Driving through the town, the French touch dominates everywhere—very wide streets, high houses, electric trams, motor cars, shops all entirely European; and then, as Mustapha is reached, the white houses, the gardens, even the view over the Bay to the mountains beyond, suggest Italy, the Bay of Naples, not the home of those dreaded pirates who so recently held their reign of terror here. In fact, those who like to do so might imagine they had never left the Riviera. But for those who love exploring strange scenes, there is a great deal more than this: for behind those tiresome modern houses the Arab quarter lies hidden, little altered and yet fast disappearing. The winding Rue de Rovigo cuts through it again and again on its way from the harbour to the Casbah, and yet it is still quite easy to get lost in the mazes of the narrow streets. In old times, when the Dey still ruled and the walls ran triangular fashion from the broad base of the harbour to the great fortress, or Casbah, at the top of the hill, the city must have been charming to look at, however terrible to live in. Now it is possible to go safely into even the darkest and remotest corners—and they are dark indeed. A first visit leaves one breathless but delighted. Breathless, because all the streets are staircases on a more or less imposing scale; the longest is said to have at least 500 steps; delighted, because at every turn there is sure to be something unusual to a stranger’s eye. The newer stairs are wide and straight and very uninteresting. But only turn into any old street and follow its windings, in and out between white walls, under arches through gloomy passages, here a few stairs, there a gentle incline always up, and always the cool deep shade leading to the bright blue of the sky above. Being so narrow and so steep, there are of course no camels and no carts. Donkeys do all the work, and trot up and down with the strangest loads, though porters carry furniture and most of the biggest things. Up and down these streets comes an endless variety of figures—town and country Arabs, Spahis in their gay uniforms, French soldiers, Italian workmen, children in vivid colours, Jewesses with heads and chins swathed in dark wrappings, and interesting beyond all these the Arab women flitting like ghosts from one shadowy corner to another, the folds of their haïcks concealing all the glories of their indoor dress, so that in the street the only sign of riches lies in the daintiness of the French shoes, and the fact that the haïck is pure silk, and the little veil over the face of a finer material, as the enormous Turkish trousers are all alike and of cotton. Still, it is hardly a satisfactory crowd from a picturesque standpoint, as everything seems so mixed up, and so many of the people do not even appear to know themselves what their nationality is, or their dress should be. Bazaars there are none, only the usual Eastern-looking little shops, and the Moorish cafés crowded with men drinking their tiny cups of coffee and smoking cigarettes.