Lippincotts Magazine, Vol. 22, September, 1878 | Page 3

away with us some enduring
souvenir of that which had charmed us so much.

But, however picturesque the country, and however interesting the
town and people, we cannot always linger here. Our destination is the
desert. Thus, therefore, after a few days spent in alternate wonder and
admiration, we once again set out on our southward course, resolved to
indemnify ourselves on our return journey by making a longer stay
amidst the beautiful and extremely singular scenery of the Roumel.
Our next resting-place was Batna, a small French town situated on the
elevated ground--nearly four thousand feet above the level of the
sea--between the Mediterranean and the Sahara. We had to make the
journey thither by diligence and by night, and we were surprised to find
how cold an African night can be even in April. There was a hard frost,
and just before entering Batna we passed under an aqueduct from
which hung down a fringe of enormous icicles. The following day, on
the still higher ground at the celebrated cedar forest, which forms an
interesting excursion from Batna, we found deep snow. During the day
the sun shone out bright and powerful, but the nights continued to hold
the forest frost-bound.
At Batna we met with a party of gentlemen, one of whom we had
known slightly in Algiers; and they, like ourselves, were bound for
Biskra. This complicated matters, as it was understood that the
accommodation at the oasis was of a somewhat scanty description.
They were three, and we were four--altogether, a party of six gentlemen
and one lady. We telegraphed from Batna to ascertain whether or not
we could all get rooms. Our despair may be imagined when we
received the answer: one of the little hotels was closed, and the other
could only offer us two rooms. Two rooms for seven people! What was
to be done? We could not--or rather would not--retrace our steps at this
stage, and thus give up the very object of our journey; so we resolved
to go on at all risks and take our chance.
The evening before we started on our somewhat adventurous journey,
as we sat chatting round the fire, I could not help giving vent to my
feelings. The desert! Was it possible? I felt myself on the eve of
something momentous. It was an event in my life, a something never to
be forgotten. A smile played upon the faces of my companions, and

next day, when, utterly worn and weary, I could with difficulty take an
interest in anything around me, they were very ready to banter me
about "the event in my life."
It was not without serious misgivings that we took our places in the
great lumbering vehicle which travels twice a week between Batna and
the oasis. Nothing but a heavy, strongly-built conveyance could stand
the jolting of such a journey; and in order to accomplish it at all within
the day it is necessary to start between two and three o'clock in the
morning. Now, if there is one thing more than another likely to damp
one's enthusiasm, it is turning out at such an untimely hour. We all felt
this as we wended our way through the cold, dark streets to the
diligence-office; and as we were trundled down the steep hill leading
out of the town, bumping from side to side, it was some time before we
could recover our spirits or stir up again an excitement worthy of the
occasion.
On the route between Batna and El Kantra--"the Mouth of the
Desert"--there is little of interest. It is a weary journey, over roads
either badly made or not made at all, through a bare, barren, bleak,
uncultivated country. One wonders, in passing through such an
inhospitable region, at finding so many remains of the Roman
occupation. What could have induced such a people to penetrate so far
into the wilds of Africa? There is no evidence of the land ever having
been more productive or more attractive than it is at present; and yet at
Lambessa, a few miles from Batna, you find the ruins of a once great
and magnificent Roman city, while even as far south as Biskra itself
there are still to be seen relics of this great conquering nation of
antiquity.
But to return to El Kantra. Here we found a little hotel kept by French
people, and here the diligence stopped for breakfast. It was about ten
o'clock, and what a change! The heat was broiling, and the dry, arid
rocks told of an approach to the desert. In effect, the Pass of El Kantra
is the entrance to what is called "the Little Desert;" hence its name,
"Mouth of the Desert."
At this point the valley seems completely shut in by a