W. G. Windham

Sleeman.––The Oued el Ahwena.––Its Scenery and its Dangers.––Beauty of the Landscape on its Banks.

I started next day with the Umbra, who was remarkable for a long scimitar, and spurs nearly as long. Each time I put my horse to a gallop, he was under the impression that I wanted to ride a race with him, and went on at full speed, till I restrained his ardour. We arrived duly at Sleeman, where the Caid had everything prepared very comfortably for us. My friends B––– and F––– arrived later, in a carriage. We had a good Arab dinner, with the national kouskous, followed by a chibouk.

There was a river about six miles off, where boars were rumoured to make their abode. I rose early next morning, and, proceeding to this stream, hid in the thicket on the banks, while the Arabs beat the bushes. After waiting a long time, I managed to “pot” a wild boar, which came rushing past me at full speed. After this, the Arabs refused to beat the bushes any more, declaring that the dogs were tired, though the real reason was that they wanted their own 56 dinners, so I was obliged to give up the sport and return. The wild boar was dispatched as a present to the consul.

The river which we visited to-day is called the Oued el Ahwena. It runs through a rich valley, bordered on both sides by mountains which rise up gradually, and are covered to their very foot with trees of various descriptions. The plain itself is fragrant with myrtles, orange trees, and olives. The beauty of the scene amid which this river falls into the sea is beyond description. Here the water is hissing wildly among osiers and furze bushes; there it skips along like a young goat over the small pebbles; and yonder, again, it winds like a serpent among the sand hills on the sea-shore. The dark olive-trees on the bank seem to look seriously on, like a father watching the pranks of a favourite child. The large ash-trees shake and quiver, like old aunts, all in a tremble at the dangerous hops and vagaries of a lively niece; while the gay-plumaged birds of the air ring out their wild applause, and the flowers on the bankside murmur tenderly, “Oh, take us with you, dear sister!” But the joyous, sparkling river rushes on like a coquette, bounding and skipping towards its goal.

Such is the river Ahwena in the glorious month of April: fair without, like many a gay flirt, she can yet inflict wounds incurable, if not death, upon those whom her wiles entrap. Woe to the traveller or 57 hunter who, oppressed by thirst in this burning climate, ventures to taste the sparkling water that bubbles up like champagne, invitingly at his feet! Cholera and death would be the probable result. The waters are redolent of cholera, and the banks of fever. No man may pitch his tent in safety for a single night on the banks of this death-dealing water; not even the Bedouins, who avoid the locality as if it were plague-stricken, for fever is in the very air. Strange that so fair an exterior should veil so baneful a mystery. Those bright, sweet-smelling flowers conceal snakes and reptiles whose bite is almost instantaneously fatal, and the place might be appropriately termed the Valley of Death. Among yonder fair trees lurk the treacherous panther and the slinking hyena.

Yet, in this world, amid present impressions of pleasure, we have little time to think of the danger veiled beneath the smiling outward shape. So, at least, it was with me, as I reclined on the carpet of soft grass, after slaying the boar, placidly discussing my breakfast, and enjoying the beauty of the scene around, with the azure-rippling sea about two miles off, the magnificent mountains around me, the sparkling river at my feet, and, across the bay in the far distance, the ruins of the once mighty city of Carthage, with the birds singing merrily overhead in the bright sunshine. There is exquisite pleasure in the sensation of the external world thus melting away, as it were, into a little world of our own, and when the green trees, 58 the azure sky, the perfumed plants, all take their places in an exquisite picture of Nature’s own painting. Women, perhaps, most indulge this feeling; hence they often smile with an amiable incredulity when they hear the “lords of the creation,” proud of their scholastic lore, discussing and settling everything, priding themselves upon having divided all things so cleverly into subjective and objective, and boasting that they have furnished their wise heads with so many drawers (like a chemist’s shop, forsooth), with reason located in one, good sense in another, understanding in a third, and so on to the end of the chapter.