Chapter XXX (6)

The powerful Hamama tribe was the next which our travellers fell in with,—two hundred of this tribe coming to pay their respects to the heir-apparent of the throne, and escort him to the city of Cafsa. “There was much in their appearance,” says Mr Davis, “to make me regard this tribe with a great degree of interest. They are genuine Arabs, and of this they are very proud. ‘Their hand is against every man, and every man’s hand is against them.’ An officer from the reigning sovereign of Tunis, (who has just joined our expedition) with a number of cavalry soldiers, is now amongst them, in order to enforce a fine of 2000 camels, for murders and other outrages committed by these genuine descendants of Ishmael. They are at enmity with the Dreeds, jealous of the Farasheesh, and almost constantly at war with the Mamshe—a tribe inhabiting the western borders of the regency, quite as powerful and as full of pretensions as their own.” As seldom more than thirty camels are ever demanded for a single life, these two thousand camels symbolise upwards of sixty murders committed by this tribe, and known to the Government!

His Highness the Prince made his entry in grand style into Cafsa,—the Mamlooks on their choice horses, and in their best uniforms—a native band playing their national tunes—a host of unfurled banners—and at the wings several companies of cavalry. In all, including the various tribes that had joined, the camp now amounted to no less than 30,000 men, about 50,000 camels, and 2000 horses and mules! “A just estimate of the size of the expedition,” says our author, “can only be formed by viewing it from some eminence as it is moving along, either in some large plain, or over the seas of sand which now and then it is traversing. Often have I taken my position on a little hillock, and could see nothing for miles before me or behind but the living masses which composed the inhabitants of our canvass city. How similar to this must have been the marching of the Children of Israel in the wilderness, on their way from Egypt to the Promised Land!”

The morning was lovely as they approached Cafsa. Not a speck could be discovered in the sky, and everything around seemed to have an aspect of contentment and cheerfulness. The city is surrounded by gardens, gay with clusters of date, olive, lemon, orange, pomegranate, pistacchio, and other fruit trees. “In walking among these gardens, richly watered by a delicious brook, which has its supply from two fountains, one within the citadel, and the other in the centre of the city, a stranger can imagine himself in some more temperate region, and among a people more advanced in civilisation.” But on entering the city, the charm (as usual) vanishes. Cafsa is the ancient Capsa, (built three hundred years before Carthage), the stronghold of Jugurtha; of the inhabitants of which place Florus says, “They are in the midst of their sands and serpents, which defend them better from those that would attack them than armies and ramparts would.” Marius, however, after some adroit manœuvring, pounced upon and took the city;—and as the inhabitants were strongly attached to the Numidian prince, the Roman general, after giving the place up to be plundered by his soldiers, levelled it with the ground, and put the inhabitants to the sword, or sold them as slaves. The modern city, built on the ruins of the ancient one, is situated upon a rising ground, and has a population of about three or four thousand inhabitants. Within it there is a spring, the waters of which, at their source, are tepid, but are considerably cooled in the large basin into which they discharge themselves. This is in all probability the _Tarmid_ of Edrisi and the _Jugis aqua_ of Sallust. A small kind of fish, about two or three inches in length, is to be found in this slightly tepid basin.

The capture of one of the Hamana tribe at this place, who had been “preaching up a kind of crusade against the Government, and instilling Chartist principles,” (!) not unnaturally suggests to Mr Davis the recollection of certain cases of capital punishment which he had witnessed at Tunis. One of these he thus describes:—

“A crowd near the Carthagenian gate attracted my attention, and on
inquiry I found that the five or six hundred persons had assembled to
see the sentence of their despot carried into execution. In a few
minutes six _hambas_ (policemen) made their appearance on the wall,
some forty yards distant from the gate, and about thirty feet in
height, leading two culprits, whose hands were pinioned in front. They
stepped firmly, and seemed quite callous and indifferent about their
doom. The hambas set at once about their work. They fastened ropes
round the necks of the criminals, which they secured to the
battlements, on the wall. No ecclesiastic was present to administer
any religious consolation; but the executioners now and then
ejaculated the words, _Maktoob_, ‘it is so predestinated,’ and _Hacka
yehab rubby_, ‘such is the will of God.’ When desired to take the
position pointed out to them, they did so without manifesting the
slightest reluctance, or exhibiting the least symptom of fear. Each
took his seat between two of the battlements, their feet hanging over.
They looked for a moment on the crowd beneath; and when one of the
hambas desired them to pronounce their creed, they cried out, ‘O
Moslems! pray for us.’ Then, turning their eyes heavenwards, they
pronounced in a clear, distinct, and audible voice, the words,’There
is no God but God, and Mohammed is his apostle.’ When the last word
was uttered, the executioners pushed them simultaneously off the wall,
and thus the wretched men were launched into eternity. The conduct of
the assembled spectators was very orderly—indeed, grief seemed
depicted on every countenance.”

In Mohammedan law, sentences, whether capital or otherwise, are no sooner pronounced than they are carried into execution. There is a delectable variety in the modes of exit from this world, which the law prescribes for capital offenders. Arabs are generally hanged, seldom decapitated; Turks are mostly strangled; Jews are dealt with after the manner of Arabs. Women are drowned; and the higher classes, and princes, enjoy the privilege of being poisoned. In some few cases, criminals are sentenced to be burned. One mode of death—which we Europeans regard as rather an honourable one—is regarded by the Koran-readers and the orthodox portion of the community as heterodox in the extreme. A knowledge of Roger Bacon’s invention, gunpowder, never having been vouchsafed to the Prophet in any of his revelations, the Faithful, of course, are unable to find a single passage in the Koran to justify sentencing a soldier to be shot. But in this, as in many other instances, the common sense or convenience of the Pasha leads him to deviate from the Cadi’s opinion, and to overrule the _Sharrah_.

