On our arrival off La Goulette, the only anchorage for ships, situated about eight miles from Tunis, by sea, and nine miles by land, we were greeted by a scene of the most tremendous confusion. All the feluccas were rowed by Arabs, and their shouting, swearing, and gesticulation exceeded all my former 50 experiences of the kind, Stamboul not excepted. A little patience, and a good deal of backsheesh, enabled us to pass our baggage through the Douane; and we sent it on by boat to Tunis, whither we proceeded by land in a carriage, and a drizzling rain. Once on the way we stopped, at what the inhabitants term the “Carthaginian cistern,” to take in some exceedingly dirty water, from a fountain of old-fashioned appearance. The carriage windows were closed on account of the rain––an arrangement which interfered a good deal with my view of the surrounding country. Twice only, before we arrived at Tunis, my companion, a Russian, opened the window––to spit! On the first of these occasions, I got a glimpse of a large heap of immense stones, which were pointed out to me as the ruins of Carthage, and a grove of olives, looking dismal exceedingly in the drizzling rain. On the second occasion, I saw the lakes, and a solitary Tunisian sentinel. This soldier was dressed much in the Turkish costume, and I should scarcely have known him from an Osmanli, but that he wore the brass plaque in the front of his scarlet fez, instead of at the top.
As we approached Tunis, we became involved in an increasing crowd of loaded asses and mules; and, amid a great deal of screeching and shouting, we made our entry into the city, and drove to the Hôtel de France, where we obtained such a complete view of an old wall, that it effectually prevented us from seeing 51 anything else. The rooms, or rather holes, assigned to us, were so miserable, that we tried the solitary opposition shop the place can boast––the Hôtel de Provençe––but found that here we should fare rather worse than in the Hôtel de France. There was a third establishment––a tavern, rejoicing in the magniloquent title of “Hotel of the Britannic Isles”––but as this hostelry was entirely occupied by sailors and Maltese skippers, we declined to avail ourselves of the “Britannic” accommodation. There was a great crowd of rather miscellaneous company at the table-d’hôte. One French female, whom, without offence to gallantry, I may be permitted to describe as the ugliest woman I met in my travels, excited my especial horror. This charming person actually amused herself, and disgusted her neighbours, by indulging, across the table, in an amusement generally associated in men’s minds with the chewing of tobacco! I discovered, however, that she was only a servant maid.
CHAPTER IX.
MARSA.
Angelo’s Horsemanship.––The Bey’s Palace at Marsa.––The Arabs and their Love of Tobacco.––The Friendly Moor at Camatte.
On the first of April I rode to Marsa, a little town on the seashore. Angelo’s horse seemed rather fresh, and my servant was evidently no Centaur. He came up to me in an olive wood, where I made a halt for about five minutes. He was holding on hard by the mane, his trousers were up to his knees, and his face was horribly pale. On my asking him why he loitered behind so, he owned, with a dismal sigh, that he was half afraid of the horse. “Afraid of the horse, sir!” was poor Angelo’s lament: “Very wicked horse, sir––fell from a horse, sir––at Scutari, sir––broke three ribs, sir––and in hospital five weeks, sir!”
I told him to be of good cheer, for the horse would soon be quiet after a good gallop; and, tying the horses to some olive trees, I bade Angelo wait for me by the side of a little hillock in the plain, where I could readily find him on my return, and went away into the forest with my gun. The ground was covered with long, thick, pointed grass, very wet with the dew. 53 I saw some quails, and shot a few; then returned to where Angelo was waiting, and galloped on to Marsa. At this place, the Bey, and the principal inhabitants of Tunis, have summer residences, to which they resort for the sake of sea-bathing. On the way, I encountered a number of Arabs, mounted on mules. The foremost shouted out to me in Arabic, as I passed, asking me to stop and give him some tobacco. I understood the word “tobacco,” which seems to have nearly the same sound in all languages, and knowing this request to be often a “dodge” on the part of the Arabs, who want an opportunity to rob, if not to murder, the traveller, I pointed to Angelo, who was following, about fifty paces behind me, with my gun, and shouted out that he would find tobacco for them. They evidently understood my meaning; for they all set up a loud laugh, and my friend the tobacconist––or rather the tobacco-less––looked exceedingly “sold.”
I found Marsa very prettily situated, opposite to the bay of Tunis, near the ruins of old Carthage. The Bey’s palace is a handsome building. The English and French consulates are also well built. I proceeded to a small Italian locanda, to get breakfast; but the old lady, who seemed the presiding genius of the place, obstinately refused to let us have anything. “Io han niente,” was her unanswerable argument. But I rather ostentatiously pulled out my watch, whose golden blink somewhat softened the old lady’s mood, and caused her to remember that she might have 54 certain eggs, and some bread, and salad, though a moment before she had been protesting that she had not even such a thing as bread in the house. Her son, a handsome young Italian, returned at this juncture, and we soon had an excellent déjeûner of sausages, salad, spinach, omelette, and cheese, with very good wine and coffee. I went down to the seaside and bathed, first burying my watch and purse in the sand; for the Arabs have a weakness for occasionally coming down under such circumstances, and stealing one’s clothes.