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Title: Mountain life in Algeria

Author: Edgar Barclay

Release Date: August 10, 2023 [eBook #71379]

Language: English

Credits: Galo Flordelis (This file was produced from images generously
         made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOUNTAIN LIFE IN ALGERIA ***

                                ALGERIA


    _(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved)_


[Illustration]


                           MOUNTAIN LIFE IN
                                ALGERIA

                                  BY
                             EDGAR BARCLAY

                  _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR_

[Illustration]

                                LONDON
            KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
                                 1882




                             INTRODUCTION.

                               * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


  Wise through time and narrative with age

  In summer days like grasshoppers rejoice,

  A bloodless race that send a feeble voice.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




                        _LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS_

                         DRAWN BY THE AUTHOR.

                               * * * * *

                           PHOTO ENGRAVINGS.

  GOING TO THE FOUNTAIN                                _Frontispiece._

  POTTERY                                           _To face p._    32

  THE FOUNTAIN                                           „          40

  A MARKET                                               „          60

  THE RETURN HOME                                        „          82

  PLOUGHING                                              „          96

  WOMAN MOULDING VASES                                   „         102

  THRESHING                                              „         104

                           WOOD ENGRAVINGS.

  MEN MET AT AN OAK                                 _To face p._     1


           As man conversing man,

    Met at an oak.
                              POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxii.


  GATHERING OLIVES                                       „          16


  Like some fair olive, by my careful hand

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

                            POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xviii.


  MEETING                                                „          22


  The season now for calm, familiar talk,

  Like youths and maidens in an evening walk.

                             POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxii.


  SOWING                                                 „          44


                     And naked sow the land,

  For lazy winter numbs the lab’ring hand.

                         DRYDEN’S _Virgil_, Georgic i.


  JEWELLERY                                              „          56

  HEWING                                                 „          58


  ’Tis more by art than force of numerous strokes,

  The dexterous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks.

                          POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxiii.


  AMONG THE TOMBS                                        „         120



            As when ashore an infant stands,

  And draws imagin’d houses in the sands.

                              POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xv.



                         HEADINGS TO CHAPTERS.

                                                                  PAGE

  SHAKING AN OLIVE-TREE                                              1

  SHEEP AT A MARKET                                                 24

  GOATS AT A MARKET                                                 45

  SICKLING                                                          59

  BINDING SHEAVES                                                   86




[Illustration: MEN MET AT AN OAK.

      As man conversing man,

  Met at an oak.

                    POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxii.]

[Illustration]

                       MOUNTAIN LIFE IN ALGERIA.

                               * * * * *

                              CHAPTER I.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


  Then olives, ground in mills, their fatness boast.


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

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

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

[Illustration: GATHERING OLIVES.

  Like some fair olive, by my careful hand

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

                             POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xviii.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


  So on the confines of adjoining grounds,

  Two stubborn swains, with blows, dispute their bounds;

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

  One foot, one inch, of the contended field.


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

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

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

[Illustration: MEETING.


  The season now for calm, familiar talk,

  Like youths and maidens in an evening walk.

                            POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxii.]




[Illustration]

                              CHAPTER II.


                                           _Saturday, April_ 10, 1880.

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

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

_Sunday, April_ 11, 1880.—It blew hard during the night, and there
was a heavy fall of rain, it was cold too, so that the unprepared
Dominique was half-frozen to death, and we, not having more clothes
than were quite necessary for ourselves, were forced to borrow
wraps from the Fathers. On waking, behold, we were in the clouds and
drizzle, unable to see many yards, so we determined to mark Sunday
in the time-honoured fashion, by lying late a-bed. It rained all day,
and we left the tent, only to take a constitutional under umbrellas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Monday, April_ 12, 1880.—Another wet morning and dense mist. I
occupied myself with studying Kabyle. Before leaving Algiers,
M. Stora, a Jew, ‘interprète à la cour d’assise,’ gave
me a few lessons, the only man of education I could hear of,
who had knowledge of the language. I paid him about a dozen short
visits, when he kindly gave me all the assistance he could. I also
carried with me a Kabyle grammar, written some years ago by General
M. Hanoteau, and a French and Kabyle dictionary, compiled by the
Jesuits, which proved most useful.

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

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

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

_Tuesday, April_ 13, 1880.—It blew mightily during the night,
the wind roaring in the gulf beneath, and rushing over the crest on
which our tent was pitched, canvas shook and pole trembled; and the
possibility of tent-pegs being drawn, or cords snapping, caused us
unpleasant reflections. On waking in the morning, we found a group
of Kabyles waiting outside. They brought four handsome women’s
garments, and bargaining began, which ended in our buying these
dresses cheaply, considering the labour bestowed upon them. ‘It is
naught, it is naught, saith the buyer; but when he is gone his way,
then he boasteth.’

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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


  So from her babe, when slumber seals his eye,

  The watchful mother wafts th’ envenom’d fly.


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


  Some ply the loom; their busy fingers move

  Like poplar leaves when Zephyr fans the grove.


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

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


  The liquid crystal fills their polish’d urns;

  Each nymph exulting to the town returns.


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

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

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

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

_Wednesday, April_ 14, 1880.—What a night this was a prelude
to! Soon the wind, straight from the tops of the Jurjura, came
rushing and raging over the abyss below, and shook our tent, as
if it were a leaf on the point of parting from its bough. About
midnight there was a lull; we hoped that the worst was past. No;
we had as yet been treated only to the overture; the winds,
which seemed to have been collecting and gathering evil strength
in the valleys, suddenly rushed onwards again like wild beasts
determined to destroy us, roaring as they swept in fury through the
trees. I never heard such a storm, and we were sorely afraid that
no tent could stand it for long; sleep was out of the question,
we sat up all night ready against any emergency, for we dreaded
a catastrophe every moment. The central support was made of iron
tubing, with a cap at the top; this latter was carried away early
in the evening—a mishap that let in the wind between the canvas
and the lining; some of the attachments gave way, and the lining
flapped in an ungovernable manner. When it became light enough to
examine, we found most of the wooden pegs pulled out of the ground,
and the ropes fastened to gravestones broken; six long irons only,
driven in up to their heads, remained firm and had saved us. Thankful
we were that the tent was standing; it had stuck on bravely to the
mountain, like a limpet to a rock, when the rising waves rush over
it. It was a sirocco not to be forgotten. ‘As whirlwinds in the
south pass through, so it cometh from the desert, from a terrible
land.’ Later in the day, the wind somewhat abated in its fury,
but we remained in the tent, glad to take some repose.

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

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

_Thursday, April_ 15, 1880.—Several paths converged at the point
where we now found ourselves, the most frequented being a steep
lane leading to the fountain. It was shaded by trees whose branches
interlaced elegantly with pretty peeps on to the distance; from the
entrance to our tent we looked straight down this lane, towards the
spring about two hundred yards off. The word ‘spring’ would
suggest to most people simply water bubbling up and running off
in a diminutive stream; a better word to use in this instance is
‘fountain,’ the French ‘fontaine,’ which has a different
meaning to ‘spring,’ ‘source’—inasmuch as it implies a
basin, artificial or natural, combined with a natural welling-up
of water. Unfortunately, the word ‘fountain’ is applied also
to contrivances by which water is made to spout, the French ‘jet
d’eau.’ The Kabyle fountain in question is a natural spring
rising in the centre of a basin inclosed in a rude architectural
structure, having a double arched entrance and gabled roof. The water
is thus protected from dirt, dust, and the heat of the sun. By the
side where the women fill their pots is a second structure, much
dilapidated, reserved for the watering of beasts. The overflow is
conducted into a basin where the women wash clothes, and then runs
gurgling down the mountain-side. In an embowered nook, where there
are neat terraced beds of vegetables, little gutters are arranged,
so that at the end of the day the overflow can be conducted there;
when the bed nearest the fountain has been saturated, the water is
blocked off from the first trench with a spadeful of earth, runs
on to refresh the next, and so on till all the garden has drunk its
fill; when the rivulet, having done its work, regains its liberty.


  So when a peasant to his garden brings

  Soft rills of water from the bubbling springs,

  And calls the floods from high to bless his bowers,

  And feed with pregnant streams the plants and flowers;

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

  And marks the future current with his spade,

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

  Louder and louder purl the falling rills.


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

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

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

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

_Friday, April_ 16, 1880.—I awoke, hearing the lively chatter of
women. What a chirping there was! They spoke in a very high pitch
of voice, and the language, as pronounced by them, sounded very
different to that of the men. I peeped as discreetly as I could out
of the tent, and behold! the lane was thronged; there were scores
of them going to and fro, each with a pitcher on her head.

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

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

_Saturday, April_ 17, 1880.—To-day proved more spring-like. I
remained unmolested in the lane, whilst Muirhead went off to the
Kouba. Uncle Zaïd always behaved to Muirhead as an uncle should,
presenting him every day with clotted milk, hard-boiled eggs,
cakes and figs; he always refused payment, shook his head, smiled
blandly, pointed upwards with his forefinger, turned up his eyes,
and ejaculated ‘Errebbi, Errebbi!’ (God, God!) to indicate that
he acted thus merely to please the Almighty; let us hope that he
behaves as well to all poor folk who cross his picturesque hill. We
retaliated by giving dinner to his son and grandson, who came once
or twice to the tent; but the little chapel received no donation
from us. We continued our painting also at Thililit, and Thililit
vied with Ouarzin and Taourirt in hospitality to the stranger. The
Amine, a fine-looking man, with an agreeable countenance, offered us
a kouskous. We feared it would be hopelessly cold before arriving
at the tent; but it was so well wrapped up, that after a mile long
journey it remained hot. To-day the Kaïd, or President of the
Aïth Ménguellath, came over from Fort National on business. He
called during our absence, and left a message with Dominique, that
if the natives annoyed us, we were to complain to him. After this,
we went where we would without interference.

[Illustration: SOWING.

                    And naked sow the land,

  For lazy winter numbs the lab’ring hand.

                        DRYDEN’S _Virgil_, Georgic i.]




[Illustration]

                             CHAPTER III.


                    _Sunday, April_ 18, _to Thursday, April_ 22, 1880.

