was got up entirely in my honour. Mr. Levy acted as my conductor, and I was accompanied by two of my English friends resident in the Regency. The hour fixed for our arrival was half-past seven in the evening, and shortly before that time we started from the hotel. A walk of twenty minutes through the most wonderful network of narrow lanes with blank, whitewashed walls on either side, here and there diversified by a door opening into a dismal-looking vaulted apartment, or a long, low archway spanning the path, brought us at last to a little courtyard surrounded by buildings apparently of the utmost squalor. All was dark and silent, and not a creature was to be met with. Levy pushed open a door, and cautiously sounding the pavement with his iron-shod staff, led the way up a large staircase with oaken balustrade, marble steps, and tiled walls. Still no one appeared. A solitary oil-lamp cast a flickering light over the staircase, but we seemed to have entered a deserted house.

Suddenly a door was thrown open, and, as if by magic, the scene changed. We saw before us a vast and brilliantly lighted apartment, the extreme length of which could not have been less than sixty feet, nor its breadth less than forty. Brilliantly illuminated both by gas jets and countless candles, its richly tiled walls and gaily painted ceiling fairly glittered with light. It was furnished with huge looking-glasses, set in swinging frames like those used by ladies in their dressing-rooms, and wardrobes and cabinets of large size. The woodwork of all these was of the most brilliant vermilion red, lavishly picked out with gold, and the general effect of this barbaric splendour was so grand that I was filled with surprise as I found myself in this noble hall, and felt fairly dazzled by the magnificence of the scene. Couches and settees in glowing colours, besides many chairs, small tables, &c., were scattered about the floor of the apartment, and on the walls were hung many fine old engravings, including, strange to say, a portrait of the late Pope—a rather curious object to find in the house of a Mahometan. Ben Ayad, his eldest son, and several relatives and domestics, were awaiting us in this apartment, and the tall and stately Arab general gave me the warmest of welcomes. He apologized at the same time for not being able to entertain me properly. His household, it seemed, was still at his country mansion at Sidi bou Said, and in consequence he could only invite me to sup with him en garçon. With this explanation he pointed smilingly to a great round table, on which was laid out a repast that promised well for the satisfaction of our creature comforts. Then he led me into a second drawing-room, an apartment still more beautiful than the first.

This room was forty feet square. On all sides of it were doors and windows with rich hangings; splendid couches and chairs in crimson and gold were placed round it, except on one side, where there was an enormous settee, at least twenty-five feet in length. On marble console tables stood valuable vases of Sèvres, and two beautiful ormolu clocks, the gift of Louis Philippe to Ben Ayad’s grandfather. But the finest feature of this room was the lovely arabesque ceiling—one of the most perfect specimens of Moorish decoration I ever saw. How it would have gladdened the heart of Owen Jones! An enormous crystal chandelier was pendant from this ceiling, but it was not used, the room being lighted by gas and oil lamps. I confess that for a time I was completely bewildered by the sudden change from the squalor and darkness of the streets outside to the brilliant interior in which I now found myself.

After I had talked a little time with Ben Ayed, and had partaken of coffee, served in beautiful silver holders by servants in graceful Arab dress, the musicians and dancers who were to entertain us entered. These were Jews and Jewesses—in their national costume. They squatted down on cushions arranged on the floor, and after being supplied with refreshments presently began to play. Their instruments were a violin, a mandolin, a tambourine, and a tabouka, or native drum, the barrel of which is made of earthenware, and which is struck with the points of the fingers. They played a long, plaintive Arab melody, quaint and even weird, and strikingly unlike anything I have heard before, except in Turkey and from the gipsies in Roumania. This music, which was a sort of prelude to the entertainment, having ceased, we went to dinner. It was a really sumptuous repast, nearly all the dishes, however, being Arab. We began with delicious couscousoo; then came, as a relish, potarga, the dried roe of the red mullet. This delicacy, which is made at Bizerta, bears some resemblance to caviare, though without the oiliness of that article. Olives, radishes, &c., were also eaten with this course. Next another Arab dish was served, which, however, was not quite so palatable—it consisted of hot and rather greasy fritters, enclosing meat and eggs; cold chicken served with a kind of egg paste, very light and dainty; excellent roast mutton; foie gras en aspic, and a most wonderful assortment of pastry and sweets completed this part of the repast. I ought to say that the sweets and pastry were of Arab not Italian cookery, and were most deliciously flavoured with pistachio. Melons, pomegranates, and other exquisite fruits were served after the meal, which was accompanied by capital Bordeaux, very fine Malaga, and excellent champagne, ice being plentifully supplied with the wine. We all drank to each other, to the prosperity of Tunis, &c., and many very polite speeches were made by the host and the rest of us. Returning to the drawing-room at the close of this meal, we listened to a song given by all the musicians and dancers. No words can convey any idea of the peculiar melody, or rather, to my uncultivated ears, want of melody, which characterized this production. It was melancholy in the extreme,—a long wail, accompanied by sudden bursts of discord. It was, however, said to be the favourite love-song of Tunis.

The youngest and best-looking of the dancers having left the room for a few minutes, reappeared in Greek costume. She clapped her hands loudly to keep time to the music and began to dance, the figure bearing some resemblance to the Highland Fling, the motions being grotesque rather than graceful. Sometimes she hopped round the room on one leg, sometimes she jumped like a frog; at times she bounded from the floor, waving gay silken scarfs above her head. Then the peculiar part of the dance began—and here I must stay my pen. Though there was nothing coarse in the performance, the woman herself being decently clad, no one could mistake the indelicacy of the motif. The long dance at an end, coffee, cigars, and liqueurs were served to us by the retinue of servants. Ben Ayad had sent to procure some of the best Arab dancers to add to our amusement; but his retainers had returned unsuccessful. They had procured the women, it appeared; but when it was found that they were to be asked to dance before a Christian, their neighbours rose in a mass, stoned the unfortunate domestics, and rescued the women! It was not until long after midnight that I left the hospitable roof of my Arab friend, five of his servants escorting me through the streets with lanterns and arms to the door of my hotel.

CHAPTER XII.

GOOD-BYE TO GOLETTA.

An Arab holiday — A state reception — A last look at the Bab el Bahr — The heir apparent — An English sailor’s courage — Italian greed — The Sicilia — Sea-sick Arabs.

Thursday, November 3rd.—This last morning of my stay in Tunis broke in cloudless splendour. The weather, which has been so unsettled for some days, seems suddenly to have improved, and we appear to be entering upon another summer. The heat is intense; and as I laboured in the courtyard of the hotel at the troublesome task of marking the various boxes containing my purchases, the perspiration literally streamed off my face, and again and again I had to sit down exhausted. At half-past nine I sent off Afrigan to Goletta with the whole of my impedimenta, which he is to see safely on board the Sicilia, the Rubattino boat in which I go to Malta. Then I went out for a last walk in Tunis. To-day is one of the great festivals of the Arabs—the Feast of the Bairam. Hitherto the eve of the feast has always been marked by a fair held on a vacant space of ground within the walls, close to the Kasbah. I went up to this place yesterday evening in order to see this festivity, but found to my regret that the fair is not being held this year—another token of the way in which the natives regard the French occupation and the “protection” of M. Roustan. This morning, however, there were evident signs that the day was a holiday. All the Arabs were dressed in their smartest attire, and those of them who possess the Order of the Bey wore it proudly. Bands of music, the strains they poured forth being of the most unmelodious character, were passing through the streets, and a score of fine carriages dashed past the hotel on the way to the Bardo, where the Bey to-day holds a state reception.

I have, by the way, lost a chance of making the acquaintance of this high and mighty potentate. Mr. Reade kindly asked me to accompany him to the Palace, in order that he might present me to his Highness. But I subsequently learned that a dress coat was de rigueur on such occasions: and alas! when I packed my portmanteaus before leaving home I tossed out of them the dress suit which they originally contained, not thinking that I should require it during my stay in Africa. The Consul-General thought that the Bey might stretch a point in my favour, in consideration of my being merely a passing tourist. But his Highness is at this moment in sore trouble and humiliation, and it would have been improper under the circumstances to present oneself in a manner which might be construed into a want of respect for the fallen potentate. So I lost the opportunity of making the acquaintance of the ruler of this curious land. If I could not see the Bey this morning, however, there was nothing to prevent my seeing his people. This Feast of the Bairam is the nearest approach to our English Christmas which the Arabs know. It is a festival of friendship and goodwill. Accordingly, every Arab who meets an acquaintance in the streets this morning stops and gives him a kiss of brotherly love. It was curious indeed to see these solemn, bearded old gentlemen engaged in this operation. Not a word was spoken either by the kisser or the kissed: but hands were touched, and the lips of the one pressed to the cheek of the other. I noticed, however, that where there was a great social distance between the two, as in the case of my friend General Ben Ayad and one of the ordinary Moors of the town, it was only the rich man’s hand, and not his cheek, that was kissed. These good Tunisians are not the only people in the world, however, who keep up forms and ceremonies long after the life has gone out of them.

For the last time I took my stand on the steps of the Grand Hotel, and surveyed that wonderful panorama which is for ever being displayed in the Marina. Over the way was the coffee-house of the colonnade where, under the shade of the arches, I have drunk so many glasses of lemonade and vermouth. It was crowded to-day with the usual throng of French officers—all of them wearing full uniform in honour of the Bairam—and special correspondents for the Paris Press, each fingering the red rosette in his button-hole with that air of intense satisfaction which only a decorated Frenchman can assume. To my right, beyond the palm-trees in the little garden, rose the fine Moorish gateway which gives admission to the square of the Consulate. To-day, as on all days, it appeared the centre of the life of Tunis. A hundred vendors of cakes, sweetmeats, fruits, matches, trinkets, were pushing hither and thither, waving their feather brushes to drive away the clouds of flies, and filling the air with a clamour which reminded one of Whitechapel on a Saturday evening. The drivers of mules and camels were raising hoarse cries of warning as the animals in their charge unceremoniously pushed their way through the throng: squatting at the feet of the pillars of the gateway were hideous figures veiled in black yashmaks. They might be the fairest of virgins, or the ugliest and vilest of crones; it was all one to the spectator who saw them, sitting in patience, beside the loaves of bread which it is their business to sell. Half-a-dozen of the city guards passed under the gate in Indian file, their rusty muskets carried at all possible angles; their bared feet and ragged raiment proving to what straits the national exchequer has been reduced. Then a couple of French gens-d’armes emerged from the throng, neat, clean and well dressed, with their hands on the butts of their revolvers. The smiling ruddy face of my friend B———, who seems tall of stature even in this land peopled by the sons of Anak, showed itself above the white and blue turbans, as he strode towards me, waving aloft the latest message from Kairwan, and followed by a knot of children, Jews and Arabs, all alike bent upon extracting a caroub from his pocket. Turning from this scene of bustle and excitement, I saw the broad street immediately in front of the hotel filled by troops of Moors of the better class, patrolling up and down in their brilliant robes, deeply engaged in conversation with each other; and presently an open landau dashed past, and I recognized the somewhat insignificant features and figure of M. Roustan, the Mephistopheles of Tunis, who was returning from his formal visit to the Bardo. And over all this brilliant varied scene there was the intensely blue and cloudless sky of Africa. It was hard to tear oneself away from the spot. As I said at the outset of my narrative, the eye at least may always enjoy a perpetual feast in Tunis. My ideas of the picturesque were not small before I came here; and I had seen something of the East and of Eastern life before ever I set foot on African soil. But what I have seen in Tunis has given me altogether new ideas of the really picturesque. How I have longed for the faculty of the artist, so that I might convey some faint idea to those at a distance of the glories and wonders of this place—the glories and wonders of the sky, of the vegetation, of the hills, of the cities, of the people. Poor indeed are words, even at the best, to convey any real idea of natural scenery or of unfamiliar forms; and I believe that even the author of the “Princess of Thule” would find himself baffled in the attempt to bring home to readers in England that infinite variety of colour and shape, that endless succession of picturesque groups and still more picturesque interiors by which the eye is greeted on every side in Tunis. If I could but bring before the mind’s eye of my reader, I will not say the view from the Grand Hotel of which I have been speaking, but a correct and vivid idea of the inside of a single Arab coffee-shop, I should feel that I had not written altogether in vain.