On leaving Cafsa, our travellers found themselves fairly in the Sahara. “As the day advanced,” says Mr Davis, “the heat increased, and by noon became almost intolerable. Besides the excessive heat of a burning sun, we had to endure the noxious influence of the southerly wind, which, fortunately for us, did not blow with all its wonted fury. Its effect, however, was apparent, not only on myself, but also on some of my friends. The weakness and lassitude these combined agencies produced, manifested themselves by the perfect stillness and sullenness which prevailed in every group of travellers, as they either walked or rode along. The heat it collected in its sweep across the burning sands, it now freely vented on us,—and that to such a degree that some of its puffs actually resembled in their effects the flames issuing from a furnace.” No wonder that the Psylli of old should have attempted the extermination of so destructive a tenant of the waste! This nation, says Herodotus, who in ancient times inhabited a district bordering on the _Regio Syrtica_, having once had all their reservoirs of water dried up by the south wind, advanced into the Sahara in order to make war upon it; but the enemy, defying bow and arrow, opposed them by blowing with extreme violence, and raised such clouds and torrents of sand that the poor Psylli were overwhelmed, and all of them perished! What African traveller does not regret that the victory was on the side of the noxious element!

Mr Davis never saw the Simoom in its full and dreadful force, nor did he witness any of those astounding exhibitions of sand-columns, circling in numbers over the surface of the desert, and overwhelming everything that come in their way, that Bruce once gazed upon with awe and wonder. But of snakes and scorpions, and suchlike poisonous inhabiters of the Desert, our author had his fill. On one occasion, when about to encamp, they found the ground literally covered with snakes, whose bite, the Arabs say, is certain death. “Happily for man,” said one of Mr Davis’s companions, “these reptiles have not the benefit of sight;—had they not been deficient in this, the world could not have existed, as these enemies of man would undoubtedly have extirpated him from the face of the earth! So powerful is their sting, that they have been known to have penetrated the large iron stirrup of the Hamama.” The snake thus alluded to—and we need hardly say, our readers may take the description _cum grano salis_—is the _liffa_ or _liffach_,—a reptile about a yard in length; and the account which the Arabs give of the death of those who have been bitten by it tallies very closely with the description which Lucan gives of the death of Nasidius in the same locality:—

“A fate of different kind Nasidius found:
A burning _prester_ gave the deadly wound,—
And straight a sudden flame began to spread,
And paint his visage with a glowing red.
With swift expansion swells the bloated skin,
Nought but an undistinguish’d mass is seen:
The puffy poison spreads and heaves around,
Till all the man is in the monster drown’d.”

The next place the expedition reached was Tozar,—a town fairly in the Sahara, and beyond even the farreaching sway of the old _Dominos rerum_ and their redoubtable Legionaries. “Before Tozar,” says our author, “there are a few hillocks, dotted with some majestic palm-trees; affording a delightful shade: and the silvery rivulet, winding its way among these in devious directions, adds to the charm of the scene. As we approached, we found the hillocks and the trees literally covered with men, women, and children,—assembled to witness the entry of Prince Mohammed and the camp, with their shrill notes of _lo-lo-lo-lo_!” Tozar, like the other cities of the Sahara, is in one important feature different from those on the coast. Generally speaking, the streets of all the towns of Barbary, like those in Egypt and Syria, are exceedingly narrow, so that one camel, laden with wood or merchandise, is sufficient to obstruct the thoroughfare. But in the towns of the Sahara the streets are generally very wide,—the object of which is, to allow the furious winds of the Desert, charged with immense masses of sand, to sweep clean through, instead of being checked in their course, and therefore blocking up the streets with their noxious deposit. From these sand-storms of the desert, the coast-towns have little to fear, on account of the intervening mountain-chains robbing those terrible visitants of their deadly burden; and accordingly the inhabitants of the Barbary towns can afford to build their streets very narrow, so as to exclude the fierce rays of the sun,—a luxury which their southern brethren dare not indulge in.

The population of Tozar amounts to about five thousand,—for the most part of a swarthy complexion, with a cast of features bordering upon that of the Negro. Indeed every fresh stage one makes in the journey into Central Africa, a gradual change is perceptible in the features and complexion of the population,—the white man, by a slow but invariable process, changing into a Negro. “Were it possible,” says Mr Davis, “to introduce into Europe an ethnological collection, classified latitudinally, from the northern coast to Central Africa, the greatest sceptic might be convinced of the fact, that _time_ and _place_ alone made our coloured fellow-creatures what they are. The slave-dealer, and the Negro-dealer, might thus have an ocular demonstration of the great truth, that the black man is our brother, and that circumstances alone, with the nature of which we are not fully acquainted, made him to differ from us.” He mentions, as an additional proof of this, that even among the Jews (who, he says, “have probably lived in this part of Africa from the time the Phœnicians first settled here”) a striking difference is perceptible between those on the coast and those residing in the interior. He adds the curious fact, that in the desert the Jews certainly do not live for many centuries; and thence deduces the conclusion, that if its influence is so clearly shown in them, both as regards colour and features, it is not to be wondered that it should have told to a much greater extent on those to whom the Sahara has been a home for thousands of years. Of all these vari-coloured sections of the North African population, the most merry and gay are unquestionably the Negroes, whether male or female. To ask a Moor or an Arab if he danced, would be to offer him a serious insult—the former especially being too grave to have a regard even for music. But the black people are almost always cheerful, and enjoy life even when in a state of bondage. “Often have I seen them,” says Mr Davis, “congregated by hundreds in some open space, singing and dancing, and playing, for hours consecutively. The ability of the Negro to accommodate himself to circumstances is surprising. What would depress and crush a white man is supported with a marvellous resignation by the black, whose light heart enables him to toil and to sing, to suffer, and yet not despair.”