WE commenced fresh studies in a rocky ravine beneath Thililit,
where trees nodded over the steep path. These sketches were never
finished to our satisfaction, we were harassed by the sun, and
continual calls to make way for brushwood-bearing peasants, timid
cows, sheep, goats and kids. Much as I delight in goats and kids,
they are truly provoking when they roll down stones upon one’s
picture, or skip into the palette.

Provisions are cheap, twelve fresh eggs for nine sous, for two sous
more dried figs than can be piled in the hands. Every morning a lad
brought us a freshly-baked wheaten loaf, unleavened, in the form
of a round flat cake; we found this sweet and good, and ate it with
honey. The more general bread of the people is made of barley-flour,
but the sweet acorn of the ilex is also much used, and the natives
think this as good as barley-flour, and pay as much for it. The
poor are often reduced to a dinner of herbs; everyday we saw women
washing salads; one in particular we noticed, that looked like
celery, but which really was the midrib of the leaf of a thistle.

One morning a sportsman brought in a fat young boar that he had
shot in the valley beneath, we gave him ten francs for it, an
extravagant price, we learned afterwards. We presented the Fathers
with half the meat, and there remained as much as we could dispose
of. Dominique cooked well for us, but the contempt he entertained
for all things native was sometimes annoying; he professed himself
unable to swallow Kabyle bread, he said it made him ill; we always
therefore supplied him with French bread, from Fort National,
though we never ate it ourselves.

He is a fair specimen of a colonist, and abuses the natives in
unmeasured terms. How would the _colons_ get on without _les cochons
d’indigènes_? The former exist by first getting the Government
to give them a ‘concession’ of cultivated land belonging to the
‘indigène,’ and then employing the ex-proprietor to work for
them. The most flattering expression I ever heard a Frenchman use
towards the Kabyles was, ‘une race capable d’être assimilée.’
He doubtless thought this praise in the highest degree; but the
remark was not altogether free from French conceit, nor true,
except in the sense that a good beefsteak is assimilated when
swallowed by a man of large appetite and strong digestion.

Muirhead had been expecting for some days, a visit from his friend
W. B. R———, who had been spending the winter in Algiers, and
from H. M———, on a holiday trip from Gibraltar. On April 22,
the two appeared, having come from the Fort to reconnoitre before
bringing their tent. They decided to pitch alongside of us, and
shortly started on their way back.

_Friday, April_ 23, 1880.—We went to the market Souk-el-Jemāa, the
largest in the country, being held in the very heart of Kabylia, at
a point central for populous tribes; from one spot, thirty villages
can be counted on the adjacent hills. It was an interesting walk,
and there was again cause for wonder to find gradients so steep
carefully cultivated. The Kabyles


  Let no spot of idle earth be found,

  But cultivate the genius of the ground.


The ash, plentiful about the summit, is prized by the people,
not for the beauty of the trees, nor for the grateful shade they
cast over the paths, but because their leaves afford forage during
summer heats, when all herbage is parched. The boughs are lopped
to cause a number of small branches to shoot out, and thus increase
the quantity of leaves.

The fig plantations yield a most important harvest, dried figs being
one of the staple foods of the country. The trees were in their most
charming state, the beautiful mystery of silver-tangled stems not
obscured, but enhanced by the golden sprinkling of opening leaves.


  In spring, when first the crow

  Imprinting, with light step, the sands below,

  So many thinly scatter’d leaves are seen

  To clothe the fig-tree’s top with tender green.


The first-formed fruit drops off when half grown, to make place
for that which is to arrive at maturity. When at Fort National
last winter, I noticed dried figs hanging by threads from the
branches, I was informed these were wild ones, and that minute
insects escape, aiding the fructification of the plants from which
they are suspended; the Kabyles count thirty-two varieties of this
tree. Ilexes too were in full flower, with green bronze-coloured
tassels hanging in profusion. Not very dissimilar in appearance
were the cork trees, sober but refined in colour, combining a
certain quaintness with elegance of form. Vines everywhere twined
in great serpentine lines amongst the foliage. Lastly, on the lower
slopes were fine groves of olive; a tree which grows with a vigour
unmatched in Italy.

We scrambled down steep paths, and found ourselves at the foot
of the mountain; halting on a grassy slope, we heard the rush of
a torrent in its stony bed, mixed with the hum of voices of many
people, and looking over the edge of the slope, saw the market just
beneath. There, Kabyles were closely packed, like a swarm of bees,
and hundreds of white burnouses jostled among the olives. Rows of
rustic bowers were used as shops. In the centre was a fountain
for men, while the stream served for watering the animals; on
its banks flocks and herds were collected, and many animals had
already been slaughtered for the day’s consumption. In the market
all the commodities that Kabyles have need of were for sale. Here
were great piles of bowls and other utensils in wood; there all
sorts of earthenware vessels; in other quarters, burnouses and
articles of clothing, oil, figs, grain, skins, tobacco leaves,
and many other things. At every step there were varying pictures;
but the heat was great, and in spite of the interest of the scene,
we were soon glad to repose in the shade apart from the throng,
where we lunched, and I spent the rest of the day painting and taking
photographs. Besides supplying ourselves with meat and necessaries,
I bought a woman’s dress of singular design, splashed in a curious
way with patches of red; I also got pieces of cowhide, which were
made up next day into sandals, which are called ercassen. The women
usually do not attend the markets; a few however can sometimes be
seen in a knot by themselves with pottery for sale.

As we returned the Jurjura were almost obscured in mist, a sure sign
of approaching sirocco; the paths were crowded with peasants on
their way home, in good humour, well satisfied with their day’s
bargaining.

Kabyle paths are abrupt and rugged in the extreme; now running
up over masses of rock, a very knife-edge of the mountain; now in
steps passing between deep banks overgrown with ferns and flowers;
one moment darkened by overhanging trees, an instant after they open
upon a grand panorama, to twist again suddenly into some romantic
bower. As we approached our tent at dusk, there by the side of it,
was a second one, an army bell-tent, our friends having arrived
during our absence.

_Saturday, April_ 24 to _Tuesday, May_ 4, 1880.—These were the days
that they remained with us, most unfortunate as regards the weather,
for we were often enveloped in dense cloud, and could see nothing.


  Swift gliding mists the dusky hills invade,

  To thieves more grateful than the midnight shade;

  While scarce the swains their feeding flocks survey,

  Lost and confus’d amidst the thicken’d day.


So steamy was the air, that we hardly once saw the summits of the
higher mountains. A furious sirocco was succeeded by a short ominous
stillness, then a storm from the north enveloped us anew in cloud,
and opened the flood-gates of heaven to an accompaniment of thunder
and lightning; then a lull, to be followed by another storm and mist
and drizzle, till everything was saturated. During these doubtful
lulls, with breaks in the clouds as if it meant better things,
we rambled, for the sake of exercise, and to see what we could of
the country.


       When th’ embattled clouds, in dark array,

  Along the skies their gloomy lines display,

  When now the North his boisterous rage has spent,

  And peaceful sleeps the liquid element,

  The low-hung vapours, motionless and still,

  Rest on the summits of the shaded hill

  Till the mass scatters as the winds arise,

  Dispers’d and broken, through the ruffled skies.


More thunder-storms, more hopeful breaks, when, towards evening,
the sun would sink in golden glory beneath a troubled sea of purple
mountains, and tinge the phalanxed clouds with gorgeous colours.


  So when thick clouds enwrap the mountain’s head,

  O’er heaven’s expanse like one black ceiling spread;

  Sudden the Thunderer, with a flashing ray,

  Bursts through the darkness, and lets down the day.

  The hills shine out, the rocks in prospect rise,

  And streams, and vales, and forests strike the eyes;

  The smiling scene wide opens to the sight,

  And all th’ immeasur’d ether flames with light.


Thus would the declining sun shed rich gleams over wet grass and
dripping foliage. Near the tents, in a secluded corner, an ilex
on a knoll bent over an elegant ash, and a vine lovingly entwined
among their branches, spangled with its leaves the ilex’s sombre
mass as with gems of translucent green. Hard by, a warning to the
fated trees, a huge vine ungratefully strangled with its coils the
aged ash which had for so many years supported it.

During these days the Kabyles came in numbers to the tents, bringing
dresses and jewellery for sale; there was lively bargaining, and
we made many purchases.

Before the French came, there were no cotton dresses: these have now
become common, but the native woollen cloth is still usually worn.

The men’s dress consists of a woollen tunic, confined at the waist
with a belt, and a burnous; on the head is a close-fitting skull-cap,
much like those worn by monks; added to this, in the summer time,
is a plaited grass hat, very high in the crown, and with a huge brim,
which falls into picturesque lines when the hat is old and battered;
sandals complete the costume, though men often go barefoot as well
as bare-headed. They crop the hair short, for Kabyles are not so
careful about shaving as the Arabs.

The burnous is a white woollen cloak with a hood; it is closely
woven, is durable, and impervious to heat and cold; an admirable
piece of dress, designed with thorough good sense, and suited
perfectly to the habits and requirements of the people. Its make is
shown in the diagram, which supposes the cloak doubled and laid out
flat on the ground. It then forms a quarter of a circle, of which
the radius is the length from the neck to the ankle of the wearer,
_a b_. The width of an ample hood is added along one side, and the
hood itself forms a square in addition. The three strongly marked
lines, A, B, C, show where it is closed. At A, the cloth is doubled,
at B and C it is sewn together. From this it will be understood that
it is a garment woven all in one piece; no stuff has to be cut off,
and thus no labour is wasted in its manufacture.

The tunic or shirt, if doubled and laid out in the same way,
forms simply an oblong figure, with holes for the head and arms,
and open below.

[Illustration]

The burnous is worn in a multitude of ways. One of the ends hanging
down in front is thrown across the breast and over the shoulder;
or both sides are shortened, by being thrown up on the shoulders;
or the cloak, suspended from one shoulder, is passed round the
back, across the breast, and tucked under the armpit. Sometimes
the hood muffles the head, sometimes it is thrown back, or the
seam beneath the chin is put back to the nape of the neck, while
one elbow rests in the hood, which then plays the part of a deep
pocket. The burnous may also be shortened by hitching it up under
the arms, or the corners, knotted together, are slipped up to the
chin, or arranged to come at the back of the neck. Indeed, it is
twisted about according to fancy and convenience. The Kabyles have
one dodge for tucking it up when ploughing; another for making it
into a sort of sack to carry forage. When it is hot they wear it
one way; another when it is cold. As it is impossible to follow
these arrangements by simply watching the people, I got a Kabyle to
come for an afternoon and give me a regular lesson. I took notes,
twisted a burnous about my person in every conceivable fashion,
and felt much impressed with the knottiness of the subject.

