  A refreshing uncertainty, almost amounting to a touch of adventure, gives zest to plans for a trip southwards. Beyond the one undisputed fact that the inn at Sousse leaves nothing to be desired, information is vague and scanty. The journey opens in a fashion that promises much. There are only two trains in the day, and both are inconvenient. One starts too early and the other too late. The railway carriages with their narrow seats and hard cushions proclaim by sheer discomfort the unfrequented route and the dearth of travellers. The windows, that are either wide open or shut, but know no happy mean, guarantee a pleasing alternative of cold or stuffiness, for it soon becomes impossible to hold a heavy frame perpetually at a proper height. It is delightful to feel that all sorts of possibilities lie hidden in the immediate future, and that the rate of progress already lifts the journey out of the commonplace. It is slow enough to be phenomenal, and gives time not only for observation but for quiet There is no objection to this for some distance out of Tunis, as the route is pretty. The line skirts the edge of the bay, passing through the gay watering-places full of sunshine and flowers that lie at the foot of Bou KorneÏne. During the sunset hour, when the plains are flooded with glory, the train might stop entirely, and welcome. But when the last tint of colour has vanished and no consolation is left, then the long, purposeless halts at wayside stations become exasperating. It does seem wasteful to spend so much time over so short a distance. When morning comes, this mood flies away at the unexpected sight of a mediÆval town on the opposite side of the harbour; for Sousse follows the Tunisian fashion, and the French colony dwells apart. The old town stands on a gentle rise beside the waters of the Mediterranean, a complete survival from the Middle Ages. Not grey and timeworn like our northern strongholds, but radiant in the sunshine, a mass of glittering white, crowned and girdled by gold—towers and bastions and crenellated walls. The reflection of these old-world defences in the calm waters below is almost as brilliant as the reality. In the evening a change comes over the spirit of the place, the brightness fades away and is succeeded by a gentle melancholy, a slight film, the dimness of age, as if the warriors of bygone times returned at sundown to hover over their old castle, full of unavailing regret that their day is over, and that from the topmost battlements an alien flag now floats. SOUSSE Sousse, under its old title of Hadrumetum, has a quite respectable antiquity. Sallust mentions it as a Phoenician colony of older date than Carthage. Under the Emperor Trajan it became a Roman colony, the capital of the Byzacene or mid-Tunisia. No one knows when or how it received the name of Sousse, and even the fact of its being Hadrumetum at all was once a matter of dispute. Hercha and Hammamet are both supposed by some to have a better claim to the distinction, and Ruspina has been given as the original name of Sousse. It fell into the hands of the Normans from Sicily during the twelfth century, but has otherwise remained a Moslem fortress from their first invasion to the time of the French occupation in 1881. Now the French colony seems bright and prosperous, and the inhabitants talk more cheerfully of their fate than usual; for there is much to do, and the recently opened harbour is a great improvement, as formerly the roadstead was defenceless in certain prevalent winds, and now ships can ride safely at anchor and take in immense cargoes of corn and oil, the staple produce of the district. Once within the old gates the Arab town, though most picturesque, shows little that is distinctive. It possesses narrow Eastern streets, whiter even than usual, and small bazaars, after the manner of Tunis, but with no individuality of their own. Tunis, Algiers, and Constantine have so much character that their From every side Sousse presents a striking picture, and from the towers of the Casbah the view over the sunny terraces to the wondrous blue of the bay and the soft green of the olives is beautiful. But the only building that is really curious in the town itself is the Kahwat el Koubba, or cafÉ of the dome, a small Byzantine basilica. Unfortunately, it is so built into the bazaar that it is difficult to see its peculiarities. It is quite square for rather more than the height of a man from the ground, then round for the same distance, and has a fluted dome. The rue Halfaouine, the street where pottery is sold and mats are made, is quainter than in Tunis, for there the two trades work separately. These men were very busy, and with one exception had not the slightest objection to being watched or painted. The one man who did object wore the green turban of the descendants of the Prophet, and built up an elaborate screen of plaits to hide himself. He soon forgot his dread, gradually used up the plaits, and forgot to replace them. Granted a little patience with the shortcomings of the train service and it is no trouble to see Sousse, but