But the moment of departure had arrived, and B——— reminded me that even in Africa trains started with tolerable punctuality. So I said good-bye to the waiters of the Grand Hotel, and presently found myself in the train bound for Goletta. There was in the train with me the eldest nephew of the Bey, and the heir-expectant to his throne. As he stood on the little gangway outside the carriage in the Tunis station, most of the Arabs as they passed him stopped to kiss his hand or the skirt of his frock-coat. He is a rather good-looking young man, with a face not quite so sensual as those of most of the Moors of the upper classes are. There was, however, no sign of strength of will or vigour in his countenance, nor anything to make one hope that under his sway Tunis would be happier than it has been under the rule of his uncle. In a third-class carriage adjoining that in which the young Prince rode, I recognized the business man of the unlucky Taib Bey. When he saw me he came out upon the gangway, and as the train was whirled onwards towards Goletta he shouted to me in French an energetic appeal on behalf of his master, “An honest man, monsieur! an intelligent man! The only man who can save Tunis! Tell the English all that, I beg of you.” If all Taib’s servants are as faithful and zealous as this Arab is, he is not after all so unlucky as he might seem to be.

There was yet another acquaintance of mine in the train. This was once more the Captain of the Aristides. He had a wonderful tale to tell of the pluck of the third mate of that unfortunate vessel. This man, whose name, I am sorry to say, I cannot give, was sent by sea to Bizerta last week in order to look after the wreck. Having fulfilled his duty there, he was anxious to return to Goletta as quickly as possible, but found that no steamer would call off the port for several days. Thereupon, with the foolhardy valour of an English tar, he set off by land! Seeing that the whole country in that direction is swarming with insurgent Arabs, and that hitherto they have murdered without remorse every single Christian who has fallen into their hands, the risks of such a journey can be well understood. Nevertheless the man, who was accompanied by a native guide, got through in safety. Perhaps this was due in part to the fact that the poor fellow had no money in his possession, as, like the rest of the crew of the Aristides, he is living at present on the somewhat meagre allowance provided for “distressed British seamen” by the Vice-Consul. It appears that he was stopped six times between Bizerta and Tunis by parties of armed Arabs. On each occasion the first order given to him was to turn out his pockets. It may be imagined how much the pockets contained after the last of these operations! Then when the robbers had satisfied themselves that there was nothing to be got from their victim, they invariably put one question to his guide—“Is he a Frenchman?” The answer was, of course, in the negative. What the poor creature’s fate would have been if it had been otherwise, could be plainly guessed by himself, as the Arabs drew their long broad-bladed swords each time that they made this inquiry, and were evidently prepared to cut him into pieces without delay if he proved to be a fellow-countryman of M. Roustan. Even as it was, and when it had been made known that he was an Englishman, there were long consultations and sometimes warm disputes before he was allowed to pass. Not many men living have enjoyed (!) such a journey as that was; but the hero of the adventure looked perfectly unconcerned when I saw him at Goletta, and was evidently quite unconscious of the fact that he had performed an extraordinary feat. His chief subject of conversation was, “the greediness of them ’ere h’Arabs, sir. Why bless you, they didn’t leave me as much as a piece of baccy after they’d turned me over the first time.”

It was after reaching Goletta that I discovered that there is even greater greed than that of the Arabs. I had taken my passage to Malta by the Rubattino boat Sicilia on the previous day, and for the short trip of twenty-one hours had paid the respectable sum of forty-five francs. I now learned to my disgust that even this exorbitant fare does not include food, which must be paid for extra! With not a little regret I stepped off the shore at Goletta, and found myself once more on board one of the broad-beamed port boats. We were a motley company. Steamers were also starting at the same time as the Sicilia for Bone and Marseilles, and for Susa and Tripoli. So we had on board with us an unkempt and not particularly clean Frenchwoman, who was somewhat disconsolately making her way back to her native land, not having found Tunis, so far as she herself was concerned, quite the field of promise that she had been led to believe it was; a smart-looking commercial traveller bound for Marseilles; half a dozen Arabs going down the Gulf of Hammamet laden with merchandise wrapped in filthy carpets; a couple of Maltese bound for their island home, and carrying with them some huge cages filled with canaries; a very venerable-looking Jew, who was creeping back to Sfax to see what was left of his property after the sack of the place by the French; and one or two others. Afrigan seemed to know everybody in the boat, and kept up a lively conversation with all of them, whilst he maintained at the same time a running description of the various personages on board for my benefit.

We first went to the steamer for Susa, and here fully half an hour was spent in a terrific contest between the boatmen on the one hand and the Arabs and Jews on the other as to the amount to be paid for the passage from the shore. Such shrieking, such gestures, such bursts of guttural passion, were surely never heard or seen before outside of Bedlam! The boatmen had followed the defaulting passengers on deck, and were pursuing them all over the steamer, making the air ring with their curses and lamentations. After half an hour of this performance I became impatient, and having won over the two Maltese to my side, I cast loose the rope by which we were fastened to the ladder of the steamer, and proposed that we should row ourselves to the Sicilia. Then indeed there was an exhibition on board the Susa boat! When the ruffianly boatmen, who had treated all our expostulations with contempt, saw that we had mutinied and were going off without them, they were for a moment silent with horror: only for a moment, however; for no sooner had they realized the situation than they raised a yell which would have done credit to the lungs of a band of Indians on the war-path. Running like cats along the deck of the steamer, they climbed into the chains at the bow, and swung themselves dexterously into the boat as it passed. There were six of them, and they were all big fellows, so I thought it prudent not to apply my stick to their shoulders; and satisfied with having compelled them to resume their journey, I willingly gave up my oar to the ringleader, a coal-black negro from the Soudan.

The Sicilia is a wretched little boat of some five or six hundred tons, and my first glance at it showed me how greatly inferior it was to the noble French steamers, in which I had hitherto been sailing. Nobody on board spoke a word of either French or English; and from the captain downwards the officers seemed a slovenly and not over clean set of fellows. They had, however, that English look about them which often distinguishes Italian sailors; and if in their want of politeness they furnished a great contrast to the officers of the Ville de Naples and Charles Quint, they were, at least so far as appearances went, bluff, good-natured men. I said good-bye to Afrigan—a final good-bye this time—with a somewhat heavy heart; for I have travelled far enough in the journey of life to have learned the value of honesty, faithfulness, kindliness, and personal devotion—and all these qualities I had found in this worthy fellow. “Won’t you come as far as Malta with me, Afrigan, just for a change?” The tears had been standing in his eyes for some minutes. He had not been saying much about our separation, but he had been deeply engaged in enlightening the officers of the Sicilia as to the importance of the passenger whom they were now privileged to carry, and had given me a personal character so flattering that I was thankful that none of my friends at home could hear it. It was his last and most anxious wish that I should be comfortable and well cared for, even after his own connexion with me had ceased. Now, however, when I uttered these words, a rueful smile broke over his face. “Dear sir,” he said, “you see, I have a wife, and she—” “Yes, yes, Afrigan; I’ve heard that before. Well, good-bye, and God bless you!” “Good-bye, sir; and if ever you come to Tunis again you will find me waiting for you. There is no gentleman I would serve sooner than yourself.” And then he ran down the ladder, and waving his hand, and shouting his last words of farewell and thanks, he presently faded away into the glowing distance on the sunlit waters.

The afternoon was lovely, and my last look at Tunis and the beautiful gulf was delightful. There were the white houses of Goletta, with the Bey’s curious water-palace, built on piles, standing out boldly from the others. It is here that for years he has led his somewhat lonely life, in the company of his prime favourite Mustapha, the barber’s boy, who by stages of truly Oriental advancement rose, before he was thirty years of age, to the chief position in the Regency. It is here also that he has been living, sad and sick and solitary, since the claws of the French eagle were plunged into the heart of Tunis, and his beloved Mustapha was torn from him and sent into exile. One cannot but feel sorry for this fallen ruler. Great faults, grave vices, he undoubtedly has; but he has always meant well by his country, and has done his best for her, according to his lights. He has been kindly in his judgments, administering justice so far as he could with honesty and straightforwardness, and shrinking from the resort to the death-penalty as much as the Emperor of Germany himself does. Above all, he has been blameless in his conduct towards the French, and yet it is the French by whom he has now been attacked and ruined. All these thoughts passed through my mind as I looked on that plain white building, flooded with the afternoon sunshine, against which the golden waves of the gulf were now gently lapping. It is not always easy to realize the personal tragedies which are involved in the great political movements of the world—the private woes which must ever accompany the development of a State policy. But nobody can have been in Tunis during the last three months without being able to realize all this.

Away to the right of the palace was the barren desolate site of Carthage; and still further to the right was the Arab town of Sidi bou Said, where my friend Ben Ayad has his favourite residence. Its white walls glittered in the sunshine, and its grand situation and imposing appearance almost led one to believe, in spite of all the experience I have acquired recently, that it must be a desirable place of residence. The centre of the picture on which I looked from the deck of the Sicilia was the harbour of Goletta, with the broad sheet of the Lake of Tunis behind it, and in the dim distance the towers and roofs of Tunis itself. To the left were the high and precipitous ranges of the Lead Mountains, and far away I could dimly discern the sharp peaks of the blue Zaghouan Hills. How deeply one felt now regret at not having been able to explore the beautiful country which lies everywhere around the city of Tunis. What noble vistas of smiling valleys, rocky gorges, and billowy uplands were everywhere visible! Yet all had been a closed book to me during my stay in the Regency. Some day, however, I may come again to see Tunis more thoroughly and under happier auspices. Close at hand, in the bay, there were many stately vessels, including the Ville de Naples. How gladly I would have exchanged my present position as sole cabin passenger on board the Sicilia for a berth on board the noble French steamer, even although I had been called upon to face another storm like that off Cape Bon!