The dress of the women is simpler than that of the men; and being
adjusted to the wearer’s person in a definite manner, it is,
luckily for comprehension, not so confusing as the burnous.

These dresses are called Aabans, and are strong and warm. Some are
plain, others have ornamental borders, or broad bands of divers
colours worked in geometric patterns; others again are covered all
over with such patterns; some are red, some an indigo blue.

Their character and style are of great antiquity, yet no two are
quite alike; the individual workwoman, while following a tradition,
reserves liberty for her own ingenuity and taste.

Before long these serviceable and interesting dresses will have
disappeared, and the unfortunate women will then feel the improving
effects of modern civilisation, by having nothing to wear but
villanous coloured pocket-handkerchiefs, and chilly white cotton
goods. Yes, alas! from the draperies of antiquity to dresses of
Manchester printed stuff, intended to be cut into handkerchiefs,
is a too easy and inevitable jump.

The dress, hanging very loosely about the arms, which are bare for
convenience, is sometimes kept closer to the figure, by a red band
which passes in a loop over each shoulder, and crosses at the back,
where it is ornamented with little red tassels. This is called
an Asfifi, and is a pretty feature. When the arms are raised, the
loose drapery hanging through the loops has much the appearance of
the full sleeve of the Italian peasant.

The Asfifi is interesting as explaining the origin of the corset of
the Moorish women, which at the back is only three or four inches in
depth; this is merely an Asfifi solidified. The tiny Moorish corset,
but little enlarged, was to be found in the old costume of Capri,
Procida, and Ischia, in which the corset only reached about half
way to the waist.

Shoulder-pins, called Ifizimen, are made of silver, often enriched
with coral and enamels, the fastening is just an Irish brooch; they
have in addition, triangular ornamented plates of metal attached to
the lower end of the fastening. These pins are sometimes connected
with a chain, to the centre of which is suspended a little metal box,
enamelled, and containing scent.

The girdle, which is called an Argooz, effective in appearance,
consists of a quantity of woollen plaits, the prevailing hue red,
bound together at points about eighteen inches apart, with cross
bindings of bright colours. These ties are sometimes of silk,
and the girdles are from fifteen to twenty feet in length.

On the head is worn a little peaked bonnet, like the French cap
of liberty. This is called a Timhárent. It is made by doubling in
half, lengthway, a broad silk band, and sewing up one side. It is
kept in its place by a second kerchief, bound round, and knotted
behind. These silk Timhárents come from Tunis. Many women allow
their hair to wave free, or confine it simply with a fillet.

A frequent ornament is a round silver brooch called a
‘Táfizimth,’ with an opening in the centre crossed by a
pin. Bosses of coral, as well as knobs of silver, which latter
have a very pearl-like effect, are dotted about it. These are
effective pieces of jewellery, and with the sun shining on them,
they glisten like moons. They are not adopted till a woman becomes
a mother. On the birth of a girl the Táfizimth is worn between the
breasts; on the birth of a boy, it is raised, and gleams above the
forehead. Remarking that many of these brooches offered for sale,
were damaged, a Kabyle gave a frank explanation which was: ‘When
a man’s wife was disobedient, and got beaten, her custom was to
undo the “Táfizimth” and dash it to the ground at his feet.’

There is another head-ornament, handsomer than this. It is called
a ‘Taasubth,’ and consists of a central silver brooch over the
forehead, and side brooches above the temples, enriched in the same
style, and with rows of silver gleaming semispheres completely
encircling the head, and forms a glittering tiara fit for a
princess. The ‘repoussé’ semispheres are about three-quarters
of an inch in diameter. I have seen this same ornament in Pompeian
jewellery.

Bracelets of ‘repoussé’ work, and sometimes silver anklets,
are worn. Necklaces are made of beads and coral, and also of cloves
and sweet-smelling paste, but a handsomer and more characteristic
sort, called a ‘Theslegth,’ is a row of square silver boxes,
containing scents, strung together with pieces of coral.

During the wet weather, I had plenty of time to study my Kabyle
Dictionary and Grammar; the school children also came and gave help
in learning the language; and as Kabyles sat in the tent nearly
all day, I had constant opportunities for trying to speak it, and
made progress. Our friends brought a servant rejoicing in the name
of Zachariah, who spoke Arabic; this was of service, and we called
upon him for help, when mutual ignorance brought conversation to a
dead-lock, as it often did. The Kabyles are such travellers that
in every village some speak Arabic; but there is not a woman in
the country who understands anything but Kabyle.

Zachariah was of a cheerful disposition, and made company for
the melancholy Dominique, who however did not grow more lively in
consequence. The latter used to lecture Zachariah, and give him
the advantages of his experience, describe mysterious and savoury
dishes that he had concocted in cities, and recount the perils to
be endured by colonists living amongst Arabs in the interior. His
chief complaint against Zachariah was, ‘Ce pauvre jeune homme
ne sait pas beaucoup, cependant il ne demande pas de conseil.’
Those were trying days for both men, when they had to cook in
the pouring rain. Dominique also was extremely disgusted at the
freedom with which we let natives sit in the entrance to our tent;
he periodically rushed in a perfect frenzy of rage, at the boys who
chaffed him, and ‘Dominique Marboul’ (Mad Dominique) became a
familiar expression in our ears.

One morning some Kabyles brought two very young boars to the
tents, little brown and yellow striped creatures. Zachariah,
taking a fancy to these genuine ‘cochons sauvages,’ bought
them for pets. Little boars, as they grow up, are said to become
much attached to their masters, nothing delighting them more than
to follow their benefactors incessantly, and by rubbing against
their legs, demonstrate their gratitude and affection. One of
these dear creatures was put out to nurse, given into the charge
of a Kabyle lad to rear, Zachariah undertaking to look after the
other himself. Part of our tent was partitioned off into a room for
Dominique. Zachariah slept there also; and he hid away his pet in the
corner, while Dominique sat opposite, predicting evil for it. The
pig had naturally no intention of remaining in one particular
spot; and on finding itself alone, went squeaking all about the
place, feebly enough, for it was weak and soon grew weaker. On
the second day it was ‘in extremis,’ with a pinched-up look
about the body. Zachariah, anxious about the brother out at nurse,
had it brought back and set by the fire for warmth. He was called
away, and meanwhile the little beast, shivering, toppled into the
glowing embers and was roasted. This tragedy was quickly followed
by the death of the surviving pig. During the night, while nursed
in Zachariah’s bosom, with a few faint squeaks, it closed its
brief and chastened existence.

[Illustration: JEWELLERY.]

_Tuesday, May_ 4, 1880.—H. M.’s leave of absence drew towards
a close. He and his comrade could no longer remain, and we were
obliged to part with their pleasant company. The mules were laden,
and we bade our friends ‘bon voyage.’

The trees were now in fulness of summer leaf, but in spite of
the rich and rapid growth of all vegetation, owing to the wet,
there was not that delicate brilliance which the opening burst of
spring presented.

It was just a month since we left Algiers, and we had completed so
little, that feelings of despair came upon us.

[Illustration: HEWING.

  ’Tis more by art, than force of numerous strokes,

  The dexterous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks.

                                  POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxiii.]




[Illustration]

                              CHAPTER IV.


                            _Wednesday, May_ 5, _to Thursday, May_ 20.

THE abnormal amount of wet delighted the Kabyles, for they knew
it meant heavy crops; and they had suffered from droughty seasons,
so that the olive harvest of the previous autumn had been an entire
failure. However it was most annoying to us. What had happened? What
had we done to deserve this? We began to consider the advisability
of making some offering to Uncle Zaïd’s Kouba, to propitiate
the gods.


                  For Jove his fury pours,

  And earth is laden with incessant showers,

  When guilty mortals break th’ eternal laws,

  Or judges, bribed, betray the righteous cause;

  From their deep beds he bids the rivers rise,

  And opens all the floodgates of the skies:

  Th’ impetuous torrents from their hills obey,

  Whole fields are drowned, and mountains swept away;

  Loud roars the deluge till it meets the main,

  And trembling man sees all his labours vain.


Weather permitting we painted, and as our days much repeated each
other, I shall not attempt to follow them regularly, but make
desultory remarks upon such things as struck me. One day we went
to a neighbouring market, Souk-es-Sebt; Saturday’s market. Unlike
Souk-el-Jemāa, this is held at the top of a bare mountain. In clear
weather this point must command a magnificent view; it was very fine
with the Jurjura wreathed in clouds. I have given an illustration
of men at a market selling fig-cuttings.


                     Some in deep mould

  Plant cloven stakes, and (wondrous to behold!)

  Their sharpened ends in earth their footing place,

  And the dry poles produce a living race.


These fig-cuttings look like unpromising bundles of dry sticks; but
‘as the earth bringeth forth her bud, and as the garden causeth the
things that are sown in it to spring forth,’ even so may the people
‘put on the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.’

Not till we arrived at the market did we perceive the reason for
its being held at such an inconvenient and exposed spot; we then
saw a number of villages before us, perched on the crests of
precipitous ridges.

The market is on the boundary between the Aïth Ménguellath and a
tribe called the Aïth or Beni Yahïa. Beni is the Arabic for ‘sons
of,’ the word Aït or Aïth has the same meaning in Kabyle. The
locality of markets is often on the boundary of tribal territories,
such as Souk-es-Sebt and Souk-el-Jemāa. Souk-el-Arba at Fort
National, on the contrary, is in the centre of the tribe Beni Iraten.

[Illustration]

Such points of junction were esteemed neutral in old days, when
the country was disturbed, and tribesmen could attend and transact
business in safety when it would have been dangerous to overstep
the limits of their own lands.

An institution that rendered travelling in safety possible when the
country was embroiled, is that called Anaya, which is a reciprocal
compact between two persons to guard each other from attack. A
traveller wishing to pass through antagonistic tribes, or for
any reason apprehending danger, sought a friend, who granted him
Anaya; this friend, if he did not accompany him gave some token,
to be presented in the tribe whither the stranger was going,
which would ensure the respect and hospitality due to himself;
the new host would in his turn offer the stranger Anaya, and so
pass him on in safety. Since the French have introduced settled
government, this custom has disappeared, or more truly speaking,
lies dormant, for I have myself met a Frenchman who assured me that
his life was saved by it in 1870. When the revolt broke out, he was
far away from home, but a native friend accorded him Anaya, and by
means of tokens, he was passed in safety to a French settlement,
though the country was in a flame.

