  Travellers’ tales and descriptions of Constantine are full of such boundless admiration that they are really little more than a chorus of applause and wonder. The consequences are not quite what might be expected, because it is impossible to believe that all this praise is justified. Sober truth seems hidden by flights of fancy. So the sceptical mind prepares itself and fears no disappointment or disillusion, heedless of the fact that it is the unexpected that always happens. In this case such wisdom is wasted, for the situation of Constantine is amazing beyond all expectation, and wholly beautiful. In former times the city was apparently as picturesque as its site, but this, alas! can no longer be said. The rage for modern improvements has destroyed so much, that it is only in nooks and corners that Oriental architecture still lingers. The original city of Cirta or Kirta, the capital of the Numidian kings, has entirely disappeared, and no traces are now left of the splendid palace of Syphax, or of the fine buildings that Micipsa is said to have built here. Their own name for the city, as given by El Bekri, namely, Belad el Haoua, sums up its individuality perfectly. The single word Haoua means not only air, but also ravine and passion. The city of air tells of its height, over 2000 feet above the level of the sea. City of the ravine is a title that suits it even better, for no other city stands on a rock encircled on three sides by a chasm instead of a moat; and history, starting with the tragic tale of fair Sophonisba and her pathetic speech (ere she drank the cup of poison sent her by Masinissa) about “dying with more honour had she not wedded at her funeral,” shows that passion has never been lacking. Roman rule has left a deeper impress, but soon there will be little of the flourishing colony of Cirta Sittianorum, founded by Julius CÆsar. There are many inscriptions, among them one proving that Sallust, who was once the Governor, possessed a vast domain. GORGE OF THE ROUMEL, CONSTANTINE Of a fine aqueduct, built in the reign of Justinian, only five arches remain, prettily situated among the trees by the river. As for the ruins of the old bridge, dating from the time of Constantine the Great, it would probably be hard to say how much was truly Roman, so often has it been restored. This bridge was double, and built on the foundation of a natural arch; the upper part, formed of huge blocks, carried the road, the lower was purely ornamental. Shaw says it was indeed a masterpiece of its kind, which makes its end the sadder. A pier of the upper story gave way in 1857, and as restoration was supposed to be impossible, heavy artillery was used to batter it down. Now the chasm is spanned by a useful but ugly iron erection, built exactly above the ruins, and forming a pitiful contrast between the old style and the new. Few cities in the world have suffered so many changes, for notwithstanding its apparently impregnable position, Constantine has been besieged and taken no less than eighty times—that is, if tradition can be trusted. It escaped destruction under the Vandals because the bishop in those days was a Donatist. The victorious Belisarius found that no harm had been done, and even the Arabs spared the ancient monuments, so that the strain of these many sieges seems to have worked less havoc than the fighting which took place during the French conquest, when both besiegers and besieged showed the greatest heroism. The old bridge was the scene of the first fierce assault, when the French were driven back in 1836. The successful attack in the following year was made on the side of the isthmus, or neck of land, which connects the rock with the mainland, but even so the French lost heavily, General Damremont and General PerrÉgaux being killed in the breach, and officer after officer falling as he took command. For many years afterwards the military government The new roads are worthy of the Genie, but the new buildings are mostly blots on a beautiful landscape. From almost every point hideous, bare-looking barracks and many-storied modern houses crown the rock, and stand on the very edge of the precipice, whilst the new suburbs, springing up on the heights of Mansoura and on the side of Koudiat-Aty are scarcely more attractive. And yet, taking all these drawbacks into consideration, the view from the bridge of El Kantara is astonishing. The grandeur of the gorge dwarfs all man’s works into insignificance, and the rocks tower with such majesty over the river which they hide at their feet that the houses above them pass almost unnoticed. The ravine is narrow, not more than two hundred feet across, though the summit of the crags is quite a thousand feet above the river. The river Roumel comes from the sunny country-side, from the woods and fields, the poplars and the hedges, and plunges suddenly into the shadow of the huge vertical cliffs, twisting and winding in the dark depths on its way round the city, losing itself at times in gloomy caverns From the town it is difficult to peer into the depths, but on the other side a road follows the course of the ravine for its whole length. The most picturesque point is just opposite the tanneries, a delightful jumble of old Moorish houses, with white or pale-blue walls, and brown-tiled roofs built to withstand the snow and torrential rains, and very like the roofs of Constantinople in form and colour. The tanneries are perched on the walls of rock so close to the edge of the precipice that the Arabs when at work often fall over into the abyss, though it is said that the devotees of hachish will descend the same precipices, at the risk of breaking their necks many times ere they reach the bottom, just to meet together and smoke. It is giddy work to stand on these heights and look down over the first green slopes where hungry cows and goats find some foothold in their search for food, in places on