At three o’clock we weighed anchor, and started with a fresh breeze in our favour. There was comparatively little sea, but the vessel pitched horribly, and with the “usual consequences,” so far as my fellow-passengers in the fore-cabin were concerned. Whilst I was down below arranging my luggage, I heard a terrific noise on deck, accompanied by yells of “Allah! Allah!” I thought that at least a Mussulman mutiny had broken out, and rushed up the companion way to see what was the matter. It was only a couple of Arabs settling accounts with the Mediterranean, and piously invoking Allah in concert between the throes of sickness! Dinner was served at half-past four, and as the sole first-class passenger I had for my companions at table only the ship’s officers. The meal was rather better than I had expected, though oil and garlic were as usual too plentiful in all the dishes. Wrapped in a warm camel’s-hair burnous, I lay on the deck enjoying the fresh breeze and the brilliant starlight, and smoking innumerable cigarettes, until at last I dropped off to sleep. Fortunately for my comfort, my suffering fellow-passengers had all gone below, so that I was free from the gruesome sights and sounds that had abounded so long as they had remained on deck. I awoke, shivering, at midnight. The old boat was still tumbling along like a porpoise over the bright waters. I went below, but found that the vile little hole allotted to me as a state-room smelt so horribly that it was absolutely impossible to sleep in it, so I lay down in the saloon, and was soon lulled into the profoundest slumber by the thumping of the screw.

CHAPTER XIII.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

Malta — The Union Club — A delightful change — The harbour by moonlight — A thrilling scene — The Elettrico — Etna — Messina — Between Scylla and Charybdis — Sunrise off Naples — Home again.

Friday, November 4th.—When day broke I found that there was another lovely morning—a genuine Mediterranean day, in fact. By six o’clock I was on deck, drinking in the pure air of the sea, doubly welcome after the stifling heat and stench below deck. Not a sail was in sight. Breakfast, which was served at nine o’clock, was rather trying. It consisted of a sort of stew of meat, raw herrings, fried eggs, and fruit. But the long low outline of Gozo was now in sight, and my spirits were rising. Passing vessels, too, became numerous, for we were in the track of the homeward-bound steamers from Malta; and then, the weather was simply perfect. The sea was quite calm, the sky without a cloud, the sun hot, the air balmy, the colour of the water blue as a sapphire. Even although one was thinking much about England, from which I had received no letters for several weeks, and longing to get home again, it was impossible not to contrast this delicious weather with that which was prevailing at the same moment within the limits of the United Kingdom. Nor, as the white cliffs of Malta came full in view, could one refrain from thinking of the last visit I paid to this “sunny isle,” less than twelve months ago, when I had as my companions two good fellows, neither of whom moves by sea or land any more, and one of whom now lies yonder in the naval cemetery above the harbour of Valetta. A year ago, how joyous we all were as we drew near the island, after ten days at sea! And how quick, in my own case, was the change from joy to the anguish of suspense, when as my first greeting from home I received the telegram which told me of a battle between life and death which was being fought out under my own roof in far-away England! It was almost with a superstitious dread of the news that might be awaiting me now, that I found our ship running past St. Paul’s Bay, and making straight for the narrow entrance to that harbour of Valetta which is surely the grandest of all the harbours in the world.

But all gloomy thoughts and forebodings were swept clean out of my mind as I looked up and saw waving above St. Elmo our glorious English flag. What a thrill of pride shoots through the heart of even the most pacific of Englishmen when after long travel by sea and land he comes upon this noble island, and sees it standing “compassed by the inviolate sea,” stern, self-possessed, ready if needs be, to face a whole world in arms against it! Past St. Elmo and St. Angelo, whose mighty guns frowned down upon our decks, we came swiftly into the great harbour, where a hundred noble ships of all nations were lying at anchor on one side, and the mighty ironclads of the English Navy on the other. The church bells were sending their shrill clang out upon the breeze—for when are the bells of Valetta ever silent? Innumerable small boats, gaily painted and emblazoned, according to the Maltese fashion, with strange and unlifelike representations of cats and lions, of dogs and camels, were swiftly darting across the harbour; and the houses that rose tier above tier from the water’s edge until they reached the giddy height of the Barecca, were brilliant with glass and colour, and made home-like by the huge signs in which English names and words appeared. How wonderful the contrast between this scene and that upon which I was gazing at the same hour yesterday! I seemed to have leaped at a single bound from the heart of the East into England; from the remote middle ages into the closing quarter of the nineteenth century.

The small craft swarmed round our steamer, and a score of Maltese boatmen appealed to me to give them my custom when I left the ship. But, first of all, certain formalities had to be gone through. The health officers, the naval officer on duty for the day, and the port authorities, boarded the vessel, and I found that each passenger was required in turn to explain his identity and business; for this was an Italian vessel arriving from an African port. I was awaiting my turn in this tedious examination when one of the officers passed near me. I asked him a question in English. “What!” he said, “are you an Englishman? Then you can go on shore at once, sir.” It was a strange contrast, this, to the treatment I had met with in Tunis, where, between the French on the one hand and the Arabs on the other, the Englishman is often treated very much as though he were a Pariah; and where the mere fact of your being a Christian is a source of danger and discomfort. I saw my Arab and Italian fellow-passengers looking at me with envious eyes as I descended the ladder. “Turn about is fair play, my fine fellows!” thought I to myself; and I started for the shore in the humour of a schoolboy just let loose for the holidays.

Nor did that feeling of buoyant animal spirits desert me during the whole of that day. Remember that I had been living in constant danger of attack, and amid much discomfort, for several weeks, and here I was suddenly transported into that which is to all intents and purposes an English town. Nay; it is in some respects more English than England itself; for here the mere fact of your being an Englishman suffices to secure for you the respect and deference of the native population. Every true-born Briton who lands in Malta is allowed, and even expected, to strut about as though he were lord of the manor. Is it in human nature for him not to feel something of a Jingo under such circumstances? I hastened off to the Post Office, and gave in my card. “You’ve been expected a long time, sir,” said the clerk, smiling; and he drew forth an enormous bundle of newspapers which had been slowly accumulating for weeks, and a smaller pile of letters, which, to my intense thankfulness, I found brought me nothing but good news. So now I was free to enjoy myself. First, there was the inevitable bath and change of linen at the Imperial Hotel. How wonderful it was to be treated with respect by landlord and waiters, instead of meeting with the slightly veiled insolence which had characterized the demeanour of the worthies of my hotel at Tunis. Then I walked to the Union Club, and found that my good friend Captain P——— had duly entered my name as an honorary member. I declare that it made me feel positively nervous to hear nothing but the sibilant whisper of the English language all around me. I had only been out of range of my native tongue for a few weeks; but I had been so completely cut off from English associations that it seemed as though months had elapsed since I last met with a company of my fellow-countrymen. Presently Captain P——— came in, finding me deep in a file of the Times. What followed I shall only hint at. During the hot, thirsty days in Tunis, when steaming coffee and detestable vermouth were the only drinks procurable, I had more than once given utterance to my longing for a bottle of English soda-water—slightly diluted. My craving was satisfied now. Then I went off to Truefitt’s—for Truefitt has an admirable branch establishment in the Strada Reale at Malta—and had my hair cut as deftly as though I had been in Bond Street. Finally, at dinner I found myself positively sitting next a lady, and an English one, who moreover hailed from Yorkshire, and talked to me accidentally about the qualities of the Leeds Mercury. It was all like a dream, out of which I expected every moment to awake and find myself—perhaps in Susa.

It was a lovely moonlight night, and I went up to the Barecca to enjoy the view from that point. Far below me lay the glorious harbour of Valetta. There were all the forts, commanding the narrow entrance, and ready at any moment to encounter an enemy; within their embrace lay the shining harbours; the two naval harbours showing their rows of immense ironclads and other swift-steaming men-of-war, including the Inflexible and the Hecla. Directly below me, in the commercial harbour, were thirty large merchant steamers. It was a noble sight. The white lines of the fortifications, the outlines of the great Naval Hospital, the Government buildings and the barracks, glimmered pale in the moonlight; whilst the twinkling lamps of the little boats crossing the harbour burned red beneath me. The whole scene was bathed in that atmosphere of perfect peace which somehow or other men naturally associate with the rays of the moon; though some of us have seen this same moon looking down, serene and cold, upon sights so dreadful that merely to behold them is to add years to a man’s life. Far away, from the deck of one of the ships in the naval harbour, there rang the shrill blast of a British bugle; and now quite near to me I heard a military band playing our National Anthem; for not far from the Barecca—where once the old Knights of Malta walked and looked down upon the splendid scene below them—is the noble palace now used as the mess-room of the Royal Engineers. Everything around me spoke of England, and of England’s might; not of that might which we see developed at home in our workshops and our factories, and our great provincial cities; but of that might by means of which she won this marvellous islet, set in the midst of this blue Mediterranean, and by which alone she now holds it against a jealous Continent. Most Englishmen at home are so far from warlike sights that they are apt to forget that their country has after all shown herself great in war as well as in commerce. But no man can forget that fact as he stands here upon the Barecca of Valetta, and looks down upon the great forts and the ironclads which sleep securely beneath their walls. I have said that everything reminded me of home; but I ought to have made one exception. There was nothing of England in that wonderful depth of moonlit sky; nothing of our own atmosphere in the exquisite balminess of this November night. When I reached my hotel I removed the cartridges from my revolver, and lay down to sleep in security under the shelter of the English flag.

Malta, Saturday, Nov. 5th.—I awoke this morning from the midst of a nightmare dream, in which I found myself resisting an attack from a large party of Arabs, led on—save the mark!—by Afrigan, who had been suddenly converted into a fiend in a turban. As I started from my sleep I heard a sound that recalled me to a consciousness of my whereabouts. It was the loud jangle of Christian church bells, and it brought home to me a delightful sensation of rest and security. The day was bright and hot, and the lovely peeps of the sea that you get from various street corners in Valetta were as charming as ever. Surely in all Europe there is no gayer, pleasanter place of abode than this white little island! The Union Club, which I visited again this morning, claims the proud distinction of having the largest membership of any club in the world. Nearly all the officers of the Army and Navy who have at any time been stationed in the Mediterranean are members; no subscription being exacted from them when they are not on the station. At this club, too, you may meet many of the men of rank in the military and civil services who are on their way to or from India, and who have taken Malta en route. There are but few civilian members of the club, though one or two of the English residents in Malta have been admitted to it. The Maltese themselves are, I understand, rigorously excluded. The appointments of the place are excellent. Indeed, I almost imagined myself in Pall Mall, and in a favourite corner of the Reform Club, as I sat reading the newspapers this morning. During the winter season periodical balls are given by the members of the club, and these are, I believe, the leading social events in the island. Not to be invited to one of the club balls is to meet with a grievous slight indeed. Altogether, the club is an institution of which Englishmen have good reason to be proud, and the advantages of which they are particularly well able to appreciate when they come, as I have done, straight from the semi-civilization of Tunis into the midst of the comfort and even luxury that abound here.