the excursion to El Djem is quite another matter. Until quite lately difficulties strewed the path, and the drive alone took one long day or even two. Now, thanks to the introduction of a postal motor-car service, the journey between Sousse and Sfax is smooth enough. THE BASKET-MAKERS, SOUSSE The shaky old diligence still runs for the benefit of second- and third-class passengers, and takes a wearisome time about the journey, which the motor accomplishes in rather more than three hours. This motor is a heavy, but very roomy vehicle, somewhat like a coach with six places inside, two beside the driver and more on the roof, and moves with the steady, resistless force of great weight. As a rule, all the seats are taken some days beforehand, for there is much coming and going of business men between Sousse and Sfax; but we were lucky enough to secure ours after only two days, and to have only one other passenger in the interior, which meant heaps of space and a clear view with no intervening heads. The straightness of the road is at first mitigated by the beauty of the old olive trees, but when these give place to new plantations, the young trees and bushes are so few and far between that they only accentuate the dreariness of the landscape. Still, a look of wellbeing is coming over the land, and if all goes well, the arid plains will once again become fruitful, and the mischief wrought by El Kahina, the celebrated chieftainness of the Aures, who destroyed all the farms and villages, will be remembered no more. Formerly the whole country from Tripoli to Tangiers was wooded and fertile, but the destruction of the forests has given the land its present inhospitable character, so that where twenty inhabitants flourished One village of importance, and one only, breaks the monotony of the route, and the motor passes through its narrow streets, which it almost fits, hooting and scattering the people right and left, shaking them out of their dreamy ways with its message of speed and progress. Yet though some grumble more admire. Even on this frequented road, where the motor passes twice daily, the same amusing precautions are taken by the Arabs as at Hammam Meskoutine. The camels are ridden off into the plains, carts are dragged to the side of the road, and the horses’ heads covered up—even the donkeys are held very tight. And if any man is too sleepy to attend to them, his animals give him enough to do to pacify them after the horror has passed. After this village the olives disappear. Nothing is visible but a wide plain, literally carpeted with wild flowers, mostly common ones, but exquisite from pure abundance of colour. Amongst them are masses of small purple gladiolus, the most beautiful flower of them all. For miles ahead the road stretches out straight as a gigantic ruler, diminishing in perfect perspective to a vanishing point on the horizon, the effect enhanced by the slight undulations of the plain. The road is without shade or trees, there are not even villages to be seen, only a few Bedawin camps, and an occasional house At last, dimly discernible in the distance, a vast form rises, desolate and alone upon the earth, a forlorn relic of Roman splendour, the African rival of the Colosseum at Rome—the amphitheatre of El Djem. It is only a few feet smaller than its great original, is built on the same lines, is of the same massive breadth, and what it loses in actual measurement is regained by its isolated position. A building of such proportions is sufficiently impressive in the heart of a famous city, but out here in the wilderness the effect is overwhelming. The very existence of such a huge place of amusement so far from the present haunts of men, on a spot so bereft of all visible means of supporting a city large enough to send 60,000 spectators to witness the games, is strange, almost unthinkable. The land, of course, is good, but water is not here in any abundance, and there is no stone in the neighbourhood—the fine white limestone used in the building having all been brought from Sallecta on the coast. Nothing now remains but this, the wonder of North Africa, of the whole city of Thyrsus mentioned by The Proconsul Gordian rebelled against Maximin, and was proclaimed Emperor at the age of eighty, at Thyrsus in A.D. 238, about the time of the building of the amphitheatre, which is sometimes supposed to have been his work as Emperor. But this could hardly be, as he was defeated in battle, and died by his own hand within two months. The amphitheatre was looked upon by the Arabs as a place of refuge in troublous times, and was often used as a fortress. It is called Kasr el Kahina, or Palace of the Sorceress, after the celebrated El Kahina, of whom many legends are told. When she was besieged in this singular castle of hers, she caused subterranean passages to be made to the sea coast at Sallecta, and had this done on so large a scale that several horsemen could ride through them abreast. The Arabs believe firmly in these marvellous passages, but the entrance to them has not yet been found. However, later on, another siege had to