Within the oasis of Tozar, and its date-forest, are half-a-dozen villages, besides four marabouts with their cupolas, around each of which are a few huts. The houses of the Desert are generally only one storey high, and are built, like those of Cafsa, of bricks, with rafters of palm-wood. The interior of the houses is as humble as their exterior. The rooms are long and narrow, with only a hole here and there to admit the light; and from the rafters of the ceiling of every apartment is suspended the stock of dates which, with milk, forms the principal articles alike of food and of commerce. It is by the sale, or rather barter, of their dates to the wandering tribes that the inhabitants of the oasis of Tozar procure for themselves wheat, barley, cloth, cattle, &c. In former times their commerce was not of so simple or so innocent description—for a flourishing business used to be done here with Tunis in human flesh. A slave was given in exchange for two or three hundredweight of dates, or at the intrinsic value of about £3; and when the rich planter’s shed was filled, he marched the unhappy objects of his purchase northwards to the coast, where they were shipped for their various destinations. “Before the abolition of slavery in the regency of Tunis,” says our author, “I have often seen caravans from this place exposing their merchandise in the slave-market of the capital, and selling them at the rate of £12 or £15 per head. But this lucrative business is now stopped, at least so far as Tunis is concerned, and loud are the complaints of the Tozarians on this subject.”

Besides the stock of dates pendant from the ceiling, the chief ornaments which decorate the rooms of the Sahara towns, are a strange medley of jars, jugs, dishes, plates, bottles, and glasses, suspended on the wall facing the entrance-door. Here they are exhibited promiscuously, totally irrespective of size, shape, colour, or order, and by the quantity of these, an estimate is formed of the wealth of the owner. A low table, a few stools made of the branches of the palm-tree, and, in some instances, a couch or divan, complete the furniture of an apartment,—and an apartment generally forms the residence of a single family. At night, sheepskins, rugs, or mats, are spread on the floor, and supply the place of beds. Every household, we may add, has one or more immense jars, into which any loose or stray dates are thrown. Within an inch or two of the bottom of these jars there is a top, by which they draw off a species of date-honey, which they use in cooking and for other purposes.

Date-honey, however, is not the only species of juice which the Tozarians obtain from the palm-trees of their oasis; for we are informed that though the devout believers in the Koran there scrupulously abstain from _wine_, they indulge freely in _lagmi_, or the juice of the palm-tree, which, when fermented, is quite as intoxicating in its effects as the beverage prohibited by the Prophet. This juice is easily obtained, and if possible still more easily prepared. At a certain season of the year, an incision is made in the tree just beneath the branches,—a jar is then so fastened as to receive the liquid as it exudes,—and, in this manner, they usually procure from a tree, during the course of a night, from a quart to a quart and a half of _lagmi_. When drunk immediately, this liquor tastes like genuine rich milk, and is perfectly free from an intoxicating influence; but when allowed to stand for a night, or at most for twenty-four hours—during which time fermentation takes place—“it partakes (with the exception of the colour, which is whitish) of the quality and flavour of champagne, and that of a much superior sort to what is usually offered in the British markets.” This date-tree wine is to be found in every house, and has its victims reeling through the streets of Tozar just as beer and whisky have in our streets at home. But the curious part of the matter is, that “the faithful” openly justify themselves against the charge of transgressing their Prophet’s precept. “_Lagmi_ is not wine,” they say, “and the Prophet’s prohibition refers to _wine_.”

Of the social relations at Tozar, Mr Davis says:—“My first impression, on visiting several families, was such as to induce me to believe that greater domestic happiness prevailed here than in the Mohammedan cities on the coast. The females are not kept in distinct and separate apartments, nor do they even cover their faces when in the presence of strangers, but appear perfectly free, and seem exceedingly affable.” A closer examination, however, sufficed to show that the regulations of Mohammedanism in regard to females produced very much the same results here as elsewhere. Marriage is usually contracted very early,—so that it is no uncommon thing to see boys of thirteen and fourteen in possession of wives of eleven or twelve, or even younger; and the result, here as elsewhere, is, that girls of twelve look as old as European females do at twenty, and at thirty they are almost fit to be placed on the retired list. Indeed, as Colonel Dow in his _Ferishta_ says, polygamy in the East is founded very much on natural causes, as, owing to early marriages, and the effects of the climate, a man there keeps his vigour long enough to see two or three wives bloom and fade in succession. Moslems consider it wrong, and even sinful, if a man has reached his twentieth year without marrying. The young couple are joined together on the good faith of their parents or relations; for they are not permitted to see each other before the nuptial night. Certain persons, however,—generally old women, relatives of the parties—are sent from the man, who examine the lady, and bring him back a report of her bodily accomplishments. If the man finds himself disappointed, he has a right to send her back to her parents, without restoring to her the portion that was promised her,—or rather, the price that was to be paid for her, as the wife is bought by the husband. The young damsels, it must be allowed, take all pains to avoid so lamentable a catastrophe. “Excessive obesity,” says Mr Davis, “is considered the perfection of female beauty among the Mohammedans on the coast; hence a young woman, after she is betrothed, receives gold or silver shackles upon her hands and wrists, and is fed so long till these are filled up. A kind of seed called _drough_, and their national dish _coscoso_, are used for the purpose. The young lady is literally crammed, and some actually die under the spoon.”