A woman could give Anaya in the absence of her husband; it was in
consequence of its violation, that a war occurred in which several
tribes took part. It was ‘à propos’ of this same affair, that
the villages beneath which we were encamped received the names of
‘Taourirt en Taïdith’ (The Peak of the Dog) and ‘Ouarzen’
(the Ogre). The following is the story: A man of the Aïth Bou
Yousef, desiring to pass through the territory of the Aïth
Ménguellath, but fearing to fall a victim to the vengeance of
an enemy, presented himself at a house in Taourirt, and solicited
Anaya. His friend being absent, the wife gave him as token a dog,
well known about there as belonging to her husband. Shortly after,
the woman saw her dog return alone, covered with blood. Not knowing
what to think, she called friends together, who starting in quest of
the stranger, soon discovered his body disfigured with wounds, lying
at the bottom of a ravine. Indignation was felt at this perfidious
act; two parties were formed, and no terms of accommodation being
arrived at, fighting began.

The French first dominated this part of the country by marching
a column to Souk-es-Sebt, in 1854. The Aïth Ménguellath finding
themselves threatened, tendered submission; three years later, in
conjunction with other tribes, they rose in arms. They were then
attacked by General Macmahon, who carried their villages by storm,
and consigned them as a prey to the flames.

The tribe of the Beni Yahïa was in former days the nucleus of a
Kabyle state known to Spanish writers as Cuco, which was also the
name of their chief town. It corresponds with the confederation
of the Zouáoua. The outlet of the country was by the roadstead of
Azefoun, where commerce was transacted with the Marseillese. Marmol,
who wrote A.D. 1573, gives an account of the country which answers
to its present condition; and he speaks of the warlike inhabitants,
who recognised no master, and paid tribute to none. They were rich
in corn, in flocks, and horses, and though constantly fighting,
they had free markets on neutral ground, where hostile tribes could
do business without fear.

History does not deign to speak much about the Kabyles. These
mountaineers appear to have remained generally untouched by the
political movements that distracted North Africa. A little book by
A. Berbrugger, ‘Les Epoques Militaires de la Grande Kabylie,’
published 1857, enters into details of their history, though
the author has difficulty to find continuous firm ground for his
statements. What he makes evident is, the unchanging character of
the people, their troublesome and dangerous qualities as neighbours,
and the pertinacity with which they were always ready to fight for
their independence.

Ebn Khaldoun, himself a Berber, and the historian of the race,
wrote towards the end of the fourteenth century. He speaks of the
confederation of the Zouáoua, and gives the names of tribes, many of
which still exist. It is to the Zouáoua that the word Zouave owes
its origin. The Kabyles were then less exclusively confined to the
mountains, and many led a nomadic life in the adjoining plains. They
were dressed in striped garments, one end of which thrown over the
shoulder, floated behind, they also had heavy burnouses, black,
and of a tawny brown colour, and went generally bareheaded, only
shaving from time to time.

One day, in the Aïth Ménguellath, I met an old man with a burnous
striped all over with thin dark lines of blue, and further ornamented
with chess-board patterns; this I bought off his back, as it was
the only thing of the sort I had seen in the country. As the ends
of the burnous are commonly flung over the shoulder, I conclude that
the striped garments mentioned by Ibn Khaldoun were of this nature;
though possibly he refers to striped cloths such as are still worn
by the women.

Throughout the long dominion of the Romans, the Berbers were
continually breaking the peace, and were rather hemmed in, and
overawed, than assimilated to the higher civilisation surrounding
them.

In those times they were known under the name of the Quinquegentians,
or five tribes, and various proofs can be brought to show that they
were of a very refractory character. For instance a Roman inscription
preserved at Aumale, runs to this effect: ‘To Q. Gargilius,
victim of the attacks of the Bavars, on account of the love he
bore the citizens, and his single-minded affection for his country,
and besides, on account of his courage and vigilance in taking and
killing the rebel Faraxen with his partisans, the municipal body
of Auzia, at its own cost, has raised and dedicated this monument,
24 March 221 of the province.’ Or 261 A.D.

The word Faraxen is supposed to apply to the leader of the Beni
Fraousen, one of the present principal tribes.

The war of Firmus, an account of which is given by Gibbon, took
place in these regions. An outline of the revolt in a few words,
is this: The Roman governor of Africa, Count Romanus, instead of
protecting the colonists against the inroads of the tribes, sought
only by unjust oppressive measures to benefit his own pocket, and
having powerful friends at court, he was able to hide his iniquitous
proceedings from the Emperor. At this time Nubal was chief of the
Zouáoua. He had many sons, some natural, some legitimate. Zammer,
a natural son and friend of the governor, was killed in a dispute
by a legitimate son, Firmus. He, in order to avoid threatened
punishment, revolted, and the rising became formidable on account of
the disordered state of the province. This was about A.D. 370. To
quell the rebellion, Count Theodosius was sent over to Africa, he
landed at the modern Gigelli, and proceeded to Setif, and shortly
advanced with an army to Tribusuptus, the present Bordj Tiklat, some
twenty miles from Bougie, where Roman ruins exist in abundance. From
this point he proceeded to attack the Quinquegentians. The names of
the tribes mentioned are the Tindenses, Massinissenses, Isaflenses,
Jubaleni, and Jesaleni. The Massinissenses are still to be recognised
under the name of the Imsissen; Massen Issa, meaning the sons of
Aïssa; the Isaflenses are the Iflissen; the Jubaleni appear to be
the mountaineers of the Jurjura, for the Romans were checked in their
attack on them, on account of the difficult nature of the country.[2]

The war, after continuing for some time, was brought to a close by
the Kabyle chief Firmus destroying himself, to avoid being given
up by Igmazen, the chief of the Isaflenses, to the victorious
Romans. The principal interest of the story of the war is, that it
shows the possibility of tracing certain tribes up to this remote
period; it proves also to what an extent they were independent, and
on what turbulent terms they lived with their neighbours; a state
of things which continued till they were conquered by the French.

The Romans on going to North Africa, found native Berber kingdoms,
Numidia, Mauretania, Gætulia, Lybia. The inhabitants of these
kingdoms were all of one race, and spoke dialects of the same
language, usually known as Berber, but the native name for it is
Tamazirght or Amazirgh.

In all the more inaccessible places of North Africa their direct
descendants are to be found; they speak varieties of the old
language, and have the same character and institutions.[3]

Berber belongs to a class of languages named Hamitic, which comprises
ancient Egyptian, Coptic, and Ethiopian languages. An obvious
peculiarity which strikes an Englishman, is the prevalence of Th
sounds, both hard and soft, as in the English words ‘the’ and
‘thin.’ T is often softened into Th, and S into Z. But natives of
the same village do not always pronounce words alike. For instance,
one would say Aït Ménguellat, another the Aïth Ménguellath. Other
peculiarities there are, upon which I need hardly enter.

Those who have not tried the experiment, can hardly be aware of the
difficulty of writing down the speech of an illiterate peasant, in
which sounds recur which do not exist in European language. It would
require an intimate knowledge of the various sections of the Berber
race, to have a just appreciation of their language, classified as
Morocco Berber, called Shilha, or Tamazirght, descended from ancient
Mauretanian; Berber of the Jurjura and Aures mountains, or Kabyle,
descended from ancient Numidian; Touareg from ancient Gætulian;
and Ghadames from ancient Garamantian.

The number of localities in Kabylia where traces of the Romans
have been found, are too numerous to mention. On the coast were
the towns of Saldæ, the modern Bougie; Rusuccurum, now Dellys;
and Rusazus, now Azeffoun. There are ruins of importance at Taksebt
on Cape Tedles, and at Jemāa-es-Sahridj, a central point in the
tribe of the Beni Fraousen. This latter spot I visited in 1873. Its
site is beautiful, and celebrated for abundance of springs. I have
a pleasant recollection of the songs of nightingales among shady
groves, and of the courteous manners of the rural chief, who was
entertaining his friends beneath a cane-trellised arbour; but I
cannot say I was much impressed by the antiquities, which consist
chiefly of rubble walls on the top of a hill. In the market-place
are blocks of masonry, supposed to be the remains of a Roman
bath. It is obvious to the most uninitiated in military matters,
that a station here must have blocked the natural outlet from the
higher mountains towards the sea. Since my visit, a flourishing
school has sprung up under the superintendence of the Jesuits.

The Kabyles, engaged in internal disputes and struggles to maintain
their independence, having their simple wants satisfied by rude
manufactures and the land they tilled, never had intercourse with
nations more advanced than themselves, and felt not their own
deficiencies. Every man guarded above all things his individual
liberty, with a jealousy that prevented him combining with others
to carry out any works of importance, and none had the capital
which might have induced the many to labour for an end in common;
the only sentiment of sufficient strength to bind them together was
fear of the invader. From time immemorial Kabylia has been the home
of peasant proprietorship, of communism, of local self-government
with popular assemblies, of social equality; but owing to the
limited resources of the country, to the crude notion that the
people have of liberty, and to an excess of the democratic spirit,
their civilisation has crystallised in a primitive form.

The French have now changed all this, and hold the country with a
firm hand. But in 1870 they were obliged to withdraw from Algeria
most of their troops in order to fight the Germans.

Incited by ill-judging men, the native tribes unhappily thought the
moment to strike for independence had come; they rose, and committed
barbarous and frightful excesses; though, to be just towards them,
the cruelties they had themselves suffered from must be borne in
mind. The Franco-German war over, the troops returned and put down
the revolt. The French, full of the bitterest feelings, confiscated
the rich wheat-growing lands, and imposed a crushing war tribute,
that it took the Kabyles five years to pay. Complete disarmament was
also effected, and the country became for the first time safe. Fort
Napoleon sustained a long siege without being the worse for it, and
changed its name to Fort National, with this new era of ‘Liberté,
Égalité, et Fraternité.’