the verge of the cliff where there is nothing but their own agility to prevent their falling straight into the gulf below. The boys on guard keep more wisely to the little footpath, and shout their commands to the straying herds. The Cornice road runs from the bridge down towards the valley and the sea, and that is grand with Nature’s dignity alone. As a mountain road it is fine also, after the Swiss fashion, built round and tunnelled through the rocks of Mansoura, following their curves, half-built Opposite the tanneries the road runs on the top of the cliffs, and the city stands on the same level on the other side of the chasm; but here the road, though it is still a considerable height above the river, is itself shut in by walls of rock, so grim and forbidding that if tales of dreadful deeds did not already abound, legends must have been invented in their stead; for there is something about the precipices of Sidi Rached which suggest and invite horrors. So perhaps it is no wonder that the Moors in barbarous times thought it a suitable place for getting rid of criminals, or of the wives of whom they were weary. It is, however, hard to believe that men were ever cruel enough, not only to fling a beautiful woman over a cliff by the Bey’s orders, but also, when she had been saved as by a miracle by her clothes catching midway on the rocks, to rescue her and then kill her deliberately by some other form of torture. At the French conquest the defenders retired, fighting, to the Casbah, and there as a last resource tried to fly from the hated infidel by means of ropes. But the numbers were too great, the ropes broke, and hundreds perished in the attempt, though it is thought that a few may have escaped. A GAME OF DRAUGHTS The Chemin des touristes is a path through the ravine, winding up and down, and cut out of the rock, or built upon it. It is a path full of surprises and fascination, formed for a great part of staircases, and in most places a strong railing is necessary. Near the bridge are seemingly endless steps, and little bridges descend in uncanny gloom into a huge cavern, where the path becomes a balcony of wood over the river. Giddy steps, slippery with damp, lead through the cave, a true orrido, and then come wonderful effects of light and shade. The light falls from above through four natural arches whose height is over four hundred feet. From the bottom of the gulf the sky seems far away, the city hides itself, whilst the rocks appear more imposing than ever. Artists might spend their days here, for subjects are endless, but they must be impervious to chills, and have no sense of smell or any fear of typhoid. Even in winter to walk through the gorge and wonder at its beauty is a penance for the nose, for it receives the drainage of the tanneries and the town; but in late spring or summer, when it would be a cool retreat, the inhabitants say that the air is even more deadly. Within the walls a superficial observer sees nothing but steep and dirty French streets, and it is easy to walk all over the town without ever finding the Arab quarters. This does not mean that the whole place is not crowded with indigÈnes—far from it, for it is a busy centre, in which the province of Constantine does its shopping. No town in Algeria is so laborious and active, the chief trade being in shoes, saddlery, and burnouses. Town Moors are in the minority, the streets being mostly thronged by white-robed countrymen, of a rather dirty type. The Arab women wear dismal grey haÏcks, and the young girls and Jewesses, who are strikingly handsome, wear a coquettish cap, a cone of coloured velvet What is left of the Arab town concealed behind the modern houses is something like old Algiers. The streets are even narrower and often as steep, but instead of the cedar beams, the upper stories are built out on inverted steps till they almost touch each other. Pillars and capitals from Roman buildings fill corners, form gateways, and have been used to build the mosques, which are neither very important nor interesting. Up a few steps on a small vine-covered terrace is the tomb of a famous saint from Morocco, built partly of fragments of Roman work. But the individual buildings are nothing. It is the life, the bustle and confusion in the streets, the tiled roofs, the pale-blue colour on the walls, the odd-looking shops, the scarlet and blue hanging up in the streets of the dyers, the glitter of the silver as men crouch over their tiny fires making rough jewels, the more delicate tones and rhythmic movements of those who weave silks or belts, or twist soft yellow floss round enormous winders—small details these, like fine threads weaving one magic spell—the spell of the East. Unconsciously this hovers over everything, giving distinction to the Cathedral, once a mosque with the Late in the spring Constantine should be delightful, but, owing to its elevated situation in a mountainous district, it is often too cold in the early part of the year for those who come from the warmth and glow of the desert. It is wintry, though the sun is bright and the air clear, so that sketching in the chill shade of the streets is out of the question. It is scarcely warm enough even to enjoy drives, beautiful as is the countryside and the views from the heights over hill and valley. There are woods and charming dells, with here and there a Roman ruin as an object for a walk, such as the aqueduct or the baths of Sidi MeÇid. This bracing mountain air makes the climate splendid for the colonists, for the extremes of heat and cold are much the same as in their own beloved France, and to cheer them on their way the Romans have left inscriptions showing that many centenarians flourished here, and though the women only managed to live a hundred years, one man, Ælius by name, reached the age of one hundred and five. Could anyone want more? |
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