I had promised to lunch with Lieutenant D——— on board the Hibernia depôt ship—a grand old wooden hulk, into which the crews of the different vessels that are paid off here are turned pending their voyage to England. Having got a boat, and finding there was some time to spare before the hour fixed for lunch, I went round the Inflexible, and duly admired her somewhat ponderous proportions and enormous strength. It was immediately afterwards that I was witness of one of the most stirring and touching scenes I ever beheld, though doubtless it is a scene common enough at Valetta. My boatman pointed to where the Tyne, one of the noble government transports, was beginning slowly to move from her moorings. She was “homeward bound,” carrying some hundreds of time-expired men, the crew of the Thunderer and others, who had been kept in the Mediterranean for several years. As the great, stately white ship passed down the harbour, her sides and rigging lined with the sunburnt faces of the sailors who were starting for Old England, the crews of all the men-of-war she passed, clustering like bees upon bulwarks, yard-arms, and ladders, raised cheer upon cheer in such thunderous volumes as only the throats of Englishmen seem capable of giving forth. Many a yearning glance was cast from the other vessels as the homeward-bound craft steamed gently past, her farewell signal to her old comrades fluttering in the breeze; and I could well understand that these tremendous salvoes of hurrahs were meant as much for the dear mother country itself as for the men who were departing. Then, above the roar of thousands of voices, there rose the strains of “Home, sweet Home,” from the band of the Hecla. And so the good ship Tyne, amid all this waving and shouting and music—and with more than one wet eye wistfully regarding her—slipped out between St. Elmo and St. Angelo, and turned her head towards home. It was a thrilling scene for an Englishman to behold in that noble harbour, under that cloudless southern sky.

Alas! when I myself reached Plymouth, some ten days later, I found the Tyne lying there close to the spot where my own ship cast anchor for the night; and I read in the morning paper how she had brought home so many men from this vessel and so many from the other, and how “one death had occurred on board during the voyage.” So one at least of those who had set out so joyfully on that lovely morning, amid the strains of “Home, sweet Home,” and the hurrahs of thousands of English sailors, had reached the end of his voyage and the haven of rest even sooner than he had expected to do.

After lunch—one of those cheery, pleasant meals, flavoured with bright professional gossip, which only the ward-room of a man-of-war knows—my host and I set off for the Naval Hospital to see the grave of my poor friend P———, whom I left at Malta last year. It was a hot and exhausting climb from the level of the harbour to the height upon which the beautiful hospital is situated. What a treat it was, however, after seeing something of French sanitary arrangements at Tunis, to observe the delightful cleanliness and order prevailing here! After all, it is not merely by the weight of its guns and the magnitude of its forts that Malta impresses you with a sense of the greatness of your country. You see here what the English faculty of organization can accomplish even in the face of serious difficulties. Malta lies far south of any town on the continent of Europe; and yet its streets are as clean and as free from the horrible smells of Germany and Italy as any English town is. I think, upon the whole I felt more proud of this cleanliness of Valetta than I did even of the great forts, and that wonderful storehouse of grain in which, according to tradition, food for the whole population sufficient to last for seven years is always stored.

I started at four o’clock from Malta for Naples by the Elettrico, a beautiful paddle steamer, said to be the crack boat of the Florio line. Certainly it presented a marked contrast to the Sicilia, in which I had made the passage from Tunis to Malta. A beautiful saloon, large and airy state-rooms, and a handsome quarter-deck well provided with comfortable seats, gave the Elettrico the appearance of a very fine yacht rather than of an ordinary passenger steamer. That I had now got into one of the main routes of English traffic was proved by two facts: first, that all my fellow-passengers in the saloon—five in number—were English; and next, that the captain, a handsome, middle-aged Italian, spoke our language with remarkable freedom and an excellent accent. The Elettrico danced along over the waves at a wonderful rate. I sat on deck enjoying the moonlight on the water for several hours, but already I was beginning to feel the difference between the “sunny south” I had left behind me and the latitudes I was now approaching, so that I was by no means sorry to turn into my warm and comfortable cabin.

Sunday, November 6th.—I rose at six o’clock, to find the splendid snow-clad peak of Etna directly opposite to me. We were running through the lovely Straits of Messina, and the prospect on both sides was delightful. Both to right and left there were ranges of olive-clad hills, with white villages at their base, and here and there a farmhouse glittering in the sunshine far up the mountain slope. It was a civilized and fertile land on which I was thus looking, and it contrasted strangely with the yellow and lifeless hills of Africa. My view of the grand summit of Etna did not last very long; for as the sun rose higher in the heavens clouds began to gather round the mountain top, and very soon blotted it from my view. About seven we came in sight of Messina—one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It lies stretched in a noble semicircle round the edge of the bay; whilst behind it is a great amphitheatre of hills, which are wooded to the very summit, and bear on their flanks castles and farm-houses, churches and monasteries; so that you get here an admirable intermixture of nature and civilization. The city itself, with its forts, its cathedral, and its imposing line of buildings on the quay, looks wonderfully picturesque. The straits are at this point so narrow that they look like a river; and the mainland of Italy, with hills covered with thick chestnut forests, seems but a stone’s throw from the town. There were a great many English vessels in the harbour, all engaged in taking in lemons, which are at this season the staple export of Messina. But even more welcome than the sight of these English ships, was the appearance of my old friend the Charles Quint. I had learned during the passage from Malta that the Elettrico would remain two days at Messina, whereas the Charles Quint was to sail for Naples this evening, so that I might save a day by transferring myself to her. My mind was soon made up, and directly after breakfast I went aboard the French boat. I found the jovial captain and my friends the purser and the doctor sitting at their morning meal. They uttered a cry of surprise and pleasure at seeing me, and forthwith began to recount their varied experiences since we had parted at Susa. Both of “the Corsican brothers” had been deplorably ill during the gale which I had encountered in the Ville de Naples. They were in their element now, however, in these smooth straits, and with all the evidences of civilization around them.

And yet, are things quite what they seem in this beautiful Sicily? To my great surprise, the captain of the Charles Quint told me that yesterday, when his vessel was lying in the harbour of Catania, he was twice shot at from the shore whilst he was walking on the bridge! I expressed my astonishment at this statement, and asked him if he might not have been mistaken. He declared, however, that he could hear the bullets whiz past his head; and his story was confirmed by the purser and doctor. When I asked him what could be the reason for such an outrage, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It is the affair of Tunis, I suppose.” Perhaps, however, there may be a little jealousy of a more vulgar description at the bottom of the outrage. This is, it appears, the first voyage of the Charles Quint by this route, and as it is known that she is a French vessel running in opposition to the Italian line, it is just possible that trade rivalry led to this resort to the Sicilian method of settling a dispute. The bitterness of the people here against the French is, however, intense. Whilst I was in the saloon of the Charles Quint this morning, the agent, a very handsome young Italian, came on board. He and the captain forthwith plunged into a political discussion, which it was mighty pretty to witness. The agent of course dwelt upon the perfidy of the French in Tunis, and charged them with having gone there simply to rob the Italians of a property which would very soon have been in their possession but for this interference. The captain dilated with warmth upon the ingratitude of the Italians, who thought nothing of the sacrifices France had made for them. They became so angry at last that I had to throw myself into the midst of the dispute as a champion of the Arabs, who wanted neither a French nor an Italian master. Then the sudden storm subsided. The disputants nodded their heads in acquiescence, and jointly admitted that the best solution of the difficulty would have been for both countries to agree to leave Tunis alone.

I went ashore for a walk through the town. The church bells were ringing with a deafening noise, and people were streaming along the streets in the direction of the cathedral and the other churches, in crowds which reminded me of an English town on a Sunday morning. Falling in with the stream, I presently found myself in one of the churches; it was that which had the loudest bells. It was crowded in all parts, and to my surprise I found that there were almost as many men as women in the congregation. The women were very handsome, but the men contrasted very unfavourably with the personal appearance of the Arabs among whom I have been mingling lately. A civil verger brought me a chair, and I sat down and joined in the service—as well as I was able. But I could hear little and see nothing of the officiating priest, and I fear my attention was turned rather to the magnificent silver shrines which the church contained and to the congregation around me, than to the high altar and the officiating clergyman there. The people preserved a very reverent demeanour during the service, though it was a little startling to see blind beggars being led round among the crowd soliciting alms. One could not fail, in observing the gorgeous magnificence of this interior, the wealth and beauty of the shrines before which the humble peasants bowed, to acknowledge that the Church of Rome knows how to provide for the wants of its members—knows how to attract and awe them. What an impression must be produced upon the wild mountaineer, who comes down to Messina to confess, by this splendid interior, by the roll of the noble music through the great aisle of the church, by the beauty of the painted ceiling and the silver images! What a contrast all this magnificence must present to the dull squalor of his daily life! Though it would be absurd to generalize from my limited experience, I must say that what I saw in Messina on this Sunday morning fully confirmed the statements made to me as to the intense devoutness of the Sicilians—a devoutness which is, unfortunately, not incompatible with a belief in the virtues of brigandage and of other pursuits and practices which, in more temperate climes, are looked upon with a certain degree of disfavour.

After listening to a sermon in another church, which, like that which I first entered, was crowded, I went into the Cathedral. It was empty, but I was allowed to inspect the magnificent high altar, one of the noblest specimens of Florentine mosaic in existence. Agates, jaspers, chalcedonies, and other precious stones, are here cunningly wrought into many quaint devices of birds and flowers, inlaid upon a groundwork of lapis lazuli; and as, in spite of the centuries which have elapsed since this chef-d’œuvre left the hands of the master, all these stones retain their pristine colours, the general effect is marvellously rich. I saw, too, the coffin of “Alfonso the Magnanimous,” King of Sicily, and the wonderful picture of the Virgin which the pious Messinese believe to have been painted by St. Luke—St. Luke, whose crumbling tomb was gravely pointed out to me a year ago at the foot of Mount Pion, in the midst of the ruins at Ephesus!—and I had a narrow escape from seeing sundry other relics more precious still, to wit, the arm of St. Paul, the blood of St. Mark, the skull of Mary Magdalene, and the hair of the Virgin. Was ever city favoured as this beautiful Messina seems to be! After a walk through the streets, with their quaint carved fronts and grotesque fountains, I returned to the Charles Quint, and in the evening we started for Naples. About nine o’clock we ran between Scylla and Charibdis, the one being represented by a lighthouse, and the other by a black rocky promontory; but I saw nothing of the terrors which the ancients beheld here. Just as I turned in for the night we were abreast of Stromboli, on the top of which a light cloud of smoke was resting.