It was defended by native troops, who thus proved their fidelity
under the most painful circumstances. Great numbers of Kabyles
have been ruined, and forced to gain their bread by working for
the French, and many disgusted with the state of things, have fled
to enjoy the license of the native province of Tunis, in districts
remote from the hated foreigner.[4]

A knowledge of French is essential for natives who desire to gain a
livelihood by working for Europeans, and likewise in the settlement
of disputes, which otherwise are fostered by go-betweens, who thrive
on the ignorant by pretending to advance their interests with those
who govern. It is specially to this work of education that the
missionary Fathers apply themselves. They are a society recognised
by the State, on the understanding that they do not interfere with
the religion of the people. There is besides, little temptation for
them to do so, as the jealousy of the natives would be aroused,
and their influence with them consequently lost. Truly it would
be foolish to cherish fallacious hopes of converting the Kabyles;
they respect the sincerity of the Fathers, but there are too many
nominal Christians in the land, who, the natives remark, do not
believe in their own Marabouts.

The Fathers are the only Europeans that the natives think
disinterested friends; the single-minded devotion with which they
give themselves to a useful and philanthropic mission, causes them
to be universally honoured. An extensive field lies open; so much
so, that one is struck by the disproportion between means and aims;
they are a forlorn hope of Christian knights valiantly assaulting
the stronghold of ignorance; men doing battle on the summit of a
scaling ladder, without sympathy given by the army encamped at a
distance. Until these schools were founded, the natives picked up
French under difficulties. The following translation of a song,
will give the reader their sentiments concerning their study of
the language:


                                 SONG.

  The day on which ‘bon soir’ was revealed to us,

  We received a blow on the jaw.

  We were nailed in prison.


  The day on which ‘bon jour’ was revealed to us,

  We received a blow on the nose.

  Blessings have ceased.


  The day on which ‘merci’ was revealed to us,

  We were taken by the throat.

  A sheep inspires more fear than we.


  The day on which ‘cochon’ was revealed to us,

  A dog had more honour than we.

  The farmer has bought a mule.


  The day on which ‘frère’ was revealed to us,

  We received a kick on the knee.

  We wade in shame up to the breast.


  The day on which ‘diable’ was revealed to us,

  We received a blow which made us mad.

  We have become porters of dung.


One lovely day, bright and cloudless, on approaching the cemetery
of Thililit, we heard the chanting of many voices. There was
a funeral. The corpse, wrapped closely round in a white sheet
and carried on a stretcher, was laid on the ground; a Kabyle sat
beside and led the chant, while the friends of the dead man, in
picturesque groups, stood round the grave; one carried a crown of
oleander. The body was lowered, the earth filled in, and flagstones
fastened down on the top; there was another chant, and then the
people dispersed. The cattle, sheep, and goats grazed unconcernedly
around; the pastoral pipe but halted an hour in its soft-toned
warblings. When it recommenced, it might perchance have mourned
the loss of a brother piper, in the fashion of antique measures:

‘The fountain nymphs through the wood mourn for thee, and their
tears become waters; and echo amid the rocks laments, because thou
art mute, and mimics no more thy lips; and at thy death, the trees
have cast off their fruit, and the flowers have all withered; good
milk hath not flowed from ewes, nor honey from hives, but it has
perished in the wax, wasted with grief; for no longer is it meet,
now that thy honey is lost, to gather that.’

The long line of mourners issuing from the cemetery was a beautiful
spectacle; golden reflections in shadowed burnouses harmonising
charmingly with the lichened tombstones. A youth only remained
behind, the son of the deceased; he sat upon the tomb wailing.

I have sometimes seen locks of hair laid upon graves, reminding of
similar Greek offerings.

In the play of ‘Electra,’ Orestes says:—


                    first honouring my father’s grave,

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


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


                        And then do thou,

  Cutting the highest locks that crown thy head,

  Yea, and mine also, poor although I be,

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

  Give to him; yes, this lock, untrimmed,

  Unmeet for suppliant’s vow.


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

Chrysosthemis, the younger sister, says:—


  And lo! my father’s bier was crowned

  With garlands of all flowers that deck the fields;

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

  Lest any man should still be hovering near;

  And when I saw that all the place was calm,

  I went yet nearer to the mound, and there

  I saw upon the topmost point of all

  A tress of hair, fresh severed from the head.


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

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

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

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

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

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

Eagles also are common, some of great size.

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

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

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

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

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

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


  Thus in the season of unclouded spring,

  To war they follow their undaunted king,

  Crowd through their gates, and in the fields of light

  The shocking squadrons meet in mortal fight.

                 (. . .) this deadly fray

  A cast of scatter’d dust will soon allay,

  And undecided leave the fortunes of the day.


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


  Dusky they spread a close-embodied crowd,

  And o’er the vale descends the living cloud.


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


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

  Pour from their mansions by the broad highway,

  In swarms the guiltless traveller engage,

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

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

  Assert their waxen domes, and buzzing progeny.


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


       When wasps from hollow crannies drive

  To guard the entrance of their common hive,

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

  They strike th’ assailants, and infix their stings.

  A race determined that to death contend.

  So fierce these Greeks their last retreats defend.


And again—


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

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

  Bold son of air and heat, on angry wings

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


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

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

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


  And owls that mark the setting sun, declare

  A star-light evening and a morning fair.


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

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

_May_ 21 to _June_ 14, 1880.—The wet season came at last to
a close, and we were favoured with the most perfect weather
imaginable. The heat was by no means oppressive, and the air was
bracing and life-giving, the sky was of exquisite colour, and the
light so intense that the tops of the trees seemed frosted with
silvery flashing lights. All snow had disappeared from the high
mountains, except here and there a minute patch; a pale apple-green
played on their slopes mixed with delicate rosy grey tones, a mass of
subtle glowing tints softened by the purple bloom of distance. The
azure of the sky appeared to soak into the landscape and blend with
the flesh-tint of the distant soil. Fallow fields, as if stirred by
a secret spirit of joy they could no longer restrain, brought forth
a multitude of wild flowers, whilst the corn turned by degrees from
green to gold. The natives changed their hours for going a-field,
becoming more matinal. On the first signs of approaching dawn,
the birds broke out in a concert of melody; this was followed by
the pleasant chattering of the women going to draw water. When the
sun rose and ‘tipped the hills with gold,’ the men appeared
with their flocks.


  Haste, to the stream direct thy way,

  When the gay morn unveils her smiling ray;

  Haste to the stream!


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration]

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


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

  Come now—to the place we have spoken of.


  Oh grafted apple! thy love kills me!

  An old grey head reposes on thy arm.


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

  Oh sweet apple! grafted upon a root.


  Beauty to marvel at have the Aïth Ouagóuenoun,

  Their skin is sleek, their eyes are dark.


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

  When Yamina goes forth, kiss me her little cheek.


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

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

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

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


  Let the faithful threshold greet,

  With omens fair, those lovely feet,

    Lightly lifted o’er;

  Let the garlands wave and bow

  From the lofty lintel’s brow

    That bedeck the door.


  See the couch with crimson dress

  Where, seated in a deep recess,

    With expectation warm,

  The bridegroom views her coming near;

  The slender youth that led her here

    May now release her arm.


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

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

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




[Illustration]

                              CHAPTER V.


                                         _June_ 16 _to June_ 24, 1880.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


  So some simple swain his cot forsakes,

  And wide thro’ fens an unknown journey takes;

  If chance a swelling brook his passage stay,

  And foam impervious cross the wanderer’s way,

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


  So when two lordly bulls, with equal toil,

  Force the bright ploughshare through the fallow soil,

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

  And trace large furrows with the shining share:

  O’er their huge limbs the foam descends in snow

  And streams of sweat down their sour foreheads flow.


A similar picture is given in the ‘Georgics.’


  While mountain-snows dissolve against the sun,

  And streams yet new from precipices run,

  Ev’n in this early dawning of the year

  Produce the plough, and yoke the sturdy steer.

  And goad him till he groans beneath his toil,

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


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


  Mark well the flow’ring almonds in the wood.

  If od’rous blooms the bearing branches load,

  The glebe will to answer the Sylvan reign,

  Great heats will follow, and large crops of grain.


There is a more detailed account of ploughing in the ‘Works and
Days’ of Hesiod; it is so faithful a picture in all particulars
of what I have seen in Kabylia, that I cannot refrain from quoting
a few sentences. He mentions the arrival of the cranes from Africa
as a sign for commencing work. In Kabylia they remain all the
winter through.

[Illustration]

‘Mark too when from on high out of the clouds you shall have heard
the voice of the crane uttering its yearly cry, which both brings
the signal for ploughing and points the season of rainy winter,
but gnaws the heart of the man that hath no oxen. Then truly feed
the crumpled-horned oxen remaining within their stalls; for it is
easy to say the word, “Lend me a yoke of oxen and a wain,” but
easy is it to refuse, saying, “There is work for my oxen.”
But when first the season of ploughing has appeared to mortals,
even then rouse thyself. “Pray to the gods,” that they may load
the ripe holy seed of Demeter, when first beginning thy ploughing,
when thou hast taken in hand the goad at the extremity of the
plough-tail, and touched the back of the oxen dragging the oaken
peg of the pole with the leathern strap. And let the servant boy
behind, carrying a mattock, cause trouble to birds whilst he covers
over the seed. For good management is best to mortal man, and bad
management worst. Thus, if the Olympian god himself afterwards give
a prosperous end, will the ears bend to the ground with fulness;
and thou wilt drive the cobwebs from the bins, and I hope that thou
wilt rejoice, taking for thyself from substance existing within.’

He concludes by pointing out the right seasons, and says that even
a late sower may reap plenteously, if at the first sound of the
cuckoo in mid-spring there be three days’ steady rain.

In Kabylia I have seen ploughing as late as the middle of April,
and followed by much wet, the labour was repaid with a heavy crop.

‘But if you shall have ploughed late, this would be your remedy:
When the cuckoo sings first on the oak-foliage, and delights mortals
over the boundless earth, then let Jove rain three days, and not
cease, neither overtopping your ox’s hoof-print nor falling short
of it; thus would a late plougher be equal with an early one. But
duly observe all things in your mind, nor let either the spring
becoming white with blossoms, or the showers returning at set
seasons, escape your notice.’

In the valleys there are a great many cranes; being unmolested,
they become very tame, and are often seen following the plough;
the ploughman gives no heed as they stand gravely looking on,
or demurely follow his steps.

