Where the desert breaks in waves of shifting sand against the southern range, where the streams run southwards and lose themselves,—there and not on the seaboard of France and Spain would seem to lie the destined boundaries of Europe; this the proper limit of European enterprises. The sea is to-day less than ever a barrier, dissociabilis; it is rather a link. The Mediterranean may lash itself in rage, but its rage is impotent to check the progress of the great steamers. The southern frontier of the Roman Empire is once more the southern frontier of Europe. The burning sands of the great Sahara are the true divide. Yet French enterprise is loth to admit this. The indomitable spirit of adventure, of adventure however profitless,—the spirit which led their Crusaders to the Holy Land, the army of Napoleon to Moscow, and Marchand on his interminable desert march to anticipate Kitchener at Fashoda,—this spirit is still at work. Further into the Sahara the outposts are continually being pushed; a railway is projected to Timbuctoo, now a journey of three months for caravans; and the connection of the French Colonies in North and West Africa has long been mooted. We may admire this spirit and its manifestation, but in all deference may ask, Is it business?
At the time of the French invasion, eighty years ago, there was not a single road in the interior of Algeria. The Roman roads had disappeared. The Arab paths only permitted the passage of horsemen, and wheeled vehicles were unknown. In the Tell transport was by mules, in the south by caravans. The army no sooner landed than it began to lay out roads, and for some time afterwards their construction was in the hands of the military engineers. They are now in the care of a special department. The system which has been evolved consists of a great artery running east and west from the frontier of Tunis to the frontier of Morocco, united by branch roads to the chief ports on the coast, and sending forth great feelers southward to the Sahara. These are the great national trunk roads constructed and maintained by the state for strategic purposes, and they have a total length of about 2500 miles. Besides these, the state has assisted in the making of a great number of roads partly strategic, but for the most part designed to open up new regions to colonization. These, with the ordinary country roads, make up a total of nearly 10,000 miles.
It would almost seem that in the design of the great highways running east and west, and north to sea, and south to the desert, the French had some prescience of the invention of the motor-car. The roads are, in fact, most admirably adapted to its use, often from their open character and long straight stretches (a part, no doubt, of their military intention), at almost any possible speed. And their surface is commonly excellent. Remote places formerly only to be reached by painful journeys in jolting diligences are now within easy reach. And although the automobile is still the luxury of the few, it may not be long before popular “omnibus” vehicles will extend its advantages to the many. The railway train is becoming the inferior beast of burden,—crawling wearily along at its African pace of fifteen or twenty miles an hour; while the sprightly motor-car flies past, perhaps at a speed of fifty. It is true that Article 14 of the Règlements for Algeria provides that “en aucun cas, la vitesse n’excédera celle de 30 kilomètres à l’heure en rase campagne et celle de 20 kilomètres à l’heure dans les agglomérations,” but there seems to be no disposition to enforce this; and there are no police traps, and no A.A. scouts. The really important provision is, “le conducteur de l’automobile devra rester constamment maître de sa vitesse.”
We may take it therefore that travel in Algeria is entering on a new phase; that this most beautiful and interesting country has at a blow become accessible to the traveller who has neither time nor inclination for primitive methods of journeying; and that in the matter of country hotels French enterprise will surely rise—it is already rising—to the new opportunities. There are motorists and motorists; to one class the car itself is all-important, the country traversed a minor matter, the surface of the road on which “she” is to display her powers being the first consideration. Such enthusiasts will bring their own cars, and will perhaps not regret doing so. But there are also persons of grovelling mind, who cannot rise to any enthusiasm over carburetters and petrol consumption, who, in fact, regard the motor-car as merely a very agreeable means to a very desirable end. Such lowly souls will perhaps be satisfied with hiring a car in Algiers. They will find no difficulty in selecting an adequate vehicle at a reasonable rate; no Black Care will sit behind them,—if a breakdown occurs they have only to study the scenery until it is repaired; and they will have the advantage of a chauffeur who knows the country, and will not forget the rule of the road at a critical moment. He may have other qualities;—ours was a sportsman, and would produce a gun and shoot thrushes for our dinner while we photographed Roman temples. Our murmured pity at their death missed its mark; he regarded them simply as very good—to eat. And so they are.
Before he sets forth on more ambitious journeys, the master, temporary or permanent, of a motor-car may make several interesting expeditions in the neighbourhood of Algiers. The guide-book will suggest his objective, the excellent maps of the “Voies de Communication” will point out the way. If his tastes run in the direction of visiting historic sites, he may spend a very interesting day in motoring to Cherchel, the ancient Julia Cæsarea, situate on the coast about seventy miles west of Algiers. He has a choice of routes; he may proceed inland to Blidah, and thence to Marengo, and so to Cherchel, and return by the coast road, or vice versa. We chose a middle course. We followed the Blidah road as far as Boufarik and then turned westwards by country roads to Marengo. With occasional interludes of roughness, especially where the marshy nature of the country renders their maintenance difficult, these roads are very good. They traverse a well-cultivated district of the great plain between the coast-hills and the Lesser Atlas, of which the snowy summits are brilliant in the morning sun. On a hill to our right we catch a glimpse of the curious Tombeau de la Chrétienne, so called;—in all probability the mausoleum of Juba II and Selene his wife, the founders of Cæsarea. It is placed on the summit of a hill 756 feet above the sea, and is a circular building of about 130 feet in height. Like most Roman buildings it has been used as a quarry by subsequent peoples; perhaps the solitary capital of a column which I noticed on a farm gateway came from this source.
CHERCHEL: THE AQUEDUCT
Between Boufarik and Marengo the country is fairly well cultivated; substantial farmhouses, surmounted by groves of eucalyptus trees, stand amid great fields of vine and corn. It is difficult to realize that, in spite of its long history, this is essentially a new country, far newer than the Colonies of South Africa, newer than a good deal of Australia. At Marengo we join the main road from Blidah to Cherchel and descend rapidly by the side of the newly-constructed railway. From a contemplation of the enterprise of modern France, we are taken back at a bound to the works of ancient Rome by the appearance on a hill to the left of a portion of the aqueduct of Cæsarea. At this point it spans a lateral valley in a triple series of arches, rendered perhaps more impressive by a breakage in the middle. Leaving the car we scramble up by the side of a stream and reach the great watercourse itself. Passing beneath its arches we ascend the valley a little, and turn to look down on its immense proportions. Amid the rough mountain scrub we have passed from all evidence of modern cultivation, and are alone with this mighty fragment of the past. It is difficult to find a reason for the feeling, but few of Rome’s monuments impart a fuller sense of her magnificence than the aqueducts which survive at so many different points of her Empire. They are a symbol perhaps of her relentless power over nature and man, of her determination to have what she wanted at all cost. Sometimes, as in the Campagna, it is the long lines of interminable arches which impress us; here it is rather their soaring height. Many modern peoples would have carried the open watercourse by a circuitous cutting on the hill-side round the head of the little valley; such a proceeding was alien to the directness of Rome.
“See distant mountains leave their valleys dry,
And o’er the proud arcade their tribute pour,