Naples, Monday, November 7th.—I rose early, in order to see our entrance into the Bay of Naples; and was rewarded on going on deck by a wonderful spectacle. There was a long line of sharply defined hills on the starboard side, lying black against the dark night sky; but away to the south, it seemed as though the curtain of night had been lifted, and here a low streak of brilliant flame showed itself, and against it the hills stood out in splendid vividness. Slowly the dawn stole over sea and sky, painting both with a hundred rainbow tints. On our port quarter lay the beautiful island of Capri, a picturesque mass of grey rock rising ghostlike from the silver sea. And now the sky changed to an exquisite salmon colour, whilst the sea shone like white metal. Then the sun gradually broke through the rift in the cloud-barrier, and as he did so the faint salmon and the silver-grey tints faded out of sight, and pink and blue became the prevailing colours. All this time the sea was as smooth as glass, and our stately ship glided almost noiselessly over it. Presently, when the beautiful sunrise effects had disappeared before the broadening day, light clouds began to spread themselves over the sky; but they did not prevent my seeing Vesuvius, with its cap of thick smoke, and lovely Sorrento amid its groves of lemons and olives; and by and by the long line of the white houses of Naples appeared at the bottom of the bay, with the Castle of St. Elmo towering far above them; and almost before we were aware, we were at anchor in a crowded harbour, and were feasting our eyes upon the famous southern city.

And here I may well pause in this story of my trip to Tunis. I had once more reached the mainland of Europe. I was within easy reach of home, and though I loitered a few days in Naples, hearing much whilst I was there of the indignation prevailing throughout Italy at the conduct of France in poaching upon what the Italians had begun to regard as a preserve of their own, I do not know that my readers would be greatly interested in the story of my life from day to day. I left Naples by the steamship Liguria, of the Orient line, and after a very quick but monotonous voyage of six days, landed at Plymouth, on Wednesday, November 16th.

CHAPTER XIV.

POLITICS IN TUNIS.

A survey of the situation — M. Roustan’s policy — The first campaign — The Treaty of the Bardo — The insurrection — Bombardment of Sfax — Occupation of Tunis — March upon Kairwan — Capture of Kairwan — Results of the French policy — English interests — Estrangement of Italy.

I have completed the record of my visit to Tunis, but I shall hardly have accomplished my whole task until I have said something regarding the remarkable political situation which I found in existence there. From the foregoing pages I have excluded politics as far as possible; but the political problem which Tunis at this moment presents to the world is so remarkable, that it is impossible to pass it by unnoticed; and I shall attempt, therefore, in this concluding Chapter, by giving some extracts from my diary referring to this aspect of my visit, to convey to the reader an idea of the state of things existing in the Regency at the time when I was there. Those who trouble themselves to read these pages will see that more than once I have indulged in the gratuitous blunder of prophesying. My prophecies were not only written on the dates mentioned, but were printed a few days afterwards in the Standard newspaper. I do not think however that my predictions as to what must be the result of M. Roustan’s adventures in Tunis have proved to be very far wrong. Writing several weeks before the famous Roustan-Rochefort trial, I gave in outline most of the facts which were brought to light during the course of that trial, and upon some other points of interest, such as the probable action of the insurgent Arabs after the fall of Kairwan, I foretold with tolerable accuracy what has actually come to pass. Let me say at once, however, that the credit of this is not due to me, but to those clear-sighted and dispassionate men with whom I had the good fortune to be brought in contact during my stay in the Regency, and who did so much to enlighten my mind as to the real nature of the situation existing there.

And here it may be proper to observe, by way of showing that England is not without an interest of her own in Tunisian politics, that not fewer than 10,000 subjects of the Queen are to be found in the Regency. It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that these are almost all Maltese, the number of actual Englishmen in the Regency being probably under twenty. As coachmen, boatmen, gardeners, artisans, and coffee-shop keepers, the Maltese find plenty to do in all parts of Tunis. Their moral character is not very high, and at times they give her Majesty’s Consul-General not a little trouble; but they are English subjects, protected by treaty; and it is the undoubted duty of our government to watch over their interests. That recent events in Tunis have not been very favourable to these persons is only too certain. Some thirty British subjects have been killed during the course of the war between the French and the Arabs, and an enormous quantity of property, belonging not merely to Maltese, but to English merchants trading through agents in the Regency, has been destroyed. The loss of life is chiefly due to the Arabs; but the loss of property is almost entirely due to the French, who have peculiar notions as to the rights of neutrals, where a question of loot is concerned. English trade with Tunis is very large. The esparto grass, which is exported from Sfax and other places on the coast, is almost all brought to this country; and the name of one English firm, Messrs. Perry, Bury, and Co., of Manchester, seemed to be on the lips of all the traders in the Gulf of Hammamet. England as a great consumer of the products of Tunis, naturally supplies that country in turn with many of the articles required by her inhabitants, and it was pleasing to see that genuine English goods—Manchester cottons, Sheffield knives, and London pickles, sauces, and tinned meats—enjoyed a practical monopoly in the towns of the Regency. It is not, therefore, correct to represent this country as having no interest in Tunis. At the same time it would be a mistake to exaggerate the extent of that interest, or to give way to any imaginary fears, because France, by one of the most cynical acts of aggression on record, has made herself the mistress of the destinies of the country. Her act is a serious one so far as the Italians are concerned; but England, so long as she retains Malta can afford to look on at the endless schemes and counter-schemes of the rivals, with something like indifference.

When I reached Tunis the second act in the comedy devised by M. Roustan was in full progress. The Bey had succumbed to the inevitable, when the French Consul waited upon him in his palace at Manouba, and, pointing to the Republican troops drawn up within sight of the windows of the room where they were seated, warned the unlucky Ruler that the occupation of Tunis would be immediately effected, unless the treaty which was presented to him were signed. Those who were in Tunis at that time know what anguish prevailed, not merely at the palace but in the capital, during this crisis. Mr. Reade had been the adviser of the Bey up to this point. His Highness had placed himself entirely in his hands, and the English Consul-General had given him the best possible counsel. It was at Mr. Reade’s instigation that the Bey had not only desisted from offering any resistance to the progress of the French troops through his territory, but had despatched his brother, the heir apparent, Si Ali Bey, at the head of the Tunisian army, for the purpose of cooperating with the French commander in his operations against the “Kroumirs.” Everybody in Tunis knew then what everybody in France knows now, that the ravages of the so-called Kroumirs were a mere pretext for the invasion of the Regency, and that the expedition was sent forth in the interests of French financiers, who found their interests threatened by the schemes of Italian rivals.

The first and natural wish of the Bey was to oppose the French invasion by force; for he was perfectly conscious of the fact that the Republic had not the shadow of justification for its attack upon his territory. Mr. Reade, by his urgent solicitations induced the Bey to abstain from the fatal step of resistance; he even went further, and, as I have shown, got him to send his own brother and the Tunisian army, not to oppose but to cooperate with the French. In the meantime, it was hoped that by urgent diplomatic representations to the different courts of Europe some steps might be taken to avert the impending catastrophe. M. Roustan and his friends were greatly disappointed when they learned that the Bey, by the wise advice of Mr. Reade, was not going to fall into the trap they had laid for him, by offering any resistance to the advance of the French troops. To most men this step on the part of his Highness would have seemed a fatal bar to further action on their part. M. Roustan, however, did not allow himself to be materially hindered by the Bey’s discreet conduct. Abandoning even the semblance of a pretext he brought the French troops up to the village of Manouba, within four miles of Tunis, and within sight of the Bardo and the Bey’s private palace. Then, as we have seen, he presented his monstrous treaty for signature. The Bey’s agony, as I have said, was intense. He knew that to permit the occupation of Tunis would be to seal his own doom. Henceforth he would be merely a puppet in the hands of M. Roustan, and the greater part of his Arab subjects would treat him with the contempt due to a traitor. On the other hand, he could not fail to see that the Roustan treaty was merely the prelude to the seizure of his sceptre by the French. With the aid of Mr. Broadley, an English barrister, he drew up a dignified protest against the action of France, and telegraphed this to all the courts of Europe, during the few hours which his hard taskmaster was good enough to allow him for consideration. Up to the date of my leaving Tunis—November 3rd—not one of the recipients of this protest, which was sent off in May, had found time to acknowledge its receipt. So, deserted by Europe, and alas! no longer allowed to feel confidence in Mr. Reade’s power to help him, the Bey signed the treaty, and placed himself in the hands of M. Roustan.

This was the first act of the comedy. It was followed by an interval, during which there was apparent peace in the Regency. Mustapha, the barber’s boy who had become Prime Minister, was shipped off to Europe, and M. Roustan installed himself as master of the land. All manner of concessions were granted to French companies. Railways, harbours, agricultural banks, public works of every description were projected. The Italians found themselves driven to the wall. Even English subjects, like Mr. Levy, saw their rights rudely interfered with; for M. Roustan was master, and all others had to submit. But presently there came a change. The French troops were returning to their own country. It did not suit the purpose of the Ministry to allow the people of France to imagine that anything like a war was in progress. So it was announced in the Chambers that the Treaty of the Bardo had settled everything, and that it was no longer necessary to keep any large army of occupation in Tunis. It was at this moment that the insurrection broke out at Sfax. The Arabs there proclaimed themselves independent of the Bey, who had sold them to the infidel, and invited their countrymen to join them. The first news of this insurrection was sent up to Tunis by Mr. Gallia, our Vice-Consul at Susa, who happens to have also a residence and place of business at Sfax. Mr. Gallia’s reward was to have his house plundered by the French troops when they entered Sfax. Of the bombardment of that place by the French, and of its capture, and the loot by the victorious troops, I need only say here that it resulted in the spread of the insurrectionary feeling throughout the Regency. The whole Arab race boiled over with indignation; and outrages, and murders as horrible as that which occurred at the railway station at Oued Zergha, became common. The French troops were hurried back to the Regency; three columns were formed for the advance of an army against Kairwan, the sacred city, which was suspected of being the centre of disaffection, and Tunis itself was occupied by a large force of Republican troops. It was at this moment that I arrived in the Regency, and from this point the following extracts from my letters will afford some idea of the political situation.