So the Sicilian reaper sang at work of his love,


  The wolf follows the she-goat, and the crane the plough,

  But I am maddened after thee;


suggesting that he followed her furious when she fled from him,
demurely, and in a state of expectancy for favours to turn up,
when she disdainfully suffered his company.

These birds are white, the tips of the wings and tail black,
the bill and legs orange. They fly with a flapping motion, and
with outstretched necks, like wild duck. It is delightful to watch
them settle; they descend with such a grand self-possessed sweep,
suddenly they drop their long yellow legs, and stretch them a little
forwards; at that instant they touch the ground, half a second later
they are poised and calm, as if they had been standing an hour in
meditation. There is sometimes a flock of cranes about a village,
where they build on the gourbis or cane-roofed huts. Towards evening
they sit in their nests, and make a peculiar rattling noise, by
holding the neck back and rapidly clashing the raised bill:


  Like a crane, or a swallow, so did I chatter.


I dined one evening at the house of Salim, the jeweller of the
village of Aït l’Arba. He showed me beautiful pieces of old
jewellery that he keeps as patterns; and took me to his workshop,
where four or five men were busy. Most of the ornaments which he
makes for natives as well as for officers at the Fort, are of small
value; but he is quite capable of making as handsome pieces as of
old, if people will give the money. A jeweller of Taourirt Mimoun
also showed me large Tafizimen beautifully worked. I never saw such
out of the country.

Now that the natives are less well off than they used to be, it can
be said of them, as it was of another people of old: ‘In that day
the Lord will take away the bravery of their tinkling ornaments about
their feet,’ ‘their round tires like the moon, the chains, and
the bracelets, and the mufflers, the bonnets, and the ornaments of
the legs, and the headbands, and the tablets, and the ear-rings,’
‘the changeable suits of apparel, and the mantles.’

Let us trust that the following verse is not likewise about to
become applicable. ‘And it shall come to pass, that instead of
sweet smell there shall be stink; and instead of a girdle a rent;
and instead of well-set hair baldness; and instead of a stomacher
a girding of sackcloth; and burning instead of beauty.’ For the
pride of the people is cast down, and their spirit broken, and ‘in
that time shall the present be brought unto the Lord of hosts of a
people scattered and peeled, and from a people terrible from their
beginning hitherto; a nation meted out and trodden under foot.’

The blacksmiths at their forges were busy making cutlery. The
shape of the knives is always pleasing, and they have sometimes
inlaid work. The cheap knives in carved wooden sheaths, that are
hawked about Algiers, come from here. In former days, they used
also to manufacture guns with long barrels and highly ornamented
stocks. These forges are tempting warm nooks in the winter time.

The turning of wooden bowls and dishes is another industry. The piece
to be turned is fixed to a chuck revolving backwards and forwards,
instead of continually in one direction, as in our lathes. The
action is given by a thong lapped round the chuck, attached at
one end to a pliable stake fixed in the ground, and at the other,
to a treddle worked by the foot of the turner. The action is thus
of the same nature as that of a drill worked with a bow.

The women here do not carry their pitchers on their heads, but
on their backs. The vases are pointed at the bottom, just like
ancient amphoræ. The point rests on the girdle, and the jar is
thus steadied, the action of carrying them is not so graceful as
the balancing on the head, which always causes a fine carriage.

The women are the only potters, and these amphoræ are made by them
in the following manner: A store of clay, cleaned, and properly
tempered, is kept at hand in the shade. A rough saucer of clay is
first placed on the ground in a sunny spot. On this a woman begins to
model a vase; starting with the solid pointed end, she carries the
body up a certain height and leaves it. A second is then begun, and
carried to the same point of completion, and so on till half-a-dozen
are growing up. Returning to the first, which meanwhile has been
drying in the sun, she continues to form the body, bending over,
and stepping round and round, with one hand inside she supports
the clay as it is added, and with the other smoothes, shapes, and
moistens it as required. The sunlight playing on the wet yellow
clay has a pretty effect, and when half formed, the vases have
almost the appearance of strange gigantic crocuses. In spite of
the rudeness of the method, the vases come quickly to completion,
and are wonderfully true in shape. The bodies and the spouts with
curled-over lips finished, she sits on the ground and models the
handles; before the close of day she will have carried half-a-dozen
large amphoræ into the courtyard of her house, where they are left
to dry. As they harden they are rubbed with a smooth piece of wood,
laid in the sun, rubbed again, and so on, till they look quite
polished. When in this state I have seen them glisten to such a
degree that I was under the impression they were waxed. In this I
was mistaken, for the wife of the Amine of Taourirt el Hadjadj, a
good potter, assured me the polish was produced simply by rubbings
as described. The point is interesting, because other wares are
found polished instead of glazed. To complete her work, the potter
again sits down, and holding a vessel paints different parts with red
ochre, and a variety of patterns drawn in black lines with peroxide
of manganese. A number of vases having been wrought to this state,
are put into an open kiln or firepan in the ground, packed with a
quantity of wood, which is ignited, and they are thus baked. Often
a final vegetable varnish is passed over them.

Lamps are curiously constructed, consisting of two or three rows of
little cups to hold oil one above another; each cup is connected by
a small hole, with an indented projection in front, which serves
to hold the wick. Beneath is a basin to catch the drip, and the
whole is supported on a strong round base.

[Illustration]

It is singular that the Kabyles, so proficient in moulding vases,
dishes, and lamps, and in ornamentation, should yet be unacquainted
with such a simple and ancient device as the potter’s wheel. This
fact points in a very significant manner to the isolation in which
they have lived. I have previously described how, in weaving,
the woof is passed through the warp with the fingers instead of
with a shuttle, a curious proof of the same thing. There is a good
collection of Kabyle pottery in the Museum of Native Industries at
Algiers, showing great skill, originality, and fancy in the shapes
and in the patterns drawn on them.

In Commander Cameron’s ‘Across Africa,’ he describes a woman
near Tanganyika Lake making pots, and says that ‘the shapes are
very graceful and wonderfully truly formed, many being like the
amphoræ in the Diomed at Pompeii.’

A vase ending in a point appears at first sight to be an inconvenient
arrangement; but it is well adapted to be carried on the back,
it cannot be left out in the open, where it is most likely to be
exposed to knocks, but must be put away in some corner, when the
peg holds it firm.

The fields were now becoming denuded of their crops, and the corn was
piled in sheaves on the flat ground about the tent. ‘Some on their
part indeed were reaping with sharp sickles the staff-like stalks
laden with ears, as it were a present of Ceres. Others I wot were
binding them in straw ropes, and were laying the threshing floor.’


  While the reaper fills his greedy hands,

  And binds the golden sheaves in brittle bands.


A few days before I left, threshing began. The preparations surprised
me. A party of women brought from the village a large supply of
cow-dung, which they mixed with water and spread out. On asking why
they made that mess, I was told it was to keep the corn clean. The
layer, spread in a large circle, very soon dried hard. The peas (for
they began by threshing peas) were heaped upon it, and two yoke of
oxen driven over them; a man followed each yoke, and they circled
round and round all the afternoon, till the haulm was broken up,
and the peas knocked out.


  Thus with autumnal harvests covered o’er,

  And thick bestrown, lies Ceres’ sacred floor,

  When round and round, with never-wearied pain,

  The trampling steers beat out th’ unnumbered grain.


When the wind blew freshly, they threw the stuff into the air with
wooden pitchforks, and the chaff was winnowed away in clouds.


  And the light chaff, before the breezes borne,

  Ascends in clouds from off the heapy corn,

  The grey dust, rising with collected winds,

  Drives o’er the barn, and whitens all the hinds.


The night after the arrival of my Kabyle servant, he came running
into the tent while I supped, to tell me that no less than
ten assassins were waiting outside. This news did not upset my
appetite, nor was it so alarming as it sounds; the word assassin
being the Kabyle for guard. It was a curious coincidence to be
sitting surrounded by ‘Assassins,’ while the spurs of the
mountain facing me were inhabited by the Beni Ismael.

In the Lebanon are tribes known as Assassins. It was the name of a
noted fanatical sect of the Ismaelites (one of the great sections
into which Mohammedanism split) formed in the eleventh century in
Persia and Syria. In the latter country their chief stronghold was
in the neighbourhood of Beyrout, and their history is interwoven
with the Crusades.[7] Owing to the objectionable methods by which
they sought to increase their power, their name was carried by the
Crusaders into Europe, and in several modern languages has become
a term expressive of cool premeditated murder. The origin of the
word has been discussed by the learned, and M. Sylvestre de Sacy
narrates a curious story of Marco Polo’s, which has induced
him to derive the word from ‘Hashishin.’ This is the Arabic
for ‘herbs;’ and he endeavours to prove that the Ismaelites,
who committed so many crimes, were great smokers of Hashish, a
well-known intoxicating preparation of hemp leaves. I leave the
etymology of the word to others, but confess that the theories
proposed appear quite fanciful. Moreover the word is far older
than the date assigned to it by M. Sylvestre de Sacy; for it occurs
in the Bible in reference to a disturbance in the Holy Land. When
St. Paul was arrested in Jerusalem, on addressing himself to the
Roman tribune, the latter exclaimed, ‘Dost thou know Greek? Art
thou not then the Egyptian which before these days stirred up to
sedition and led out into the wilderness the four thousand men of
the Assassins?’[8] Who then were these people? Were they native
troops serving under the Romans, and recruited from hill tribes,
answering to our Sepoys, or to the French Turcos?

[Illustration]

The assassins came regularly, the different villages having been
ordered to supply them in rotation, but usually they were only four
or five in number. I supplied them with coffee and tobacco, and
as they sat round the flickering camp-fire they amused themselves
with singing songs which I liked to hear; a succession of plaintive
cadences. My impression is, that they were all love-sick assassins,
plaintively lamenting to the jealous moon the enforced absence from
their loves. Glorious balmy nights they were; the moon shone with
splendour, the fields of ripened barley sloped to a mysterious abyss,
beyond rose-dim peaks.


  When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,

  And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene;

  Around her throne the vivid planets roll,

  And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole,

  O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed

  And tip with silver every mountain’s head.


