CHAPTER V.
June 16 to June 24, 1880.
E originally proposed to move about the country with the tent, though we had fixed on no particular limit or direction to these imaginary travels. But in the middle of the month of June here were we still in the Aïth Ménguellath, not fifteen miles from Fort National. We had plenty to occupy us at the place where we happened to find ourselves, and we reckoned that moving meant expense and new difficulties with natives, and that we might go farther and fare worse.
It was now too hot to wander. Muirhead being anxious to go to Constantine (which I had visited), we now determined to quit our encampment ‘under the greenwood tree,’ where we had met with ‘no enemy but winter and rough weather,’ he proceeding thither, whilst I returned with the tent to Algiers, where we should meet again.
I had foreseen that in such an out-of-the-way place, where 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.
‘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.
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?
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.’
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.