Tunis, October 18th.—It is difficult to convey to the mind of the English reader an idea of the state of things now prevailing in Tunis, at a distance of barely four days from London; and it would probably be still more difficult to make any man of ordinary honesty understand the full meaning of that drama—half comic half tragic, and wholly disreputable—which is now being played out by the most cynical of actors under the eyes of the entire world. The visitor to Tunis at this moment finds himself in a country in which a state of war prevails. At Goletta immense French transports may be seen, disembarking troops and stores sufficient for a campaign against Germany. All along the short line of railway between the port and the capital, French camps are scattered; trains of artillery may be seen in slow progress towards the front, and ambulances provided with all the appliances which modern surgery has invented are also visible. Here, in Tunis, French sentries are mounted upon the crumbling white walls of the Kasbah, the great citadel of the place; French camps are pitched in the open spaces within the forts; French patrols pass through the streets at regular intervals, and the Grand Hotel, where a French general is installed, is the real headquarters of the Government of the city. Yesterday three columns of French troops, numbering in all some 30,000 men, began their march—two from the neighbourhood of Tunis, one from Susa—towards the sacred city of Kairwan, which has been selected as the special place to be honoured by a demonstration of French valour. If ever there was a country in a state of war, it is Tunis at the present moment. And yet no war has been declared; no pretext for military operations has been discovered, and a portion at least of the Parisian press maintains that no war exists. Even more startling than the contrast between the state of things visible here, and that in the existence of which official France pretends to believe, is the contrast between the condition of Tunis now and its condition twelve months ago, or even more recently.

At the beginning of the present year there was no European country which could vie in peacefulness, in security of life and property, with Tunis. There were of course certain tracts of wild mountainous country in the north-west portion of the Bey’s territory, where it would have been unsafe for any European to venture. But apart from these very limited districts, there was no part of Tunis where life was not perfectly safe. So recently as last April, Lord and Lady Bective visited Kairwan; and they not only did so in perfect safety, but they were received as honoured and welcome guests by the Arabs of that famous city. Here in Tunis no one thought for a moment of any danger from the native population. The tourist could wander at his will among the interesting ruins which abound in the neighbouring country, not only without dread of being subjected to violence, but with a feeling of absolute security which he could hardly entertain in London or Paris. Now, all this is changed. No man would dare to travel half a dozen miles from the city—to do so would be to court almost certain death. It would be almost as dangerous to venture into any of the villages which lie under the very shadow of the walls of Tunis. And even within the city itself, Europeans are warned on no account to venture out after dark. If you walk through the Arab quarter, averted faces and muttered curses meet you on every side; while the air is filled with rumours of an impending catastrophe. Twice during the present week the French troops in the city have been roused in the dead of night, and marched hurriedly to a central point, in order to resist a general rising of the Arabs, which everybody expected, and which it was believed had already begun. The imaginations of the non-Mussulman population, stimulated by all that they see around them, are still further excited by the horrible and, alas! true stories of tortures perpetrated upon unhappy Christians who have fallen into the hands of the Arabs; and everywhere a feeling not only of insecurity but of positive dread, has replaced that which prevailed last year. And these are the first results of that famous treaty which M. Roustan wrung from the Bey less than six months since, and by which France, or rather her Consular Agent, was made absolute master of the properties and the destinies of the Tunisian Government and people. It is obvious to everybody now that a fatal blunder was made by the French Cabinet when it placed itself in the hands of M. Roustan. It is a blunder which has already cost an enormous sum of money, and a serious expenditure of life, and it is one which may yet have consequences of the gravest kind, affecting not merely France but other European countries whose interests are still dearer to the Englishman.

It is not my business, however, to enter into a political disquisition on the origin and objects of the Tunisian expedition. I have done my duty when, as an eye-witness, I point out the extraordinary results of the Roustan policy up to the present moment. That policy has, in the first place, compelled France to enter upon a war on a large scale against a nation with whom it professedly has no quarrel; and, in the second place, it has entirely destroyed the security of life and property in Tunis, and has made one of the most peaceful and harmless races in the world, the bitter enemies not merely of France, but of all the powers and peoples of Europe. With more than 50,000 French soldiers in Tunis, and yet with the very streets of the capital itself in such a state that Europeans dare not move about them freely, it can hardly be contended that the civilizing and pacifying mission of the French Consular Agent has been altogether as successful as might have been desired. As to the secret history of that mission—the history which is upon the lips of everybody in Tunis—it is not for me to tell it here; but there is some probability that the revelation of the truth will not be long delayed. M. Camille Pelletan and other French deputies have come to Tunis for the special purpose of learning the truth on the subject; and some startling revelations may be expected when the debates begin in the Chambers.

Within the next fortnight it is believed that decisive military operations will have been carried out against Kairwan. Yesterday, as I have stated already, three French columns started for that place. The first column, under the command of General Saussier, to whom the command in chief is entrusted, has started from Tunis, and advances by way of the famous Enfida estate. The suggestion made here is, that this column will accomplish a double purpose; it will not only aid in the conquest of Kairwan, but will put the French in possession of that particular piece of property the name of which was mixed up so prominently with the early history of the Tunisian question. The second column, under General Logerot, has marched from Zaghouan, and will make a slight détour to the west, on its way to the sacred city. The third has the port of Susa as its point of departure; and it is to advance by means of a temporary railway which is to be constructed to Kairwan. The distance from Susa to Kairwan is barely thirty miles, so that there ought to be no difficulty in the construction of this line. Another column, intended for the pacification of the country as well as the conquest of Kairwan, is now moving across the Bey’s territory from Tebessa. The distance it has to traverse is, however, so great that it can hardly take part in the operations against the city itself, unless those operations should be unexpectedly delayed.

No one, of course, can entertain any doubt as to the result of the operations against Kairwan. The famous city is doomed. Optimists now can only pray that its captors will show respect for the feelings not merely of the Mussulman, but of the whole civilized world. The “loot” of a place like Kairwan would be a disgrace and a disaster. The world as it watches this great expedition against Kairwan, undertaken, as I have shown, upon a scale of such magnitude, ought to bear in mind the fact that Kairwan itself has been guilty of no offence. It has offered, and is offering, no resistance to the French army, although naturally enough the Arabs of Kairwan, like the rest of the world, fail to see what special reason can be alleged for the course now being pursued by France in a country with which it does not pretend to be at war, and which it professes that it has no desire to annex. No plea of military necessity can therefore be put in on behalf of the expedition to which the French are now committed. It is an expedition undertaken for the purpose of giving the Gambettist Republic a new dose of “glory,” and of putting an end, if possible, to awkward discussions in the French Chambers. That is the plain truth about this march upon the sacred city—a march which is regarded by all the Arabs, I need hardly say, as being in itself an act of sacrilege. That it will not result in the pacification of the country is firmly believed by competent military authorities here. The Arabs, save a few of the more fanatical, will in all probability escape into the mountainous districts of the interior, or—and this is an eventuality which it is necessary that English statesmen should seriously consider—they will make their way across the frontier into Tripoli, and throw themselves into the arms of the great Mussulman force already assembled there, where they will nurse their indignation against the assailants of their brethren in race and religion.

Tunis, October 25th.—The truth about Tunis has not yet been told to the world. Part of it has, it is true, been revealed in the columns of certain of the ultra-Radical journals of Paris; but, partly because of the quarter in which the revelations have been made, and partly, also, because of the evident bias of the writers, those stories have not attracted so much attention as they might reasonably have been expected to do. It will not, however, be from any want of zeal on the part of inquirers after it, if the whole truth regarding the Tunisian question is not made known to the world at no distant date. This city is now swarming, I shall not say with spies, but with investigators of all descriptions, bent upon learning everything regarding the proceedings of M. Roustan and his wonderful entourage. We have here, among others, M. Camille Pelletan, the lieutenant of Dr. Clémenceau, and M. Pelletan does not even affect to conceal the fact that he is preparing the materials for a savage indictment, not merely of M. Roustan and the French Ministry, but of M. Gambetta himself, when the Chambers meet. That he is satisfied with the success that has attended his efforts to unravel all the mysteries of the Tunisian question, I have the best authority for saying; and there can be no doubt that when he makes his promised statement to the Chamber of Deputies he will have a tale to tell which must produce a very lively sensation. It is not only, however, among French Deputies and Special Correspondents that the inquiries after the truth are to be found. Strange as it may seem, at least one other country besides that immediately concerned in the Tunisian expedition is interesting itself in what is passing or has passed here. Tunis has lately witnessed a remarkable influx of mysterious Germans—gentlemen, for the most part, of a decidedly military bearing, whose sauerkrautish French would alone suffice to betray their nationality to the observant. These gentlemen are by no means obtrusive in their demeanour. They frequent none of the hotels; they might even seem to be anxious to escape the observation of the French authorities. They are chiefly to be found in certain small cafés in the European quarter which do not appear to have been discovered as yet by the officers of the French army. Here they are, however, and for what purpose? They are not bent on seeking pleasure. It is only a mad Englishman who will come to Tunis for pleasure at a time like the present. They are not engaged in commercial pursuits; they are not even the correspondents of German newspapers. All that can be said about them is that they show a most unwearied assiduity in collecting facts, both political and military, with regard to the past and the present of French rule in Tunis. They also will aid the world, it may be assumed, in arriving at a full knowledge of the truth regarding one of the most remarkable episodes in modern history.

And what is that truth? For obvious reasons my pen is restrained from writing of it. It will be better to wait till the debate in the French Chambers for the full chronicle of the scandals that surround this question; yet even now not a little may be said. I see it still repeated in certain newspapers in England, that after all the French have only done in Tunis what we did in Afghanistan. More amazing ignorance of actual facts than that which is shown by this assertion, it would be difficult to conceive. Granting for the moment that our policy in Afghanistan was as bad as these papers believe it to have been, there would still be not even the faintest similarity between the two cases. I have never seen it hinted that we entered Afghanistan in order to advance the pecuniary interest of a coterie of adventurers at Calcutta or London; nor has it ever been suggested that a fair and frail Helen was closely connected with the origin of our expedition to Cabul. It is said here, however, upon authority which is unimpeachable, that the violent seizure of Tunis by the French, and all the misery, loss of life, and confusion that have resulted from that step, can be traced directly to the visit of a certain Tunisian lady to Paris, and to the acquaintances she there formed amongst a band of well-known financiers. This lady had exceptional influence over a very powerful person in Tunis. She had exercised similar influence over other powerful persons in the place before she made the acquaintance of this particular gentleman, and altogether she occupied a very extraordinary and important place in Tunisian affairs. On the particular visit to Paris to which I refer, her sympathies were enlisted on behalf of the speculators in question. She returned to Tunis resolved to procure for them a most important concession from the Bey—a concession which would practically have placed the greater part of the country in pawn to them. By means of the gentleman whose movements she controlled, she brought the matter under the notice of the Bey. His Highness, however, refused to grant the concession, pleading the perfectly accurate reason that he could not do so without violating his treaty engagements with England and other countries. Thereupon he was bluntly told that he would live to repent his decision; and that the concession he had been asked to make voluntarily was trifling compared to that which would within twelve months be wrung from him by force. In fact, it was by no means obscurely hinted that the days of his rule and of Tunisian independence were numbered. Little more than six months afterwards the “ravages” of the Kroumirs were discovered; French journalists declared it to be intolerable that their country should be exposed to insults and injuries at the hands of a horde of savages; and one of the gentlemen who had been most urgent in seeking the concession of which I have spoken from the Bey, himself proposed in the Chamber of Deputies that an expedition should be undertaken for the purpose of vindicating the dignity of France, and chastising the aggressors. From that expedition came, I need hardly say, the Treaty with M. Roustan, the cession of Bizerta and a considerable tract of territory, the submission of the Bey’s Government to that of France, and now the occupation of Tunis itself and the practical conversion of the Regency into a French dependency.