These African beauties, it would appear, are subject to strange fantasies and superstitions. The Jenoon, or devil, we are told, sometimes causes a lady to fancy some article of dress or jewellery; and until her husband (for the lady is always a married one) procures her the article, the Jenoon torments her in a most pitiless manner. But the tormentor is not satisfied by the lady obtaining the article. He must have something for himself, in return for the trouble he takes in the matter,—and that something is nothing less than a splendid feast exclusively of ladies. Our reverend author, however, by special favour, was once present at a feast of this kind at Nabil, the ancient Neapolis; and as the spirits do not seem to have stood much in awe of “the cloth,” he is able to furnish us with the following account of this Jenoon or devil feast:—

“The room in which it was celebrated was beautifully illuminated, and
surrounded with ottomans, upon which the ladies, amounting to forty,
were luxuriously reclining, and amongst them the lady possessed by the
Jenoon. All of them were beautifully dressed, and none of them,
judging from their appearance, were more than forty years of age,
though some of them were still in their teens. After I had been there
a few moments, supper was brought in; and coscoso, the favourite dish
of Barbary, was of course not excluded. They all sat down on the
ground, and some with wooden spoons, whilst others with their hands,
partook freely of the repast. I was invited to join them, which I did,
and had also the pleasure to be favoured with a spoon.” (We hope it
was a _long_ one!)

“After supper they all took their former places; and a band of music
began to strike up some of their national tunes. All the ladies sat
quiet—till of a sudden one of them, a young woman of about twenty,
arose and began to dance by herself. She was soon followed by several
others, who were wheeling rapidly round; and all of them worked
themselves into such a frenzy that from weakness they dropped to the
ground, where they lay, till, recovering their strength, they
recommenced their madness. This lasted a considerable time. The lady
with the Jenoon was sitting quietly on the ottoman. When the visitors
had finished their amusement, she started up, and followed their
example; and when she, like the others, was stretched on the floor,
one of the spectators arose, and asked what article she fancied,—to
which she made no reply. The former then named several articles of
dress, asking whether she wished any of them; and when the article
which the Jenoon lady desired was mentioned, (I believe a shawl), she
suddenly started up,—and this was the signal that the Jenoon feast was
considered as ended.”

When Barbary ladies play the _Jenoon_ with their husbands at this rate, it is not to be wondered at that a separation from such fantastic spirits should be placed within easy reach of the man. Barbary husbands, at least if they be Moslems, can take back their divorced partners after a first divorce, but not after a second, unless—strange provision!—she has in the interim been married to another man. A husband may oblige his divorced wife to nurse any infant she has borne him, until it is two years old; and no man can marry a divorced woman sooner than four months and a half after her total separation from the former husband. The facility with which a divorce can be procured in Northern Africa, even for the most trivial causes, cannot be otherwise than most pernicious to the social welfare of the community. Mr Davis narrates the following anecdote in illustration of this ridiculous as well as most mischievous license:—

“A servant of mine of the name of Ali, once very pressingly applied
for leave to go out for a short time. It was not my custom to inquire
into the nature of his business, but, on that occasion something
unaccountable prompted me to put the question,—‘And where are you
going to, Ali?’

“Holding up a piece of paper, he very coolly answered,—‘To give my
wife this divorce; and shall soon be back, _Arfi_,’ (my master).

“‘To give your wife a divorce! Well, you may go; but remember, if you
divorce her, I from this very moment divorce you.’

“Handing me the paper, Ali exclaimed,—‘Here, master, take it; on such
conditions I shall not divorce my wife.”’

Tozar was the most southerly point which the expedition reached; and here it remained for the space of three weeks, during which time Mr Davis and his three French companions made excursions to the neighbouring oases. Accompanied by the Governor and Cadi of Nefta, with a retinue of some twenty well-mounted servants, they set out over the sands to visit that place. “Never,” says Mr Davis, “had the propriety of styling the camel _the ship of the Desert_ been so apparent to me as this day. The whole way from Tozar to Nefta, the Desert had completely the aspect of a vast bed of an ocean, and we seemed to plough the sandy waves of the Sahara as the ship does those of the sea. The morning was rather hazy, and the sky was overcast with a number of detached small white clouds, which (particularly those along the horizon) very often assumed the form of a variety of sailing crafts; and thus added considerably to the delusion, under the influence of which we Europeans were quite willing to abide, viz. of navigating some expansive lake. By seven o’clock, however, the sun burst forth in all his brilliance; every cloud was speedily dispersed, and a clear, blue ethereal sky was stretched over us as far as the eye could reach.” When fairly launched upon the Deserts, the sameness of the scenery becomes most oppressive. Seldom is the traveller’s eye refreshed by anything in the shape of a mountain or a green plain. One sea of sand succeeds another; and were it not for an occasional mirage, which for a time diverts them, or, for the circumstance that the glaring sun and drifting sand-clouds compels them sometimes for hours together to envelop their faces in the _bornoos_, or cloak, so that they are able to dream of the fantastic groups of date-trees, and the gentle rivulets winding amongst them in their native land, their journey through such portions of the Desert would be the most intolerable and dreary imaginable. These alleviations, or “comforts,” as an old voyager of the Desert called them, being mere illusions, are rather calculated to vex the heart of the inexperienced traveller. But those who have been in the habit of crossing the sandy ocean from their infancy, and to whom every spot on its surface is familiar, are diverted, and even cheered by such illusions. “It is a change for them,” said one of these veteran voyagers, “and any change in a monotonous life is agreeable.”

