“Here Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two and went his way.”
At the time of the French invasion its Bey, Hadj-Ahmed, was in insurrection against the Dey, but made common cause against the unbeliever. After the capitulation of Algiers he retired to Constantine and declared himself independent, and took the title of Pasha, with the countenance of the Porte. His minister, Ben-Aissa, a humble Khabyle in origin, and a blacksmith by trade, was a man of marked ability. The two created an army of Khabyles, and breathed defiance to the French. In 1836 Marshal Clauzel advanced against Constantine with 8000 men. Among them was a young captain of the staff, afterwards Marshal Macmahon. Clauzel attempted an assault by the bridge of El Kantara, but was repulsed with great loss, and hardly retreated with his broken army to Bône. France could not brook such a defeat. Another army of 10,000 men was despatched under General Damrémont and arrived before the city on October 6th, 1837. To his summons to surrender came the response, “He who will be master of Constantine must cut the throat of the last of its defenders.” A few days later the General in command and General Perrégaux were killed side by side in the course of siege operations, and General Valée assumed the leadership. On the 13th he took the city by assault. Numbers of the besieged endeavoured to escape by ropes into the ravine, but the ropes breaking they perished. Hadj-Ahmed evaded capture, and for eleven years maintained himself in the Aurès mountains. In 1848 he surrendered, and died two years later. For seventy years an unwonted peace has brooded over the heights of Constantine; but who shall say that the end is yet?
As usual, the French have destroyed most of the remains of the Roman city; the exigencies of space are here a better excuse than exists elsewhere. But the antiquary may still ferret out endless evidences of the ancient town. The ordinary traveller may amuse himself by strolling through the Arab quarter; he may perambulate the gorge by the Chemin des Touristes; he may cross the bridge and ascend the opposing height to view in its majesty this unique city of precipices. With a map and moderate intelligence he will need no guide; but he will be pestered by the attentions of guides, responsible and irresponsible. They throng the door of his hotel, they mark his goings-out and his comings-in, and unless he succumbs to paying blackmail to one of the fraternity, they will strive to make his life a burden to him. Yet is there a certain fierce pleasure in denying them. The guide who haunts the hotel door is generally one of the least estimable of men, especially in Oriental countries. If you are weak, he will prey on your weakness; if you are vicious, he will reap his reward in ministering to your vices. He does not shrink from suggestion, and he seems to know no shame. He sometimes, when not guiding, fills a menial office in the hotel; one can hardly suppress a smile at the idea of the epicurean having his pleasures chosen for him by the Boots. To the credit of Algiers it may be said that one is there little troubled by these vermin; but Constantine has something to learn.
The Roman city of Cirta must have presented a marvellously beautiful spectacle. Classical architecture perhaps looks its noblest in buildings which crown a height. The temples of Cirta were of course not individually comparable with those which adorned the Acropolis of Athens, or the line of cliffs at Girgenti; but from a general scenic point of view the effect would be similar and on a greater scale. If the present city, which (like the belfry of Christchurch) has no architectural merits, looks so impressive at a little distance, the ancient city with its marble columns and triumphal arches must have been grand beyond our powers of realization. We know from the ruins at Timgad what a Roman city in Africa was like, and Thamagudi was a provincial town of no great mark, while Cirta was the capital. Its remains are to be seen everywhere, especially by the iron bridge of El Kantara, which replaces the ancient Roman bridge, a very remarkable structure which stood until 1857, when two of its arches fell. It was designed to carry an aqueduct, and a roadway, which was supported on a double series of arches, stood 400 feet above the level of the river. It excited the wonder and admiration of all travellers. Shaw saw it in 1740. He says it was “ indeed a masterpiece of its kind, the gallery and the columns of the arches being adorned with cornices and festoons, ox-heads and garlands. The keystones also of the arches are charged with Caducei and other figures.”
The gorge contains many other Roman remains. Numerous inscriptions, statues and ornaments have been removed, and are collected in a garden near the Place de la Brèche. In this neighbourhood was found a delightful epitaph of one Praecilius, a silversmith, written in very inaccurate and unclassical Latin, which may be thus translated:—
“Here I, silent myself, in verse describe my life. I have filled an honourable career in prosperous times; Praecilius my name, a householder of Cirta and a silversmith by trade; a man of acknowledged probity and unvarying truthfulness. I have been friendly to all men, and whom has my charity failed? Laughter and good cheer I ever enjoyed with my chosen friends. Life was not the same to me after the death of my virtuous wife Valeria; I found my happiness in holy wedlock. I have celebrated in honourable fashion a hundred happy birthdays. But there has come at last the day when I must shuffle off this mortal coil. The inscription you read while yet living I have prepared against my death. Let it be as Fortune wills; never has she deserted me. Follow my example. Here I await you. Come!”
To one illustrious citizen Cirta gave birth, Fronto the orator, friend of the Emperor Antoninus Pius, and tutor of his heir, Marcus Aurelius. Some of the correspondence of the master and his pupil has been preserved. It abounds in intimate and homely touches. The prince went out hunting one morning, and on his return wrote: “I betook myself to my books. I took off my boots and my clothes, and went to bed for two hours. I read two orations of Cato. I think I have caught cold, perhaps because I walked in sandals this morning. So I will pour oil on my head and go to sleep. Farewell, my dearest and sweetest master, whom I love better than Rome itself.” When Marcus Aurelius succeeded to his imperial throne he offered his old tutor the proconsulship of Asia, one of the greatest positions in the Empire, but Fronto, who perhaps preferred to remain in his native Africa, refused the office on the ground of ill-health. Nothing has been discovered at Cirta bearing on Fronto’s connection with the city, but an inscription built into a house at Guelma, the ancient Kalama, records his official appointment as patron of that town.
The Arab quarter, which is gradually being squeezed out of existence, is quite different in character from that of Algiers. Its lanes are equally tortuous and narrow, and even more dirty, but it is more full of life and more actual. In Algiers most of the native shops are in modern, Frenchified streets; here they line the ancient alleys. Merchants sit in the serene Eastern fashion beside their stores of merchandise; artisans ply their little trades in a very confined space. More than half the population appears to be occupied in making shoes. The general confusion is increased by the constant passage of animals, horses, mules, donkeys and camels. It is a little bit of an old world, and being in close contact, yet hopelessly out of touch, with the dominant world of the day, its hours are numbered. The march of improvement, especially when cribbed and confined as by the cliffs of Constantine, brooks no denial. And if we are compelled to hold our noses, we may nevertheless be disposed to shed a tear.