All these facts have been hinted at, if they have not been clearly stated before; but it is well that they should be stated again. Connected with them are numberless scandals, some of so flagrant a character that I cannot even hint at their nature. But, as I have said, the searchers after truth are abroad, and we shall have a highly spiced dish of Tunisian facts served up in the French Chambers at no distant date. The Enfida case, which is one of the side issues connected with the affair, is in itself a very remarkable instance of the manner in which those who represent France in this country are trifling with the national honour. A few months ago, before the great blow had been struck, and when Tunis was still independent, the French authorities, after much correspondence, professed themselves anxious to submit Mr. Levy’s claim to arbitration. England saw then no reason for withdrawing it from the ordinary tribunals. Suddenly, however, the attitude of France has undergone a curious change. Now that Tunisian independence is completely at an end—now that the Bey is little more than a prisoner in his own palace—now that the French flag floats above the Tunisian one on the towers of the Kasbah, and now that French soldiers and policemen are patrolling the streets of Tunis itself—now, in fact, that France is omnipotent and can control or crush any Tunisian institution, M. Roustan has turned round upon himself, refuses to submit the Enfida dispute to arbitration, and has actually sent it before one of those local tribunals the integrity and competency of which he stoutly denied so long as there was the remotest chance of their acting in an independent manner. I am glad to say that the English Government seem to be inclined to insist upon arbitration by some wholly independent party as the only satisfactory solution of the question, and in this resolve it may be hoped that the French Government will eventually acquiesce.

The diplomatic struggles and rivalries of places like Tunis are proverbial, and there is no need to say that the hottest warfare has been waged here between the representatives of the different European powers. I am glad to say that amid the strife Mr. Reade, the English representative, has been able to keep himself entirely aloof from all personal jealousies or local scandals; and that, whilst maintaining with firmness and dignity the interests and honour of his country, he has not given offence even to the most arrogant of his colleagues. On the other hand, M. Roustan is now being denounced by everybody, and particularly by Frenchmen themselves. Except in his own immediate circle nobody seems to have a good word for him, and his early downfall is freely predicted. Among the offences laid to his charge are the contradictory promises he is said to have made to many of the prominent actors in this Tunisian question. He is believed to have intrigued not merely with the Bey, but with his Prime Minister, the ex-barber’s-apprentice Mustapha, with Ali Bey, the Bey’s elder, and with Taib Bey his younger, brother. It follows from all that has happened, and from all that is now being brought to light, that Frenchmen themselves are most anxious to secure his removal. The misfortune is, that his removal will now exercise but small appreciable influence upon the future of Tunis. It is in the possession of France at this moment. The noble Gulf of Tunis, the trade of the country, all its strategical points, are in the keeping of the French; and though the latter will have to pay a heavy price in blood, money, and reputation for the prize they have thus secured, they are not likely to relinquish it merely because M. Roustan has been exposed and punished.

It is not merely on the side of the French that curious intrigues are just now in full progress under one’s very eyes. The Bey, as I have said, is practically a prisoner in his palace at Goletta, utterly dejected and heartbroken, and so completely devoid of spirit that he has just conferred—need I say at whose bidding?—his highest decoration upon the French general commanding the troops in occupation of Tunis—an occupation which every Arab resents as an insult to his nationality and his creed. It is not surprising in these circumstances that rumours should be current regarding a probable change in the nominal rulership. Ali Bey, the next brother of the Bey, who is known as the Bey of the Camp, eagerly puts himself forward as the supplanter of the reigning Bey. Unfortunately for his chances he is very deaf, and, moreover, he is more than suspected of complicity in many of the intrigues of M. Roustan. His own troops are at this moment in a state of almost open mutiny against him, and more than once he has been denounced when riding through his own camp, as a traitor who had sold his country. The third brother, Taib Bey, lives a retired life at the Marsa, in a large and beautiful country-house, not far from the residence of the English Consul. He seems to be a man of considerable shrewdness and intelligence. Last of all on the list of Pretenders is Mustapha, whose friends openly declare that he is about to return to this country as Governor-General—a French Governor-General of course. I should imagine, however, that his chances are dependent upon the fortunes of his friend M. Roustan.

Tunis, October 30th.—There is something very amusing in the manner in which the capture of Kairwan has fallen flat upon the European community here. How the intelligence may have been received in Paris I am not of course aware. Perhaps the coup de théâtre of General Farre and M. Roustan may have been successful, and the Parisians may have applauded the occupation of the sacred city as though it were an achievement equal to another Solferino or Magenta. But here even the dullest of persons sees too much of what is passing behind the scenes to be deceived. It was known early last week that Kairwan was to be occupied exactly in time to allow of the news reaching Paris on Friday evening. The day before, I received a note from an officer with General Etienne’s force, dated Tuesday, and telling me that they were in sight of Kairwan, never having fired a shot during the march. I was therefore quite prepared for the receipt of the news of the occupation. On Friday morning, about ten o’clock, the transport Sarthe steamed into Goletta, bringing the expected tidings; and two hours afterwards everybody in Tunis was—laughing at it. The prodigious achievement, which was to crush the insurrection and strike terror into the hearts of the Arabs in North Africa, had resolved itself into a simple promenade across forty miles of sandy desert, and the holy city had been yielded up without a blow being struck in its defence. It was quite evident that the Arabs were too clever to fall into the trap which had been so ostentatiously laid for them by the French. A battle at Kairwan would, according to French ideas, have justified the destruction of the city; whilst it would at the same time have crippled the power of the Arabs. But the Arabs are as far from subjection as they ever were.

We have a fresh instance of mismanagement in this capture of Kairwan. The plan of campaign was that the two columns of Susa and Zaghouan should meet in front of the city on Tuesday last. Somehow or other, however, they “missed their connexions,” as the Yankees would say. General Etienne performed his part; General Saussier, the superior officer, failed in his. Although he encountered but trifling resistance, his straggling and ill-arranged column could not arrive at Kairwan on Wednesday night. The funny thing is, that there is much indignation among the leading officers here against General Etienne! It is said that it was his first duty to await the arrival of his superior, and that he has shown “indecent haste” in fulfilling his instructions and reaching and occupying Kairwan. General Etienne, however, is the only man who has shown himself up to his work during this campaign. The work has not been very heavy, but such as it is he has done it well. On reaching the city, Colonel de Moulin was sent forward to communicate with the Governor, one of the Bey’s servants, and a man of much intelligence. A white flag had previously been hoisted on the tower of the great Mosque of Okba. The Governor explained to Colonel de Moulin that he was the loyal subject of the Bey, and was prepared to receive the French army as the allies of his Highness. He only begged that the mosques might be held inviolate, and that the army would be content with passing through the town, and would not attempt to take up quarters in it. Colonel de Moulin asked the Governor to come with him to the spot where General Etienne was awaiting the result of the interview. This the Governor did. After some conversation the French general intimated that he must take possession of the Kasbah, or citadel within the walls, but that in all other respects he would comply with the Governor’s wishes. The French column was thereupon formed up, and each battalion being headed by its trumpeters marched into the sacred city to the sound of shrill martial music. The streets were crowded with Arabs, arrayed in their burnouses of many colours, and all watched with interest the passage of the troops. Anger and indignation were depicted upon every countenance. Very little else was to be seen that was worthy of notice by the unwelcome guests for whom the city had opened its gates.

The streets are narrow, tortuous, and ill-paved; the houses of the prevailing Moorish type; and the great mosques are not particularly conspicuous so far as their exteriors are concerned. Within they contain many noble columns and antiquities, and curios of enormous interest and value. But no one was allowed to violate these shrines, within which no Christian foot has yet penetrated. There was general disappointment on the part of all when, the march through having been finished, the troops were brought out of the city, at the opposite gate to that by which they had entered. The detachment occupying the Kasbah was a small one, General Etienne feeling justified, in the absence of all resistance, in making this concession to the wishes of the Governor. He had previously given the latter to understand that he would hold him personally responsible for the maintenance of order within the walls. The situation chosen for the camp is good. It is within easy distance of the city, and has been entrenched—not because there is any fear of attack from the people of Kairwan themselves, but because of the possibility of a sudden raid from the neighbouring hills, into which the insurgent Arabs have fled for refuge.

Such is the story of the occupation of Kairwan by General Etienne; and it will be seen at once how tame a story it is. But though there has been nothing brilliant in this mean achievement, and though the struggle with the Arabs has been hardly advanced a single step by the occupation of this city, it has a degree of importance. The excitement and resentment among the Arab population of the Regency has been greatly intensified by an outrage upon a shrine which they have long regarded as sacred. Here in Tunis, the Arabs openly declare that the insult thus put upon their faith must be avenged in blood; and outside the city walls the populace is seething with rage. The hope which apparently prevails is that the Sultan may come to their assistance even now, and that with the aid of his troops they may avenge themselves upon the invader. It is to put an end to this hope that the Bey has been induced, or compelled, to issue a proclamation to his people. This proclamation, which appears on all the walls in the Arab quarter, states that the Sultan has sent his troops to Tripoli merely to preserve order, and that they are now about to be withdrawn. Still, the very fact that it should have been thought necessary to issue such a notice, shows how strongly the French are impressed with a sense of the danger which threatens them on that side. Nor is their anxiety groundless. Advices from Tripoli show that the excitement among the Mussulman population there is intense, and is being fomented by the action of fanatical preachers, who are passing from place to place, stirring up popular hatred against the infidel. Many hundreds of Tripolitans, including a large number of Turkish soldiers, have crossed the frontier, and are joining the Tunisian Arabs in these mountain fastnesses, in which they are preparing for the guerilla operations they evidently contemplate. It is, therefore, in that direction that the Tunisian question will probably next appear in a serious form.

Malta, Nov. 5th.—The rains were beginning to set in over Tunis when I left the Regency, and with the commencement of the rainy season the best authorities were agreed in believing that the fighting would cease. The Arabs have spent several months, during which no work could be done upon the land, in assailing their hated enemy, and they have inflicted upon him not only severe losses, but the necessity of taking the most costly and extensive measures for maintaining his hold upon the country. Now that the time is come when the natives must either attend to their fields or allow the next harvest to be entirely lost, those who know them best feel convinced of the course they will take. They will leave the mountains and come down to the plains, not to fight, but to work. A few months hence, when the harvest has been secured, there will probably be another insurrectionary movement, which will break out sporadically in all manner of unexpected places, and cause fresh trouble and expense to the French. For the present, however, there will be something like peace, save where General Saussier pursues his favourite occupation of having some unfortunate Bedouin hanged, simply to encourage the others. The moment seems, therefore, a favourable one for attempting some review of the situation as a whole.