be raised, because the defenders were so well supplied that they mockingly threw down fresh fish to the besiegers, who were already suffering from want of food. THE ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE, EL DJEM In modern times the great breach made in one of the sieges has been enlarged by the Arabs, who used it as a quarry, and built their large village beneath its shelter entirely out of the spoils. Now this quarrying has been stopped by law, happily in time, and the breach, overgrown as it is with moss and plants, only serves to make the ruin more beautiful as it lies among the prickly pears and olives. On the side nearest the village, however, it is in such good preservation, and the four galleries are so perfect, that with the regularity comes a certain loss of picturesqueness. The village is quite unusual: the stolen stone has been used as if it were mud, the houses are built like huts with large walled courts, and big doors, which are defended by barking dogs. The men are indifferent to strangers, but the children, pretty as they are, become a positive torment. They have learnt the value of a petit sou, and keep up a never-ending litany in the vain hope of obtaining one. This comes of the bad habit of throwing coins from the automobile for the pleasure of seeing a scramble. In the evening some sort of a fÊte was on hand, absolutely different to any we had seen. Bowers had been built, flags and greenery were festooned across the street, and in one large booth, covered with green, a crowd was gathered to watch a performance of howling dervishes, probably AÏssaouas. A long row of men and boys with streaming hair were working themselves into a state of frenzy, with violent rhythmic movements of their heads, as they threw them backwards and forwards, and panted like steam-engines. There were also groups of masqueraders with unearthly masks, pretending to be animals and going on all fours, and a mock bridal party with a soldier arrayed as the bride, his feet and gaiters alone betraying him. There is no inn of any sort, so travellers stay at the school, which is also the post-office. The French schoolmaster, his wife, and a little girl, are the only Europeans in the place, though it contains one Jew and one Maltese—so Oriental as not to count. The school is an old building, once the house of a Bey; it was then a big open cloister. Now walls, doors, windows, and partitions have been added to form large double cells, vaulted as in a monastery, but with horse-shoe arches. These cells are scantily furnished, so that they look both bare and spacious. Once they were used for storing gunpowder, which has left the walls sadly discoloured. In fact, the appearance of the house was well in keeping with predictions which we had received about roughing it; but we found that instead of starving, the meals were quite elegant, consisting of many courses, and including such luxuries as chicken, lamb, and quails. The bread was very dry, and there was no butter; but much experience had foreseen that difficulty, and jam, biscuits, and tea travelled with us. The schoolmaster was silent, but contented. His wife, however, suffered much from the loneliness; for the small doings of the household, teaching a native servant and superintending the cooking, could not fill her life. She was pining for friends and sympathy, and her nearest neighbours, a detachment of soldiers, lived fourteen or fifteen miles away. The diligence and the motor cars alone brought variety, and they passed quickly with some pleasant bustle, and then silence came once more. The school itself is a success: the boys At night, even when the little garrison has been raised to five, there is a strange eerie feeling of loneliness, which camping somehow does not give. The great doors are bolted and barred, the watch-dog is on duty in the court, which the moonlight makes almost as light as day, brightening the treasured but miserable garden with its tender touch. All is made perfectly safe. Yet the thought recurs insistently, what could one man do, should anything rouse the hundreds of half-wild Arabs in the village out of their ordinary quiet hatred? A life of this sort is only possible where the fascination of the East is strongly felt; but for a poor woman like this, out of sympathy with the country, its people and their ways, it is little short of martyrdom. Quiet is not a feature of the nights at El Djem. Every house in the village owns several dogs, and the only dog that does not seem to bark all night is the dog at the school. As for the cocks, they begin to crow at bed-time and keep it up till morning. Jackals and an occasional hyena swell the chorus. Then in the small hours the diligence arrives, with rattle and rumble along the road and a thunderous knocking at the great door, till the whole household is awake to give it welcome. The motor appears at the respectable hour of nine in the morning, and manages with infinite cleverness to catch the mid-day train to Kairouan, although it should EVENING, KAIROUAN |
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