There are professional minstrels in Kabylia who repeat songs,
tales, and sayings handed down by tradition, and who also invent new
ones. They wander about the country after the harvests of corn, figs,
and olives, and are paid not in money, but in kind. In some tribes
the minstrel receives an annual gift, which can be considered as
a pension provided from the communal purse. Some who have the gift
of invention stop at home, but their compositions are sung through
the country, nevertheless; for itinerant minstrels come from afar to
learn, and thus make additions to their stock. The musician warbles
running cadences on a reed-pipe, sings a verse, and warbles on the
pipe again; he will thus continue tuneful for a whole afternoon,
halting occasionally to chat a while with his audience. A number
of such songs have been collected by General A. Hanoteau. Many
refer to engagements with the French at the time of the conquest,
others are of a more general character. I translate a few as samples.

The first verse of the following song is a picture of war; the
second, of stormy weather. These introduce the motive of the third;
ordinary means of communication being interrupted, a lover entreats a
bird to carry a message to his mistress. In the verses that follow,
he gives an account of how he fell into his present love sick
condition, and represents the lady as returning his affection. It
will be remarked that in these latter verses there is an echo
of the two that are introductory. A picture is given of domestic
insubordination to legitimate authority, and attachment to the free
lover; the path of true love is beset with uncertainty and storms,
the road to domestic happiness is blocked. The Kabyle law must be
kept in mind, that a man can, when he wishes, repudiate his wife,
and that she cannot marry again without he approves of the new
aspirant to her hand.


                                _SONG._

                                  I.

  The Bey has raised the banner of war;

  In his honour the flag is flying.

  He leads warriors gaily apparelled

  With spurs well adjusted on their boots.

  Those hostile to them, they with shouts destroy;

  They have brought the rebels to their senses.


                                  II.

  Snow falls heavily.

  Thick mist precedes the lightning.

  Branches bend to the ground.

  The highest trees are split.

  The shepherd cannot pasture his flock.

  The roads to the markets are closed.


                                 III.

  Kind, friendly falcon,

  Spread thy wings, fly.

  If thou art a friend, favour me.

  Dawn precedes sunrise.

  Fly to her house; rest there.

  Perch upon the sill of the gracious beauty.


                                  IV.

  Speak to the gazelle of thyme-covered plains,

  To the beauty of radiant freshness,

  To the mistress of the odorous necklace.

  When she passes, the street appears festive.

  Would she were my bride! We should find peace;

  Otherwise, we shall be drowned in sin.


                                  V.

  She said, ‘I condemn thee not, oh noble one!

  I am steadfast to my sworn word.

  I am in the hands of a wicked man.

  He refuses to divorce me.

  We are both of us in torments.

  Thou and I can no longer be parted.’


                                  VI.

  In what manner did I lose my senses?

  I saw her through the chink of her door.

  Tears streamed from her eyes,

  Like a river when it floods its banks.

  For her I would sacrifice my life.

  What deeds can the wicked dare?


                                 VII.

  I am like unto a poet.

  For my well-beloved only among rebels

  I improvise a new song.

  Her love has fastened upon me; I burn with desire.

  O cheikh, grant her her liberty!

  She is put on one side, without power to remarry.


                              _PROVERBS._

  He who is slothful is foolish at heart;

  He is badly prompted. The cares of this world are enduring.


  Love him who loves thee; avoid him who hates thee.

  He whom everyone esteems an evil-doer

  Cannot be of use to thee; seek him not.

  Thus says tradition. The law even punishes with death.


  He who grafts upon an oleander performs a vain act;

  He is wanting in sense. Thus to make friends with a nigger

  Is to act like one who eats carrion.


  Whoso cannot fight, let him be patient, that is best.

  A man of sense watches over himself.

  The fool waits till he be covered with shame before he opens his eyes.


  The cure for cold is fire; there is nothing like it in winter.

  In summer let it alone, until there be reason to draw near it.


  The best quality is politeness. Gravity adds to consideration.

  Thoughtlessness is insipid. Boasting is a false pride.


  Treason comes from friends or from allies.

  The enemy has no means to hurt thee.

  Thus says K’hala. Understand thou of unsullied blood.


If honey flowed like a river, if women were to be found
like locusts, if there were no masters, men would be cloyed with
marriage. New mistresses would come and go.

When a woman is cross-grained, reckon that her lord does not
please her. She does nothing becomingly. Her tongue is always ready
to attack. Her husband will be covered with confusion, like a house
that has a vicious dog.

Let him who marries take a woman of good birth, a girl noble
and chaste. A bad marriage is like the setting of the sun, darkness
follows quickly upon it.

Honour to him who pulls the trigger, who scales the heights. He
has banished fear from his heart. Thus says K’hala. The protection
of the Prophet be upon him until death.


                              _A ROUND._

                                  I.

  Thou, oh Lord, who hast caused the fruits of autumn to ripen!

  Grant me Tasadith with the graceful garments.


                                  II.

  Thou, oh Lord, who hast created pomegranates!

  Grant me Fatima with the dark eyelashes.


                                 III.

  Thou, oh Lord, who hast created apples!

  Prompt Yamina to say to me ‘Come.’


                                  IV.

  Thou, oh Lord, who hast created pears!

  Grant me El-Yasmin with the arched eyebrows!


                                  V.

  Thou, oh Lord, who hast created quinces!

  Grant me Dehabia. May she become a widow!


                                  VI.

  Thou, oh Lord, who hast created the young figs!

  Grant me Aïni. May the old fellow perish!


                                 VII.

  Thou, oh Lord, who hast ordained unequal lots!

  Thou hast given to some, and the others are jealous.


                                 VIII.

  Thou, oh Lord, who hast given us extra good things!

  Grant me Adidi. Keep far from us the Angel of Death.


                         _INCENTIVE TO WORK._

                                  I.

  We will swear to it if thou wilt,

  By the mosques of Ibahalal.

  Thy husband wants to remarry.

  He will wed one like the full moon.

  He will take care of her at home.

  As for thee, thou wilt look after the donkeys.

            Lift thy feet,

            Frisk about.


                                  II.

  We will swear to it, if thou wilt,

  By Sidi Aïsh.

  Thy husband wants to marry.

  He will wed one who will give him a son,

  He will take care of her at home.

  As for thee, thou wilt gather herbs.

            Lift thy feet,

            Frisk about.


                                 III.

  We will swear to it, if thou wilt,

  By the mosque of Aït Boubedir.

  Thy husband wants to remarry.

  He will wed one decked with jewels.

  He will take care of her at home.

  As for thee, thou wilt work at the wool.

            Lift thy feet,

            Frisk about.


                                  IV.

  We will swear to it, if thou wilt,

  By the mosques of Sheurfa.

  Thy husband wants to remarry.

  He will wed Tharifa.

  She for his bed,

  Thou for the fields.

            Lift thy feet,

            Frisk about.


                         _VERSES ON MARRIAGE._

                                  I.

  To choose a wife in one’s village

  Is to shave off the beard.

  She will make uphill work,

  And thou wilt yet have to descend.


                                  II.

  A wrinkled woman

  Scares away luck.

  Even the rats, on her approach,

  Scamper out of the village.


                                 III.

  Beware of marriage with a lean woman;

  Be towards her as a woman put away who cannot remarry.

  Take only a young girl;

  She it is who will suit thee.


                                  IV.

  A woman neither fat nor thin

  Is like a wood with flowers.

  When she is cheerful,

  Everything is bright to thee.


                                  V.

  Beware of marriage with one put away,[9]

  She is like a sack of prickly brushwood.

  Everyday there will be disputes

  To trouble the neighbours.


                                  VI.

  A silly babbler is like a spent ball.

  If thou measurest an arm

  She adds a span to the length.


                                 VII.

  To marry a woman with a projecting forehead

  Is a cause for mourning.

  By Allah! I would not have her,

  No, not for sheepskin.


                                 VIII.

  To marry a proud woman

  Is a matter for shame.

  By Allah! I would not have her,

  No, not for the sole of my shoe.


                                  IX.

  To marry a cousin

  Is sour to my soul.

  I pray Thee, O God!

  Preserve me from this misfortune.


                                  X.

  To marry a niece,

  By God! I refuse to do it.

  In this, my heart is the master

  Which dictates the lesson.


                                  XI.

  Let a man take a woman that is well born.

  Birth guarantees good manners.

  The sick heart is restored,

  And rejoices in the pleasures of this world.


                          _A WOMAN’S REPLY._

Go child! It is useless to beat water in order to make
butter. Thou art old, and I have not yet commenced to fast during
Ramadan. Thy head is grey, thy legs are feeble, thou hast lost thy
wits, and talkest not of present things. That which remaineth for
thee here is a tomb. As for me, I will marry him who pleaseth me.


                         _A WOMAN’S WAR-SONG._

He who wishes to possess women, flinches not on the day of
combat. He conducts himself bravely when the bullets whistle. He
shall choose among the young girls. Oh, dear name of Amelkher!


                                _TALE._

An old man had seven sons. His wife died, and he remained
a widower. One day his sons were seated and talking. The youngest
of them said to his brothers, ‘Come, O my brothers! let us sell
some goats, and with the price of them marry our father again.’
They dropped this subject of conversation, and passed on to another.

The old man said to them, ‘Let us return to the conversation
about the goats.’


The weather grew very hot, though not oppressive, for a fresh
breeze sprang up in the middle of the day, and blew till four
or five o’clock, a blast most grateful to perspiring mortals,
but sometimes accompanied with eddies of wind, which the natives
called thaboushithant.

The children, when they saw an eddy approach, would leave off their
play of building villages, that is, piling stones into little heaps,
with bits of stick placed upright atop to represent mosque towers,
and for fun run in its way, when their burnouses, caught up and
twisted, flying about their heads, would wrap them in confusion. Thus
do the children indulge in the building of imagined houses, vain
castle-building, for


  The sportive wanton, pleased with some new play,

  Sweeps the slight works and fashion’d domes away.


In spite of this grateful breeze, I was glad to keep quiet in
the middle of the day. How impressive is the hour of noon in the
south! When the sun rides in triumphant power overhead, and showers
his fervid rays upon the earth, and the sky has lost its deep blue,
and is of a palpitating grey, towards the horizon quite warm and
glowing; when the trees twinkle with innumerable stars of light,
and distant rocky crags glitter through the purple bloom of distance;
when cattle seek the shade, and the harvester puts aside his sickle,
for ‘reapers ought to begin at the rising of the crested lark,
and to cease when it goes to rest; but to keep holiday during the
heat.’ Insect life alone is quickened, and the air is all athrob
with heat, and the loud incessant songs of the cicala.