On the present occasion, however, our travellers were embarked on a much shorter journey. A few hours’ ride sufficed to carry them over the waste, and bring them to the oasis of Nefta—of the extreme antiquity of which town the Cadi had the most assured belief. “Nefta,” said he, “was built—or, rather the foundation of it was laid—by _Saidna Noah_ (our Lord Noah): peace be upon him! Here he discovered the first dry spot; and hence he disembarked here, and erected an abode for his family.” The inhabitants of these oases of the Desert are not without their etiquette; and on approaching the town, the Governor assumed his dignified aspect, made his entry with all possible gravity, and was no sooner seated in his own residence than the sheikhs and aristocracy of Nefta assembled to welcome him, some kissing his head, some his shoulder, some his elbow, and some the palm of his hand. The worthy Governor, however, who had a good dash of humour in his composition, loved other things better than etiquette. “No sooner was the assembly dismissed,” says our author, “than our lordly host again resumed his easy and affable manner. When the sound of the feet of the last grandee had died away, Ibrahim rose up, and assumed an attitude which might have been a subject for the study of an artist. There he stood, not unlike what I could fancy a Demosthenes, a Cato, or a Cicero, when on the point of commencing one of their thrilling orations. Ibrahim remained in that position a few seconds, and then turning to us, said, ‘I am glad to be free again. Gentlemen! you no doubt are hungry as well as myself; have you any objection to a good dinner?’”

Having despatched the dinner, which justified the host’s eulogium of it, and reposed for a few hours after their fatigues, Mr Davis and one of his companions set out by themselves to ride all round the oasis of Nefta. “All went on well at first,” he says, “and we even enjoyed our ride along the outskirts of the thick forest of magnificent and majestic date-trees, till we suddenly perceived our horses sinking beneath us. ‘Pull up! pull up!’ screamed my companion; ‘the ground is unsafe!’ We were on the brink of getting on the _Kilta_, a dangerous swamp, which receives the surplus waters of the head-fountain, after they have supplied the vast date-plantations. The _Kilta_ joins the ‘Sea of Pharaoh,’ and never have I seen anything of a more delusive character. The surface of the swamp had precisely the same appearance as the solid ground; and had we been riding at full speed, we might have perished in this deceitful abyss.” The _Ras Elain_—“head fountain or spring,”—which is the source of the _waad_, or river, constitutes the charm and luxury of this delightful oasis. The spring is surrounded on three sides by hillocks, and is embowered amidst a cluster of palm-trees, so thickly and eccentrically placed that our travellers had much difficulty in approaching it so as to taste its waters. _Fi kol donya ma atsh’ kaifho’_,—“In the whole world there is nothing like it!” exclaimed their guide. “And I must candidly confess,” says Mr Davis, “that though he had never left the locality of his birth, he was pretty correct on this point. Never did I taste more delicious water; and we unanimously agreed that the Neftaweens might well be proud of their _Ras Elain_. What a boon is this spring, located as it is amidst the burning sands!”

But the great marvel of this district is the mysterious _Bakar Faraoon_, the “Sea of Pharaoh.” The whole tribes of the vicinity look with awe and terror upon this so-called “sea,” and superstitions innumerable are connected with it. Not only has the army of that wicked monarch after whom the sea is called, perished in it, but hosts of infidel sovereigns, persecutors of the Faithful, with their myriads of warriors, been engulfed in it, and are still sinking down its bottomless abyss! Such are the reports of the Moslems, confirmed by the weighty asseverations of our author’s learned friend, the Cadi of Nefta. “Not only have numberless armies been seen marching and re-marching on its surface by night,” said that erudite expounder of the Koran, “but repeatedly have they been seen during broad daylight. Giants on monstrously large horses, have been seen galloping about in various directions, advancing and receding, and then suddenly disappearing again in that ‘sea.’”

“‘Have you ever, my Lord Cadi, seen any of those submarine warriors?’

_Cadi._—‘No, _I_ never have.’

‘Can you mention any trustworthy person of your acquaintance who has?’

_Cadi._—‘I certainly cannot.’

‘Then what evidence have you for the truth of those marvellous
apparitions?’

_Cadi._—‘Every one believes in all I have told you.’

‘Is it not possible that all this belief may be the result of the
fevered imagination of some superstitious individual?’

_Cadi._—‘It certainly is possible,—but all believe it.’”

This wonderful “sea” is a vast lake, dry for about nine months of the year, extending about seventy miles in length, by forty broad at its widest part. It receives several streamlets, such as the _Ras Elain_ of Nefta; and, during the rainy season, the torrents from the mountains which on two sides at least adjoin it. During the winter, portions of the lake-bed retain for a short time the waters thus poured into it; but during the greater part of the year, a deposit of salt only is visible on its sandy surface. It abounds in marshes, quicksands, and trap-pits; and at no time can it be crossed save by a single route, which is pointed out by trunks of palm-trees, placed at short distances,—and hence its proper name, _the Lake of Marks_. Tufts of very sickly-looking grass, and mounds clothed with consumptive shrubs, fringed its shores at the time our travellers visited it; and its surface was wavy, and covered with saline incrustations. Towards the north-east part of the lake there is a kind of island, about four miles in circumference, which is covered with palm-trees. The Arabs say that those trees have grown up from the kernels left there by Pharaoh’s troops,—and this they regard as an additional proof that the Egyptian monarch and his army perished there!

At last the three weeks’ stay at Tozar drew to a close, and a most lovely night was that which preceded their departure. Mr Davis seldom indulges in scenic description; and we give the following as a rare and charming picture of a night-scene in the Desert:—

“At half-past ten, when every inmate of my establishment had retired
to rest,—the tranquillity, the universal stillness, and balmy
atmosphere seemed to invite me to leave my tent again. All was serene
and calm without, and everything appeared to inspire the mind with
serious and sober reflection.

‘Nature was hush’d, as if her works adored,
Still’d by the presence of her living Lord.’

The sultry heat of the day had now ceased, and a cool northerly breeze
gently waved the branches of the stately palm-trees. The darkness
gradually vanished before the bright rays of the moon, whose silvery
light streamed through the forest; and in a few minutes, she rode high
above the loftiest of its countless trees, and by her splendour and
brilliancy so illuminated every object around, that day appeared again
perfectly restored. And the stars, too,—

‘Those quenchless stars! so eloquently bright.
Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night,’—

vied with each other in lustre, to contribute to the magnificence of
this majestic scene,—to add dazzling refulgence to the prodigious
theatre exhibited for the admiration of wondering man!

“Here we have our white canvass city, and, a little beyond it, the
sombre buildings of Tozar. Here again is the thick forest of graceful
palms, with their clusters of ‘fruits of gold,’ pendant beneath their
feathery branches. The rippling brook flows on in its eccentric
course, bearing on its surface the reflection of the host of stars in
the firmament. All nature—animate and inanimate—as far as my vision
could embrace, not only declared the omnipotence and benevolence of
the great Eternal, but seemed to proclaim universal peace and safety,—

‘’Twas a fair scene,—a land more bright
Never did mortal eye behold!’

“The only sound audible, besides that of the sentries, and the
rippling stream close by, was the voice of a _dervish_ or saint, who
was entertaining the inmates of a tent, pitched a short distance from
mine, with some extraordinary Mecca legends. I was on the point of
re-entering my tent, when one of the party, attracted by the scene
without, called upon his companions to behold the wonderful works of
God. All obeyed; and my thin texture partition enabled me to listen to
their repeated exclamations of _Allah Kabeer_, ‘God is great!’ Thus
the Moslem, like the Christian, was led, from a survey of the
stupendous works of nature, to contemplate nature’s omnipotent God.”

We need not follow the steps of the expedition as it slowly retraced its path northwards through the Desert, from oasis to oasis, till it fairly reentered the region of verdure and perennial waters. Nor can we stay, even in passing, to tell of the many French deserters who have sought refuge among the tribes and towns of the Sahara, nor of their strange adventures, nor of the hardship and death which in so many cases has overtaken them. We merely reconduct Mr Davis, with a velocity unknown to desert-travelling, back to Tunis, and there leave him. His book is a very creditable performance,—though one-half of it might have been as well written (and perhaps was so) in comfortable lodgings in London as in “My Tent” in the Balad Ejjareed. It is not a book of personal adventure. The author is a reverend gentleman, who has no ambition to rival the feats of Gordon Cumming among the lions and hippopotamuses of the African wastes; still less is he inclined to become a “free lance” in the ranks of General Pelissier’s _Zouaves_, and spin us thrilling tales of hairbreadth escapes, such as have lately issued from the press of Germany. But he has been a considerable time—six years—in Northern Africa, and has made himself well acquainted with the language and customs of its people,—upon which subjects we know of no writer in whom we would place more confidence. He is also well acquainted with the works of adventure and travel already published on this part of the world, and of which he very properly makes use to lend additional value or interest to his own. Indeed we think we have recognised several anecdotes in his book which we have already quoted in our pages, when reviewing the foreign works in which they originally appeared. Hence these _Evenings in my Tent_ do not contain so much fresh matter as we anticipated; yet the substance of their pages is, on the whole, both good and readable—if we except the antiquated chapter on the Slave-trade, and a few passages where the author’s clerical habits incline him to sermonise rather more than may suit the tastes of his lay readers.

THE COST OF THE COALITION MINISTRY.

It is probable that ere these pages issue from the press, war will have been formally declared with Russia, and Great Britain will be irretrievably engaged in a contest of which it is impossible to see the termination. Already our choicest troops have left our shores for the Mediterranean, inspired by the cheers and accompanied by the blessing of many hundreds of thousands of their fellow-countrymen, who, for the first time in their lives, have witnessed so solemn yet exciting a spectacle. Already has a noble fleet sailed for the waters of the Baltic, to sweep that inland sea, and to launch its thunders against the foe. Wellnigh forty years have elapsed since such din of martial preparation has been heard. On the last occasion, Russia and Britain were combined against France—now, Britain and France are combined together against Russia. Such a struggle, so commenced, must be a desperate, but not therefore necessarily a short one. We cannot yet calculate on the part to be taken by the central powers of Europe; for, notwithstanding Lord Clarendon’s assurance that Austria is with us, we have every reason to believe that the government of that country is so closely leagued with Russia, that when compelled to throw off its appearance of neutrality, its forces will be ranged upon her side.[11] We cannot depend upon the cordial co-operation of Prussia—which power, besides having no direct interest in the Eastern quarrel, is intimately allied with Russia, and has always acted, during times of European disturbance, with a view to its own aggrandisement. It would be folly to underrate the magnitude of the contest in which we are engaging. The re-pacification of Europe cannot be achieved without an enormous expenditure of blood and treasure, and without very considerable alterations in its territorial adjustment. The war once begun, Russia will know that she is fighting, not for the occupation of the Danubian provinces, but for the retention of the territories which she has absorbed or pillaged from her neighbours. The penalty she must pay in the event of defeat is dismemberment, and she will resist that to the uttermost.

We must not, therefore, blind ourselves to consequences, which, in so far as human judgment can go, appear to be inevitable. We may be able to disperse or even to annihilate the Russian fleets in the Baltic and the Black seas—we may be able to prevent the colossal northern power from crossing the Danube, or even beat it back from the Principalities—but the contest will not end there. We are on the verge of a general European embroilment, in which there will not only be wars, but bloody revolutions; and as we have been the first to enter, so we must be the last to withdraw. We do not say this for the purpose of checking enthusiasm—God forbid! We are already committed to the struggle; and if in the minds of any there has lingered a doubt as to the propriety of Christian intervention for the maintenance of a Mahometan power in Europe, that ought to be dispelled by the revelations recently made of the objects of the Russian ambition. The Czar is no crusader; nor is he influenced by any tender regard for the religious liberties of the Christian population dwelling beneath the government of the Sultan. He has set his eyes upon Turkey, just as Catherine in 1772 fixed hers upon Poland, and he has had the astounding effrontery to propose that Great Britain should take part in the spoliation. Here is his own proposition, as communicated to Lord John Russell, by Sir G. H. Seymour, in his despatch of 22d February 1853:—

“The Emperor went on to say that, in the event of the dissolution of
the Ottoman empire, he thought it might be less difficult to arrive at
a satisfactory territorial arrangement than was commonly believed.
‘The Principalities are,’ he said, ‘in fact an independent state under
my protection; this might so continue. Servia might receive the same
form of government. So again with Bulgaria. There seems to be no
reason this province should not form an independent state. As to
Egypt, I quite understand the importance to England of that territory.
_I can then only say that if, in the event of a distribution of the
Ottoman succession upon the fall of the empire, you should take
possession of Egypt, I shall have no objections to offer. I would say
the same thing of Candia: that island might suit you, and I do not
know why it should not become an English possession._’”

Such was the language used by the Emperor of Russia to the British minister at the Court of St Petersburg, and we really cannot imagine anything more absolutely infamous. It was a bribe, tendered evidently in the belief that it would be accepted; and the offer ought to have been at once most indignantly repelled. Was it so? We shall see presently—for the correspondence recently published is far too remarkable and momentous to be passed over with a single extract from its contents.

The Government of Lord Aberdeen, it will be remembered, acceded to office in the latter part of December 1852. On the 9th of January following, the Emperor Nicholas, at a private meeting in the palace of the Grand-duchess Helen, thus approached Sir G. H. Seymour. We shall be as short in quotation as possible; but it is absolutely necessary that the leading points of such an extraordinary transaction as this should be kept before the public view. We quote from Sir Hamilton Seymour’s despatch to Lord John Russell, then Foreign Secretary, of date 11th January 1853:—

“The Emperor came up to me, in the most gracious manner, to say that
he had heard with great pleasure of Her Majesty’s Government having
been definitively formed, _adding that he trusted the Ministry would
be of long duration_.

“His Imperial Majesty desired me _particularly to convey this
assurance to the Earl of Aberdeen_, with whom, he said, he had been
acquainted for nearly forty years, and for whom he entertained equal
regard and esteem. His Majesty desired to be brought to the kind
recollection of his Lordship.”

Then follows the report of some expressions regarding the close amity which ought to prevail between the two countries, and their community of interests, which, being general, we may pass over: but Nicholas speedily comes to the point—

“In the mean time, the Emperor went on to say—‘I repeat, that it is
very essential that the two Governments—that is, that the English
Government and I, and I and the English Government—should be upon the
best terms; _and the necessity was never greater than at present_. I
beg you to convey these words to Lord John Russell. When we are agreed
(_d’accord_), I am quite without anxiety to the west of Europe; it is
immaterial what the others may think or do. As _to Turkey, that is
another question_; that country is in a critical state, and may give
us all a great deal of trouble. And now I will take my leave of you,’
which His Majesty proceeded to do by shaking hands with me very
graciously.”

The Czar probably thought that he had said enough in the first instance, and that it would be prudent to allow Sir Hamilton Seymour to chew, for a day or two, the cud of thought. But that active and astute diplomatist saw that something more than common was intended, and pressed for a further explanation. The following conversation is certainly as curious as any which is recorded in the pages of history:—

“‘Sir,’ I observed, ‘your Majesty has been good enough to charge me
with general assurances as to the identity of views between the two
Cabinets, which assuredly have given me the greatest pleasure, and
will be received with equal satisfaction in England; but I should be
particularly glad that your Majesty should add a few words which may
tend to calm the anxiety with regard to the affairs of Turkey, which
passing events are so calculated to excite on the part of Her
Majesty’s Government. Perhaps you will be pleased to charge me with
some additional assurances of this kind.’

“The Emperor’s words and manner, although still very kind, showed that
His Majesty _had no intention of speaking to me of the demonstration
which he is about to make in the South_. He said, however, at first
with a little hesitation, but, as he proceeded, in an open and
unhesitating manner—‘The affairs of Turkey are in a very disorganised
condition; the country itself seems to be falling to pieces (_menace
ruine_); the fall will be a great misfortune, and it is very important
that England and Russia should come to a perfectly good understanding
upon these affairs, and that neither should take any decisive step of
which the other is not apprised.’

“I observed in a few words, that I rejoiced to hear that His Imperial
Majesty held this language; that this was certainly the view I took of
the manner in which Turkish questions were to be treated.

“‘Tenez,’ the Emperor said, as if proceeding with his remark, ‘tenez;
nous avons sur les bras un homme malade—un homme gravement malade; ce
sera, je vous le dis franchement, un grand malheur si, un de ces
jours, il devait nous échapper, surtout avant que toutes les
dispositions nécessaires fussent prises. Mais enfin ce n’est point le
moment de vous parler de cela.’

“It was clear that the Emperor did not intend to prolong the
conversation. I therefore said, ‘Votre Majesté est si gracieuse
qu’elle me permettra de lui faire encore une observation. Votre
Majesté dit que l’homme est malade; c’est bien vrai, mais votre
Majesté daignera m’excuser si je lui fais observer, que c’est à
l’homme généreux et fort de ménager l’homme malade et faible.’

“The Emperor then took leave of me in a manner which conveyed the
impression of my having, at least, not given offence, and again
expressed his intention of sending for me on some future day.”

It is proper to subjoin Sir Hamilton Seymour’s own impressions of this interview, as communicated to Lord John Russell.

“Your Lordship will pardon me if I remark that, after reflecting
attentively upon my conversation with the Emperor, it appears to me
that this, and any overture of the kind which may be made, tends to
establish a dilemma by which it is very desirable that Her Majesty’s
Government should not allow themselves to be fettered. The dilemma
seems to be this:—If her Majesty’s Government do not come to an
understanding with Russia as to what is to happen in the event of the
sudden downfall of Turkey, they will have the less reason for
complaining if results displeasing to England should be prepared. If,
on the contrary, Her Majesty’s Government should enter into the
consideration of such eventualities, they make themselves in some
degree consenting parties to a catastrophe which they have so much
interest in warding off as long as possible.

The sum is probably this:—That England has to desire a close concert
with Russia, with a view to preventing the downfall of Turkey; while
Russia would be well pleased that the concert should apply to the
events by which this downfall is to be followed.”

In a postscript to this despatch, we learn that the Emperor had communicated _to the Austrian Minister_ the tenor of the above conversation. That circumstance is, to say the least of it, significant.

Five days afterwards, Sir Hamilton Seymour waited upon the Emperor, at the request of the latter, and was favoured from the imperial lips with a remarkably choice specimen of what our Irish friends denominate _blarney_. The Czar began by asseverating that he had not the least intention of increasing the extent of his territorial dominions. The only danger, he said, which he could foresee to Russia would arise from an extension given to an empire already too large. From this general statement he presently condescended to particulars.

“Close to us lies Turkey, and, in our present condition, nothing
better for our interests can be desired; the times have gone by when
we had anything to fear from the fanatical spirit or the military
enterprise of the Turks, and yet the country is strong enough, or has
hitherto been strong enough, to preserve its independence, and to
insure respectful treatment from other countries.”

These were, we venture to think, injudicious premises on the part of the Emperor, for they are tantamount to an admission that Turkey, if left alone, was quite able to maintain its own position. We are not quite sure that the same could be said of Austria, which, but a few years ago, owed its integrity to the intervention of Russian bayonets. Be that as it may, the Emperor went on to state that he had the right of surveillance over some millions of Christians in the Ottoman empire—a right which he regarded as a duty, but used sparingly, because it was “attended with obligations occasionally very inconvenient.” And then we arrive at a statement, quite inconsistent, we think, with what had gone before.

“Now, Turkey, in the condition which I have described, has by degrees
fallen into such a state of decrepitude, that, as I told you the other
night, _eager as we all are for the prolonged existence of the man_
(and that I am as desirous as you can be for the continuance of his
life, I beg you to believe), he may suddenly die upon our hands (_nous
rester sur les bras_); we cannot resuscitate what is dead: if the
Turkish empire falls, it falls to rise no more; and I put it to you,
therefore, whether it is not better to be provided beforehand for a
contingency, than to incur the chaos, confusion, and the certainty of
a European war, all of which must attend the catastrophe if it should
occur unexpectedly, and before some ulterior system has been sketched?
This is the point to which I am desirous that you should call the
attention of your Government.”