peerless
fertility of nature: the plane-tree, with its lustrous light bark; the
pine, the cypress, and the laurel; the olive, which loves the salt
breath of the sea; the pomegranate, so naturalized here that its fruit
was called "the Carthaginian apple"; while figs, citrus-trees,
apricots, peaches, almonds, chestnuts, pistachios, terebinths,
oleanders, and myrtles,--sometimes as large trees, sometimes as
shrubs,--formed, as it were, the undergrowth of the glorious palm
forest.

And the skill in gardening of the Roman imperial days, which has
scarcely been equalled since, aided by irrigation from the immense
aqueducts, had created here, on the edge of the desert, marvels of
beauty. "Desert" was a misnomer; the real desert lay much farther in
the interior. First there was a thick luxuriant green turf, which, even
in the hottest days of the year, had hardly a single sunburnt patch.
The wind had borne the flower-seeds from the numerous beds, and now
everywhere amid the grass blossoms shone in the vivid, glowing hues
with which the African sun loves to paint.

The parterres of flowers which were scattered through the entire grove
suffered, it is true, from a certain monotony. The variety that now
adorns our gardens was absent: the rose, the narcissus, the violet, and
the anemone stood almost alone; but these appeared in countless
varieties, in colors artificially produced, and were often made to
blossom before or after their regular season.

In this world of trees, bushes, and flowers the lavishness of the
emperors (who had formerly often resided here), the munificence of the
governors, and still more the endowments of wealthy citizens of
Carthage had erected an immense number of buildings of every variety.
For centuries patriotism, a certain sense of honor, and often vanity,
boastfulness, and a desire to perpetuate a name, had induced wealthy
citizens to keep themselves in remembrance by erecting structures for
the public benefit, laying out pleasure-grounds, and putting up
monuments. This local patriotism of the former citizens, both in its
praiseworthy and its petty motives, had by no means died out. Solemn
tombs separated by very narrow spaces lined both sides of the broad
Street of Legions, which ran straight through the grove from north to
south. Besides these there were buildings of every description, and
also baths, ponds, little lakes with waterworks, marble quays, and
dainty harbors for the light pleasure-boats