Reflections on Ancient Carthage.––Hannibal and his Career.––An Arab Domicile.––Picturesque appearance of the Ruins.
I went three times to the “Ruins,” and therefore should have been lucky. I was, however, the reverse, both as to seeing anything of the ruins, and also the particular object which brought me there. I think, myself, proverbs are very deceitful, and should, like dreams, be read by contrary; some are utterly unintelligible; as, for instance––will any one tell me what this one signifies?––“Sweet words butter no parsnips.” I thought parsnips (and, being fond of vegetables, I should like to know) were generally seasoned with pepper or vinegar. I am, perhaps, too stupid to comprehend it, and, like stupid people, abuse what I don’t understand. Therefore, don’t let any one expect a long description of how this part is Phoenician, and is supposed to be where the Carthaginian parliament was held; or their dandies and “fast” of both sexes met to polka of a night, or drink Punic punch; or a “cabinet de lecture,” or club, where the Times or the Globe gave the latest 70 telegram from Italy; as how Hannibal obtained a glorious victory over the Roman troops at Thrasymene, or that the commissariat was bad; then, perhaps, old grumblers decried the dissipation at CannÆ, and the expense of the war; and ancient merchants on ’Change complained of the rising importance of the Roman navy, whose ships had just captured the large Phoenician brigantine Argo, from Sidon, laden with a valuable freight, otto of roses, and bound for Carthage––apropos of which I will remark, there is a military Rome and a mercantile Carthage in modern times. Take care we be not the Carthage; let us remember that it was from a stranded Punic vessel the Romans learnt the maritime art, in which, at last, they excelled their enemies. Hannibal appears to me always the greatest man of any age, ancient or modern––Napoleon not excepted––and perhaps the most unfortunate. His character comes to us, as his exploits, from foreign and hostile sources; for I believe there exist no Phoenician records; so that there remains a great deal of discount to take off in the way of disparagement, depreciation, &c. &c. It is as if the future Australian, standing on the ruins of a city mightier than Carthage, could obtain no account of Napoleon, but through partial and depreciatory fragments from the pages of Sir Walter Scott’s life of that extraordinary meteor. Napoleon, it is true, crossed the Alps, but Hannibal traversed the Alps and Pyrenees too, and I fancy the last are the more impassable 71 of the two. It is true I have not copied Albert Smith, or our other heroic youths, but I have climbed the Malodetta, which well becomes its appellation. Then, Napoleon had a friendly population at any rate behind him, to bring supplies, &c. Hannibal was everywhere surrounded by hostile tribes, besides having had the disadvantage of a march through enemies’ countries of several hundred, if not thousand miles. I hope the living in Spain, for his sake, did not then consist of olla podrida, with a variation of garlic and acid wine.
Perhaps there existed in these days some machine, or some marvellous powder, by which real mountains might be removed (as spiritual ones by faith) at pleasure, and replaced in their original position; but as history makes no mention thereof, it is but fair to conclude not. No, the only machine used, the only mine, was the invincible and iron will of the Carthaginian hero. He, too, if I mistake not, lived under parliamentary rÉgime, in the shape of a senate, a great hamper on military manoeuvres, where all should be done quickly, secretly, and unanimously. Napoleon was his own master, with a devoted people. I wonder if parliamentary debates, in Punic days, were as long and insipid as in modern; that is, I have not been to them, but judge by what one reads in that modern tyrant, the Times. Oh, mighty Times! how we abuse you, and yet how should we relish our breakfast without you? who ever comes up to all we look 72 for when great occasions call for your wonderful pen, stirring us to the quick; or whether, in an idle mood, we seek to while away the passing hour by a description of the last new folly, or the latest odour of the Thames, or anything else instructive and amusing. By the way, if the senate of Carthage took quarter as long sending supplies to their general as the Commons discussing the way to purify the Thames, I fancy he would not have crossed the Pyrenees.
I said I went three times to Carthage; the first time, an English friend was leaving that day by a sailing ship, and I had promised to lunch with him at Goulette, and then see him on board, the first of which I did in a small house dignified by the name of locanda, or HÔtel FranÇais, where some Maltese captains were breakfasting, who had a strong odour of onions and garlic, and at another table a Savoyard was discussing the question of annexation with a ProvenÇal, in what I may term moitiÉ FranÇais moitiÉ Italien. They gave us soup made of, I don’t know what, but the pepper was very strong, or rather, I may say, would have been, if it were not for the strong taste of the water, and vice versÂ; after that, some dried fish, called sardines, which they said had just been caught. For second course, we had a sort of gigot de mouton, which, in form, resembled the temple of Neptune at the “ruins,” and you might almost have sworn they had cut it into that shape on purpose; and quails, very excellent; and we finished with cheese, which might 73 have been manufactured from goat’s milk, or cow’s milk, or camel’s milk, or all three, or any other milk, but was dignified by the appellation of Chesterrre, and was decidedly not Stilton, and eke delicious oranges. In this dinner we meet, as in life, with much good to counteract the evil, as the delicious quails made up for rancid flesh of sheep or horse; so, when next Lady Julia Plantagenet jilts me, I will remember Jessie Jones; or, again, as these fragrant oranges, redolent of the East, caused me to forget the nauseous fromage, so shall the friendship and good opinion of Brown console me for the putty eye and freezing regard of the fashionable Fitznoodle, when next we meet, not at Philippi, but in the park! After lunch, and adieux, I mounted my horse for the ruins, as my friend’s vessel did not start as expected that day, owing to the calm.
On passing the gate of Goulette, several Arab convicts, in chains, shouted at me for something; what it was, I ignore; perhaps they asked for backsheesh, or tobacco, or powder, fine or coarse; or, may be, they called me a dog of a Giaour, and cursed my relations and their limbs. This Goulette appears to be the chief place for the Arab malefactors, and they are mainly employed in improving the high road between Goulette and Tunis, and also in repairing the fortifications.
The afternoon was beautiful, though hot. As it wanted some time to dinner at Tunis, I made a dÉtour 74 on my return to the ruins, and it requires a fine air to make you enjoy fine scenery. There was scarcely a ripple on the blue Mediterranean. Beautiful trees of every description, olive and orange trees, oleanders, and others, grew to the very base of the mountain, and sent up a delicious perfume. I visited the chapel of St. Louis, from which one enjoys a most delicious prospect. It is built over some god’s temple––whose, I forget, or even whether a Roman or Punic one; but this is dedicated to the true God and Christian worship, in remembrance of that venerable French king, who is said to have perished here, while on his way to Palestine, to fight the Moslem. Peace to his ashes! However, I soon left the hill to re-descend, for I was very thirsty; all of a sudden, behind an olive bush, I saw a head, black as ink, pop out; I hallooed to it first in English, then in Italian. No effect. I saw a female figure disappear behind a cottage, and out rushed a fine tall Arab, with menacing gesture, and more menacing language. I was in his garden. “A glass of water, please,” said I, in Italian. Still no effect. I thought he was going to be savage, when, from behind the house popped, or rather rolled out, another little naked, curly-headed, black ball––a triennial by his looks––the Arab’s only boy, no doubt. He was so irresistibly comic in appearance, that I burst into a fit of laughter. The man’s face changed in a moment. I suppose he thought I was admiring the child. He immediately understood what I required, 75 which he brought in such a large cup, that I thought it was intended for a pail. I nearly emptied it, however. He then volunteered bread and olives, which, however, I declined, to spoil my dinner. We then made mutual signs of greeting, and parted. Had I been able to talk, I would have stopped longer. There was a sudden friendship sprung up between me and that poor unlettered infant of the desert.
