of Naples. Its shores certainly form a striking panorama. On the right rise steeply, terrace above terrace, the dazzlingly white houses, unmistakably oriental in their architecture, of the ancient city of the Deys, crowned by the great fort of the Kasbah. To the left, beyond the


city's walls, stretch the heights of Mustapha, where amid the dark green of semitropical vegetation suburban villas and hotels are thickly dotted. Far to the eastward, beyond Cape Matifou, which forms the further horn of the bay, towers the lofty Djurdjura range, its summits crowned with glistening snow fields—except during the summer heat, when the tourist is not there to see them. For it is in early spring that Algiers puts on its most smiling aspect and welcomes the stranger to a land that is rainy in winter—a snowfall is a very rare event away from the mountains—parched by the fierce and unrelenting heat of never clouded skies in summer, and burned and dry in autumn. It is in March and April that the hotels of Mustapha reap their richest harvest and that the Arab boatmen receive largest tribute of bucksheesh from the passengers whom they carry from the steamers to the mole.

A great terraced structure, built by an English company, ascends from the landing place to the town. At its head, overlooking the harbor, is the Place du Gouvernement, an ample open space with a grove of stunted palms in its center. This is the central square of Algiers, and the meeting point of its old and new quarters. From one side, along the strip of level ground between sea and heights, run the wide, straight streets of the French city, with block after block of square white buildings as uniform as if turned out from a mold, the ground floor set back behind pillars to leave a shady arcade for shoppers and promenaders. From the other side climbs the Arab town, a jumbled mass of white walls, with windows of the very smallest and fewest, and flat roofs rising one above another like a broken and irregular stairway; pierced with a labyrinth of narrow alleyways that wind up the steep hill at angles that are sometimes almost alarming. At a corner of the Place stands one of the chief temples of Algerian Mahometanism, the Mosquée de la Pecherie. In strong contrast to this purely oriental type is the equestrian statue of the Duke of Orleans, son of Louis Philippe, cast in bronze from cannons captured by the French army of invasion, and set up in the open square as a token of conquest. Equally incongruous is the mixture of races and costumes that may morning, noon, and night be seen in the Place. The check-suited traveler from London elbows alternately the French colonist and the burnous-clad Arab from the native town or from some desert village. There are turbaned Jews—keepers, some of them, of the quaint bric-a-brac stores where genuine Algerian curiosities manufactured in Paris are sold to unsuspecting strangers; negroes from the Soudan, coal black of skin, with the red fez as their favorite head-gear; French officers of the garrison, and uniformed soldiers—Zouaves, Turcos, Spahis and Chasseurs d' Afrique; Arab women, of whom all but the poorest veil their faces with the long haïk or veil that stretches

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