Then it is that the mountains are most beautiful, though there is
a fascination about them under all aspects, and whatever their mood.

At dawn; when the light of the rising sun touching them, breaks
their massed shadows with a joyous greeting.

In the evening; when they blush and glow at his departure. Through
the fresh clearness of a spring day; when robed in blue, they look
majestically serene.

In a spring morning; when they are half veiled by rising mists
which by-and-by will be gently driven in flocks of clouds across
the azure meads of heaven.

During the calm mellow afternoon; when the contented land basks in
sunshine at their feet, and their summits are capped with fantastic
battlements of cloud.

During the ominous lull preceding a sirocco, the air thick and
yellow, when they become mysterious and ghostly, hooded with
pallid white.

In the thunderstorm, when they are of deepest purple, to be
engulfed in the black clouds, from which dart forked lightnings;
for offended Jove


                     his glory shrouds

  Involv’d in tempests, and a night of clouds,

  And from the middle darkness flashes out,

  By fits he deals his fiery bolts about.


Sometimes I have stood on a height in the tumult of a storm,
in the whirl of driving mists, when a rent was suddenly torn in
the black canopy, and for an instant, the lofty crags were seen
glistening against the deep sky, calm, like sustaining hope in the
time of trouble. Sometimes, rejoicing in the freshness of a glorious
winter’s morning, I have fancied, that upon their lustrous summits
is spread a carpet for the immortals, for


  Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,

  Tho’ Gods assembled grace his tow’ring height,

  Than what more humble mountains offer here,

  Where, in their blessings, all those Gods appear.


At noon, while ‘the tuneful cicala, perched on a tree, poured forth
a shrill song from under his wings,’ I used to spread a cloth
in the shade, and ‘with face turned to catch the brisk-blowing
Zephyr,’ reclined there rejoicing. Mohammed sat by my side, and
devised new patterns to be carved upon my stick of wild olive. My
neighbour of the threshing-floor, with a wreath of pea wound round
his head, the curling tendrils falling on his shoulders, squatted
hard by, contemplating the heaped-up corn, whilst he pictured
capacious bins overflowing with a bountiful store.

The pipe in my mouth was not a melodious one, but there rose from
it a fragrant cloud—as I may say—an incense, grateful I trust,
to her who has ever been honoured in these regions; ‘the mountain
nymph, sweet Liberty.’

In these uplands during the noontide lull, or at tranquil evening,
does she not revisit her haunts, and bless the careworn husbandman?


  O happy, if he knew his happy state!

  The swain, who, free from business and debate.

  Receives his easy food from Nature’s hand,

  And just returns of cultivated land.


But the time had arrived to retreat from sylvan bowers and return
to the more civilised homes of men.

On June 24 I struck the tent; while the shades of night yet slumbered
upon the mountains, and the people began descending to renew their
labours. ‘Make you haste; gather and bring home your corn, rising
at the dawn, that you may have substance sufficient. For the morning
obtains by lot a third share of the day’s work. The morn, look
you, furthers a man on his road, and furthers him too in his work;
the morn, I say, which at its appearing sets many men on their road,
and places the yoke on many oxen.’

[Illustration: AMONG THE TOMBS.

            As when ashore an infant stands,

  And draws imagin’d houses in the sands.

                              POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xv.]

After seeing my effects packed on mules, I sent off Mohammed with
them to Tizi Ouzou, starting myself for the Fort, where I had
matters to arrange.

I had never before seen the place in its summer dress, and was
surprised at the transformation; for its ugly little houses were
half hidden in verdure, and the acacias lining the road were of an
astonishingly rich green.

At the inn I learned that Dominique had remained two or three
days, making such amends as he could for his long abstinence from
liquor. There also I met some of the Fathers, with whom I dined;
and having done my business, and bid good-bye to Madame Pierre, who
had in many ways been most attentive, I took omnibus to Tizi Ouzou.

I found my luggage in a pile, and faithful Mohammed sitting on the
top keeping guard. We parted on the best of terms.

The following morning I arrived at Algiers. Muirhead, who had already
returned from his trip to Constantine, tried to induce me to return
by sea; but I was proof against the attractions of the swell in the
Bay of Biscay, and instead, took the overland journey by Marseilles.

A few days later, I was back in the Great City, where the sun cares
not much to show his face, and the heavens seem to be ever weeping
over the sins of the people.


                               * * * * *
      _Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London._




[Footnote 1: I am not aware whether anyone has previously
remarked that the Kabyles click. In a paper published by the
Society of Arts, March 4, 1881, on the Languages of Africa, by
Robert N. Cust, I was amused to learn that clicking is common to
many languages. Speaking of the Hottentots, Mr. Cust says: ‘The
great feature of the language is the existence of four clicks,
formed by a different position of the tongue; the dental click is
almost identical with the sound of indignation, not unfrequently
uttered by Europeans; the lateral click is the sound with which
horses are stimulated to action; the guttural click is not unlike
the popping of a champagne cork; and the palatal click is compared
to the cracking of a whip.’ He says that the Bushman, in addition
to the four clicks of the Hottentot language, has a fifth, sixth,
and sometimes a seventh and eighth. According to Bleek and Lepsius,
two authorities, Hottentot is, curiously, entirely distinct from
other languages spoken by black races, and is connected with the
Hamitic languages of white races of North Africa.]

[Footnote 2: According to Baron H. Aucapitaine the Jubaleni are
the moderns Igáouáouen concerning whom a neighbouring tribe sings
as follows:—


  ‘O God, give us snow! May the sky be full of flakes,

  That the accursed pass may be blocked

  Between us and the Igáouáouen

  Their friendship is a grief,

  Their acquaintance a path with a steep declivity.’


Jubaleni at first recalls the Arabic ‘Jibel’ (a mountain). The
Arabs however did not appear in the country till many centuries
later, and the word Jubaleni has a very ancient and interesting
origin. Iolaus, Jolaus, or Jubal was worshipped by the Phœnicians
as a god. ‘Without doubt he is the Juba or Jubal also worshipped by
the Moors. It again occurs in the name of the Mauretanian King Juba,
and in the African Jubaltiana. Thus also Iolaus has been retained
in the name of the town Iol or Jol.’ The word also occurs as
an attribute of the god Baal ‘Ju-Baal’ (the glory of the
Lord.) (See Mövers, _Die Phönizier_.) Upon the city of Iol was
built the Roman town of Cæsarea, the remains of which are to be
seen at Cherchel. According to Mövers, Baal became the national
god of the Mauretanians.]

[Footnote 3: The inhabitants of the Canary Islands, if not originally
of Berber race, have at any rate been subject to Berber dominion at
a time anterior to their discovery by Europeans (see Hyde-Clarke,
_Ethnological Society_).]

[Footnote 4: Since writing the above, the French have entered
Tunis, and at the point of the bayonet, have forced the Bey to
sign a treaty. In future there is to be progress, and we have the
gratification of learning that already civilisation is advancing in
its normal manner. In the ‘Daily News’ of June 7, was a letter
from the correspondent in the French camp, dated May 26, 1881,
in which he gives an interesting account of the introduction of
the old Algerian institution of razzia into Tunis, which he thus
graphically describes. ‘It is simple in its aim, simple in its
execution. It requires but one condition: You must be stronger
than the enemy or friend towards whom the razzia is directed. The
receipt is: Take a sufficiently strong force, scour the country
of the enemy or friend, drive off all his cattle, if necessary
spoil his crops, burn his tents, and if it is possible to perform
a good clean sweeping razzia without shooting anybody, do not do
so.’ ‘Depreciation of property is of course the effect of a
razzia. The French find themselves with more cattle than they know
what to do with, and sell them to the highest bidder. I have had
pointed out to me a Frenchman whose business it is to go from one
camp to another picking up cattle cheap. The effect on the Arabs
themselves is, they will sell everything they have for what it will
fetch, feeling that at any moment it may be taken from them.’

The letter continues, ‘I have always made it my business to
inquire about the Kroumirs. Here, as elsewhere, I find the same
story. Few people have ever seen one.’ ‘So certain is every one
that no further fighting can possibly occur, and that any attempt
to find the Kroumirs is abandoned, that I leave for Tunis to-morrow,
marvelling much at a campaign that has had no beginning, no middle,
no ending, and that has taken 40,000 troops away from their homes
to invade the country of an enemy who has been invisible.’ The
Kroumirs (if they really exist) are Berbers, and there is no reason
to believe that they are worse people than those I have described
living amongst. Owing to some unknown mental process, the French
colonist believes that ingratitude is a fundamental defect in the
native character; and concludes that, on account of this ineradicable
moral cancer, he is not beloved and respected as he ought to be.]

[Footnote 5: See Becker’s ‘Gallus.’]

[Footnote 6: Kissing one’s hand is an extremely ancient sign of
reverence. It was thus that the sun and moon used to be saluted by
their worshippers; for Job, when he claims integrity in the worship
of God, says, ‘If my mouth hath kissed my hand: this also were
an iniquity to be punished by the judge: for I should have denied
the God that is above.’]

[Footnote 7: See Hammer Purgstall, _Geschichte der Assassinen_.]

[Footnote 8: _The Acts_, xxi. 38, revised edition. A correction of
‘four thousand men that were murderers.’]

[Footnote 9: See the advice Hesiod gives to his brother, ‘an
habitual loafer.’ ‘First of all get a house, and a woman,
and a ploughing ox. A woman purchased, not wedded.’ I read
that Aristotle evidently believes that wife is here understood,
and hence some think that the second line is spurious. Does not
the difficulty arise from looking at it from a modern European
standpoint? The whole passage is perfectly applicable to Kabyle
society. More advice follows: ‘Most of all marry her who lives
near you, when you have duly looked round on everything, lest you
should marry a cause-of-mocking for your neighbours.’ I conclude
that the advice of the song not to marry in one’s village, is in
order to avoid bickerings and interference from relatives, leading
to loss of dignity, like shaving off the beard. Better to be on the
safe side, and seek for a girl unknown to the neighbourhood, who,
separated from friends, will not bring upon you causes for mocking.]


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