Whatever may be thought about the morality of the transactions which have placed the French in command of Tunis—and I have spoken already with quite sufficient plainness on that point—the English public must make up their minds to one thing—that is, that France will not quit her hold of the prize she has now got within her grasp. I have spoken to many Frenchmen of influence and position who have visited Tunis during the past month for the purpose of learning the truth about the Tunisian question. There is not one of them who does not admit that the series of transactions which have ended by placing the tricolor on the Kasbah of the capital and the walls of Kairwan reflect dishonour upon the national name; there is not one who is not prepared to insist upon the exposure and punishment of M. Roustan and his entourage. But I have not met a single Frenchman who has expressed his willingness to retire from the country now that he sees France in actual possession of it. “What! give up Tunis now, after all the lives and the money we have spent in getting hold of it! Give it up after the tremendous price in honour we have paid to secure it! Never!” This is the French view of the matter; and even the Englishman who has been educated by recent transactions in Afghanistan and South Africa, must admit that there is some force in the prevailing French sentiment upon the subject. But whether that sentiment be just or not, let us at least not shut our eyes to the plain fact which stares us in the face—the fact that, whether M. Roustan is retained or dismissed, whether his conduct is denounced or applauded, nobody believes that France will retire from Tunis. There she is, and there she will stay, if for no other reason than because she has now such extensive financial interests in the country, that the clique of capitalists and jobbers who secretly control her foreign policy cannot afford to let those interests be sacrificed. But what must be the probable consequences of her retaining the prize she has succeeded in seizing by an act of international brigandage?

So far as other powers are concerned, there can be no doubt that Italy is the heaviest sufferer for the moment. The interests of Italy in Tunis far surpass those of any other country. Italian has hitherto been the European language used there in all commercial transactions; Italian capital has been most largely invested in the native industries; and the vast majority of the Christian population have hitherto claimed the protection of the Italian Consul-General. The Italians themselves will not deny that they have for a long time entertained a desire to do that which France has now done. They were the keen and eager rivals of Frenchmen in all the various enterprises designed for the development of Tunis. But either they were less bold or were more scrupulous than their competitors. At all events they had no M. Roustan to take the lead on their behalf, and thus, when the moment for action arrived, they were left hopelessly behind. It is impossible to exaggerate the rage and bitterness which now fill them against the French. If the two nations were actually at this moment at war with each other, the feeling could not be more hostile. Nor need we be surprised at this. The loss of the Italians in actual money in consequence of this transfer of Tunis to France is a very heavy one. The French, it must be understood, are not doing things by halves. They are already boasting that they will soon drive the last Italian capitalist out of Tunis, that the Goletta Railway (the purchase of which by an Italian company was the incident which fired the train of subsequent events) will soon be in their hands, and that before long they will be financially and commercially supreme.

All this the Italians see for themselves, and they are overwhelmed with chagrin at the spectacle. But they feel also that their prestige, and even their military position, has received a most serious blow. With the French at Bizerta and Goletta they maintain that they are unexpectedly outflanked. Various schemes have been put forward in Italy in order to secure some compensation for the injury thus inflicted upon the country. I find that in the important coast towns the favourite idea of the Italian residents is that Tripoli should be seized, in order to counterbalance the French acquisition of Tunis. But at Tripoli itself that idea finds no favour, even among the Italians; and the reason for this it is not difficult to discover. Neither from a financial, a military, nor a political point of view is Italy strong enough to secure Tripoli. Those who are on the spot are well aware of this, and they are most anxious to counteract the Chauvinist ideas of their fellow-countrymen at a distance. Let me add, that France herself would be worsted in any attack upon Tripoli. She may have the money and the men, but she lacks the power necessary to enable her to defy, not merely the Tripolitan Arabs, but the forces of united Europe. For the Italians to thrust themselves into the wasp’s nest from which the insurrectionary movement in Tunis originated, would be an act of supreme folly. To say nothing of the course which England would be bound to take in such a case—to say nothing of any resistance which might be offered by the regular Turkish army—the Arabs of Tripoli are themselves formidable enough to make any attack upon them by a State like Italy, a most dangerous if not a hopeless undertaking. They are far more fanatical than their co-religionists in Tunis; they are rich and brave; and at this moment they are eager to throw themselves across the border in order to revive the insurrectionary movement in the Regency. The attempt of any Christian power to interfere with them on their own territory would be the signal for the outbreak of a “Holy War,” compared with which that which has been waged in Tunis would be utterly insignificant.

Let me state, in proof of what I say as to the spirit which animates these Tripolitan Arabs, that I have ascertained during my trip down the coast that a subscription is actually being raised in Tripoli among the wealthier Moors for the equipment of a local militia, which may be ready to take its part in that war of race and religion for which every Tripolitan longs so earnestly. Italy must therefore give up the idea of Tripoli as an utterly hopeless one. It is difficult to see in what other direction she can obtain the compensation she covets. Nothing, for example, can counterbalance the French occupation of Bizerta, that noble harbour which may justly be styled the pride of North Africa—a harbour which, if improved, at a comparatively small expenditure, may be made equal to the requirements of the greatest naval power in the world. It has been suggested that Italy, which now holds Pantellaria, might convert that island into a naval and military position of value. No doubt, looked at simply upon the map Pantellaria seems to be in an admirable strategical position. It appears to guard the Malta channel and to cover the Tunisian coast. But I have been to Pantellaria, and I find it destitute of anything in the shape of a harbour. It can never vie either with Goletta or Bizerta as a naval station; and to make it even a position of moderate strength would demand that which Italy cannot afford—the expenditure of an almost unlimited amount of money.

It does not seem, therefore, that the Italians can obtain any adequate compensation for the loss of influence they have sustained through the action of the French. They must just submit, as other nations have had to do before them, to the aggressions of the strong. But the temper in which they have accepted that which they conceive to be the loss and humiliation to which they have been subjected does not bode well for the future peace of Europe.

I turn now to the position of England, and to the effects upon our own country of the French action in Tunis. In the first place, it cannot be doubted that down to the beginning of the present year the political position of England in Tunis was incomparably better than that of any other power. This was partly, it must be admitted, due to the exceptionally favourable way in which we were represented at the Court of the Bey. Mr. Reade has not only personal qualities and a vast experience which combine to make him a peculiarly able and powerful representative of his country in a State like Tunis, but he is the owner of that which in this part of the world may be called a really great name. His father, Sir Thomas Reade, who lies buried in the little English cemetery at Tunis, was for many years the most powerful and popular personage in the country. He was known by all the Arabs not as “the English Consul,” but as “the Consul.” Mr. Reade himself was born in Tunis, and his return to it to fill the place once occupied by his father was hailed with universal delight by the Tunisians themselves.

But since the signature of the May treaty he has occupied an entirely different position. Up to that time he was regarded as the representative of the nation which was the disinterested friend of Tunis; and from the Bey downwards the people of the country consulted him and trusted him. Since then, however, it has been seen that England either will not or cannot interfere to save the Regency from the clutches of the French; and as a natural and inevitable consequence, Mr. Reade is no longer regarded as a powerful mediator on behalf of Tunis. In one word, our political influence in the country, once all-powerful, has now been completely destroyed, as the result of the French aggression. That our commercial influence will suffer can hardly be doubted. At present England supplies Tunis with the greater part of the European goods she consumes. Manchester, Birmingham, Sheffield, and London stock her bazaars, and everywhere in the shops familiar English names meet the eye. But this cannot last under the existing state of things. The French are pushing their way with the keenest anxiety to drive us out of the market, and they are not slow to turn political events to their own advantage and to our detriment. We must therefore lose considerably from what has taken place in Tunis; whilst the position of our Maltese fellow-subjects, who have hitherto led prosperous lives there, must necessarily be changed very much for the worse.

There is, however, one point on which England suffers no material injury from French aggression in Tunis. So long as she continues to hold Malta she can afford to leave France to do as she pleases at Bizerta and Goletta. Neither of those ports can ever really compare in military strength with our grand harbour of Valetta; while the position of Malta, in the very centre of the Mediterranean, gives it strategical advantages of which no North African port can boast. I say nothing of what has been done by the Englishmen of past generations to increase the military and political value of Malta, though as one stands on the Barecca and surveys the splendid lines of fortification protecting the impregnable harbours in which our ironclads float in security, one cannot but feel grateful to the men who not only won this place for us, but who have guarded it since so well. Italy may feel that she has been outflanked by the seizure of Tunis; England, from the white heights of Malta, can watch the proceedings of the French with complete equanimity.

It remains for me to say a few words as to the effect of this Tunisian aggression upon France herself. Every man who is acquainted with the facts must feel that France will have to pay an enormous price for the “conquest” of M. Roustan—a price not to be measured in blood, money, or honour alone. She is already experiencing some of the results of the policy into which she has been lured. The exposure of military weakness and incompetence which has been made during the course of the campaign—a campaign which has been jealously watched on the spot by German observers—has done much to destroy the prestige and influence she was rapidly acquiring at Berlin. Prince Bismarck may now make his mind easy. The war of revenge is postponed indefinitely. But, on the other hand, Italy is not only estranged, but outraged. People in England have little idea how intense is the feeling of anger burning in the breasts of the Italians at this moment. You must go to Italy in order to learn the truth upon this point. The old sentiment of friendship which showed itself so strongly in 1870, no longer exists, and the Italians are longing for a chance of punishing France for what she has done in Tunis. The Arabs, again, are for ever estranged from their conquerors. They cannot hold their own against them. They have no arms capable of competing with those of France; nor have they military knowledge. But it is safe to predict that for years to come, under the new state of things, both in Algeria and Tunis there will be a constant waste of French life and money—a waste which might have been avoided but for the intrigues of M. Roustan. And at any moment France may find herself confronted by a deadly peril. She may have to choose between a dangerous rebuff in Tunis itself, and an attack upon Tripoli—an attack which would bring her into collision not only with Turkey, but with England, Italy, and Austria. Such are the Dead Sea apples borne by the tree she is now watering with her blood in Tunis.

THE END.

PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED, ST. JOHN’S SQUARE.

Transcriber's note:

- pg 114 Changed: at any noment to: moment

- pg 142 Changed: to be forgotton to: forgotten

- pg 260 Changed: spendid interior to: splendid

- pg 298 Changed: the excitewent among to: excitement

- Minor changes in punctuation have been done silently.

- Other spelling inconsistencies have been left unchanged.

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Table of Contents

- THE LAND OF THE BEY.

- CONTENTS.

- TO W. H. MUDFORD, Esq.

- INTRODUCTION.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- Transcriber's note:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE