And in the fifth year of the siege Othman, King of Tlemçen, was gathered to his fathers, and his son Abou-Zeiyan reigned in his stead. And the people of Tlemçen were in sore distress for that no food could be brought into the city by reason of the wall which Yakoub the King had builded round about it. So when the siege had continued for the space of three years more, the King Abou-Zeiyan and Abou-Hammon, the King’s brother, called unto them the captain to whom was given charge over the stores of food in the city and said unto him, “How long may we feed the people with the food which is left?” And he answered, “For the space of three days.” And there came in unto the King Dâd, the servant of the Queen-Mother. And Dâd said unto the King, “Let not, I pray you, the princesses and the women of your house fall into the hands of our enemies, but rather let them be put to death.” And Abou-Hammon, the King’s brother, answered, “What Dâd hath spoken is good counsel.” But the King said, “Nay, we have yet three days, perchance God will come to our aid. And if it be so that we must deliver up the city, then we will cause the Jews and the Christians to kill the princesses and the women of our house, and we ourselves will sally forth and fall upon the host of our enemies.” And the King wept. But lo, while they yet spake, a man of the host of Yakoub the King lifted his hand against him and smote him so that he died. And Yakoub the King’s brethren and his sons, and his son’s sons strove among themselves who should be king in his stead. And the son of one of his sons, who was called Abou-Thabet, obtained the mastery over them. And Abou-Thabet made peace with Abou-Zeiyan, King of Tlemçen, and led back his host to the country of Fez, whence it came. And Tlemçen had peace thirty-three years.
So runs the tale of the Arab chroniclers, and the walls and towers of Mansoura stand to-day in witness that they lied not. Their entrancing story is full of the elements of Oriental romance:—the fairy city springing into being almost in a night; the fearful proposal of the aged servant that the women should be killed; the long years of the siege reaching their tremendous climax in the assassination of the aggressor at the very moment when the besieged were preparing to sell their lives dearly; the struggle of the dead Sultan’s brothers and sons and grandsons for the succession. Such a struggle is a commonplace of Mohammedan politics; we have seen it in our own day in Afghanistan and Morocco; we may see it in Turkey to-morrow. It may plunge the country where it occurs in civil war, but in a South American republic even a change of party groupings will do that. As a system it can claim some merit in that it tends to place on the throne the strongest or the most astute member of the royal house.
THE TOWER OF MANSOURA
Of the dream city of Mansoura nothing remains but the square of the ramparts enclosing a space of 250 acres, and the great minaret of the mosque. The city itself was destroyed by the Tlemçenites after the departure of the Moroccan army. The walls are about 40 feet high, and the towers 120 feet apart. They are all built of concrete, and though broken in places, are marvellously preserved. Weathered to a delightful tint of rich brown, they contrast admirably with the sombre monotony of the olive trees; and they lend to the pleasant mountain landscape a unique spice of romance.
The minaret, of which the inner portion has fallen while the outer remains standing, is a very noble tower, and the finest architectural work of Moorish times in Algeria; it would be difficult to match it anywhere. It stands about 130 feet high, and is built of hewn stone. Its front was decorated with coloured tiles, of which many are left. Legends have gathered round it. It is said that in his haste Abou Yakoub employed not only Mohammedan but Jewish and Christian masons, and that it is the work of the infidels which has fallen, while that of the faithful survives. It seems to have been also a starting-place for an early experiment in flying. A certain Jew imprisoned therein made himself wings, and setting forth on the occasion of a great service, fell lamentably at a spot called to this day “Le Col du Juif.” Such is the fate of pioneers.
The status of Tlemçen as a holy city, which draws to itself pilgrims not only from the countries of North Africa, but from the very confines of the world of Islam, rests on its connection with the saint Sidi Bou Medine. It has long ceased to be the capital of an African empire; it is no more a university of Mohammedan learning; its very name is almost unknown to the present generation of European men; but in the eyes of the faithful it is ever honoured. It is a little difficult for an unbeliever to comprehend what constitutes peculiar eminence in a Mohammedan saint, and there is nothing in the recorded life of Bou Medine to throw light on the question. It is related that he was born at Seville in A.D. 1126, that he was an ascetic and a mystic, that he travelled through various Mediterranean countries performing miracles, preaching the vanity of earthly things, and emphasizing the beneficence of God and the authority of his prophet. Accused of heresy by the doctors of Tlemçen, he was summoned thither by the reigning monarch from Bougie, then within the boundaries of the Tlemçenian Empire. His failing strength sustained him almost to the city’s gates, when, looking up at the little village of El-Eubbad, with its hanging woods beneath the rugged cliff, and owning at last the charm of the world he had so fiercely disdained, he breathed a wish to be buried in that lovely spot, and expired. And there for seven centuries he has lain, and you may stand beside his tomb, which is decked in the tinsel pomp of Mohammedan finery and surrounded by the offerings of the faithful. It is approached from a little court-yard, in which is an ancient alabaster well-head curiously worn by the chain which draws the bucket.
The mosque which adjoins the tomb was raised shortly after the saint’s death. It is of no great size, but both structurally and decoratively it possesses a charm which is unique. The high portal is a blaze of tiles in the finest style; tiles said to be partly of Moroccan, partly of Spanish, origin; and the doors of cedar wood, covered with bronze, ornamented with a design of arabesque interlacement, are incomparably beautiful. It has been said that they are to Moorish art what the doors of Ghiberti are to Italian; but in their decorative flatness—a quality which becomes doors—they have a distinction which is their own. In the whole realm of Moorish decoration I have seen nothing more charming. The mosque itself does not belie the promise of its entrance. It follows the usual plan, but on a very high level. Its plaster decorations, if somewhat less fine than those of the mihrab of Bel Hassan, are in the best style. The whole building is instinct with the charm of unassailable fitness, and fills the mind with an ineffaceable impress of beauty.
SIDI BOU MEDINE: THE BRONZE DOORS