with tufts of wild lavender and broom, and heaths of every shade.

The road itself is a splendid piece of engineering, being

cut out of the solid rock, sometimes carried by masonry over chasms hundreds of feet deep, crossing and recrossing

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the stream, and at times overhanging the abyss like a cornice. It was only completed in the year 1855, before which time there was no other means of communication between Blidah and Medeah, than by the roundabout route of Milianah, a bridle-path over the mountains. In the early days of this road, the pass was protected by small detachments of soldiers, posted along its course in camps of six tents each. But the wild Arab tribes were not the only enemies against whom the soldier-engineers had to contend while the pass was making; for it is said, that the monkeys, with which the gorge was at this time infested, resented the invasion of their domains, by rolling down stones from the mountain on the soldiers, as they were at work in the ravine below.

Considerable difficulties attended the construction of the Chiffa road, on account of the yielding nature of the rock, which was continually being washed down by the rains in huge masses into the valley. One spot in the gorge, known as the Roche-pourrie, or Rotten Mountain, was the object of much anxiety to the engineers; but, happily, when the road was making, a flood occurred, which hurled down the greater portion of the decomposed rock, the débris being blasted away with charges of gunpowder, which dislodged no less than one hundred thousand cubic yards of earth and stone at one explosion.

But even now the diligences are often stopped at this particular point; and travellers have to pick their way, among fallen blocks of stone and trickling water-courses, to another conveyance sent to meet them from the opposite end of the ravine.

About two miles and a half from the entrance of the

gorge, is a kind of opening in the side of the pass, formed by the sweeping lines of a high mountain, striking at right angles with the gorge. Down the cleft rushes a clear, bright stream, leaping from boulder to boulder, known as the Ruisseau des Singes; and in a little nook beside it, nestles a small cottage shaded by gigantic fig-trees, which was originally the settlement of a Swiss colonist, but is now an inn, where a very fair luncheon may be obtained—but a bargain as to price should be made.

The fish of the Chiffa are considered a delicacy.

Behind the inn, a steep winding path leads beside the stream, through a wilderness of flowers and shrubs to the head of the small ravine. The steep sides of the cleft were originally cultivated and reclaimed from the mountain, by the enterprising Swiss colonist, plantations of coffee, cinchona, and other exotic plants having been attempted. But the plantations and gardens proved a financial failure, owing chiefly, it is said, to the depredations of the monkeys. Figs, fruits of all kinds, lettuces and cabbages, vegetables of every description, were carried away wholesale by these unscrupulous robbers, who scoured the country in numerous bands.

At the present day the garden is a tangled mass of luxuriant vegetation, and the monkeys being acknowledged masters of the situation, make amends for their past bad conduct by attracting visitors to the little auberge. Troops of these creatures may constantly be seen, chattering and gamboling among the trees which clothe the sides of the gorge; but they are in their nature tricksome, and too often the expectant traveller, has to content himself with the counterfeit presentment of the tailed tribe, which some

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weather-bound artist has amused himself by sketching on the wall of the little inn.

It is evident that the monkeys of the Ruisseau would not condescend to sit to him for their portraits, for he has been more bountiful to them than Nature. He has given them tails, and the monkeys of the Chiffa, like those of the rock of Gibraltar, are destitute of these appendages.

A few hundred yards lower down the road, in the face of the cliff which supports it, is a beautiful stalactite cave, the key of which is to be obtained at the auberge of the Ruisseau.

"It is," says Colonel Walmsley, "of great extent, and reminded me much, of some of the Derbyshire mines." This traveller, who visited the cavern in 1858, gives a thrilling description of two hours passed in its recesses in complete darkness, he having ventured in alone and his lantern becoming extinguished, he was unable to find his way out. The continual drippings from the roof make the floor of the cavern extremely wet and slippery, and here and there form into pools, which the explorer would do well to avoid!

Beyond the Ruisseau des Singes, the gorge closes in, and the scenery becomes altogether wilder and more romantic, assuming something of an Alpine character.

The ravine winds between enormous precipices, the tops of which are veiled in mist. Constantly the traveller seems advancing to a spot, where the road must certainly end, or tunnel through the mountains. Then suddenly it turns, disclosing another hundred yards where progress seems possible, but again without apparent outlet, except by the bed of the brawling Chiffa below.

This stream has, according to Arab legend, a romantic origin.

The mountains and plain had been, says the legend, from time immemorial inhabited by tribes of fierce and quarrelsome character. A feud had existed between them for so many generations, that not one of their warriors "had hair between the nose and the chin."

But one day a holy marabout, by name Sidi Mohammed Bou-Chakour, or the man with the hatchet, came striding over the mountains hatchet in hand, and by some supernatural agency, caused the inimical tribes to be brought face to face. Either the divine power of the saint, or, possibly, better acquaintance, put an end to the longstanding feud.

To reward the Mouzaïans of the plain for the concessions they had made in the cause of peace, Sidi Mohammed clave the mountains asunder with his hatchet, and instantly the fertilising river flowed through the defile. It was called the Chiffa-the water of healing. The Mouzaïans of the hills then petitioned for their share of the good things, and were bidden to carry a pitcher of water every morning to the highest point of the mountain, where the hermit dwelt. This he poured down the mountain-side, the scanty contents of the water-pot multiplying themselves into a thousand. trickling rills.

Above that portion of the gorge which is known as Les Cascades, the koubba of the man of peace may still be seen. Here, prayers are offered in time of drought for rain, and at such times it will be found surrounded by a crowd of classical amphora.

The Mouzaïans do not seem in later times to have lost