SORRY enough were we to leave beautiful Tclemcen, and the many friendly faces that had made the place so homelike to us; but at the end of a week we were obliged to turn our faces towards Oran.

The diligence—wretched diligence!—travelled of course at night, and we set off for Oran in the evening, reaching our destination early next day, and not our destination only, but our welcome letters, newspapers, and books, luxuries of which we had been long deprived. Oran is a second and more bustling Algiers, only that Algiers is far more picturesque and Eastern. In Oran you are wholly in France—African France that is—with a burning blue sky in December, and a burning blue sea reaching to the foot of the town—if it were only cool enough to walk so far!

We kept indoors almost all day during our stay in Oran, resting ourselves after the hard travel gone before, and in anticipation of the hard travel to come. But we were as gay as possible; for what with letters of introduction from friends and friends’ friends, we had visitors all day long, and invitations for every evening. Certainly hospitality flourishes on Algerian soil. It was quite delightful to be so welcomed and so regretted, and I cannot think of Oran without wishing to go there again—if life were long enough—just to shake hands and exchange an hour’s talk with the kind and pleasant people whose acquaintance I made there.

Amongst other acquaintances we found during our short stay at Oran was that of M. Leon Beynet, whose “Drames du DÉsert,” and other stories of African life, give one an admirable idea of the relative positions of native and colonist, Arab and Frank. M. Beynet makes the heroine of one of his stories a beautiful young Kabyle girl, who is certainly the most charming little savage that ever went unwashed. These novels are quite a feature in Algerian literature, and make you live in the wild scenes and society they portray.

Oran is a handsome city. The houses are of enormous height, and are built in blocks, so that the town is divided, so to say, into many parts. From each side of the city rise green hills and rocky heights, crowned by round white towers built by the Spaniards; and below lies the beautiful sea, so calm and blue during those December days, that we could hardly credit the bad weather written of from home. We had some pleasant walks on the hills, which abound in wild flowers, and everything else dear to the naturalist; but we were impatient to be making the best of our way Algiers-wards, and did not stop at Oran more than a few days.

Our next halting-place was Le Sig, where we spent Christmas-day. I doubt whether Le Sig would be found on any map, and I should not mention it except for an amusing error into which we were led respecting its claims upon our attention. “By all means go to Le Sig,” people had said to us. “What, not go to Le Sig! The Phalansterian colony; the little community of Enfantinists and Fourierists!” So, as Le Sig lay on our way, we made a halt there, and saw what was to be seen.

Sig Proper is a prosperous little half French, half Spanish town, but Sig Phalansterian is a farm about a mile off; so as we reached the former at night we put up there, and found ourselves tolerably well off. The people were Spanish, and the cooking Spanish; whilst in Oran we were constantly coming upon such little clusters of Spanish families, who seemed thriving and happy.

Early next morning, we got a little Arab to show us the way to La Colonie, as the farm of the Phalansterians is called, and after a hot and dusty walk of half an hour, reached a rather deserted-looking homestead, consisting of farm-houses and buildings surrounded by orchards and vegetable gardens. This was the Phalanstery; but, alas! where was the spirit that should have animated the place? Where were the philosophical grinders of corn, and assiduous cultivators of the beautiful? where were the hives of children happier at their work than our children at their play? Nothing remains now of all this; and instead of devout followers of Enfantin in broad-brimmed white hats, we saw ordinary French labourers working after the ordinary way. The Phalanstery has, in fact, dwindled down till only two of the original occupants are left, and these, Monsieur and Madame B——, are a simple, old-fashioned couple, who seem to concern themselves mighty little with Fourierism, let out such of the land as they do not care to farm themselves, and send their only child, a girl of twelve, to a convent school. It seemed impossible to believe that only a few years back this isolated spot was the centre of a fervid, determinate little community, who had fled thither from the storms and passions of the world, intending to plan a perfect life.

Monsieur and Madame B—— received us kindly, and took us all round the premises, showing us the former dwellings of the Phalansterians, neat little wooden houses in rows, now turned into stables and granaries. The jardin potage seemed very flourishing, and, indeed, so did the crops of every kind. We tasted the home-grown and home-made wine, but that was sour enough to have driven away the most ardent Fourierist going.

We had brought other letters to Le Sig, and by one of them were introduced to a charming young English lady, Madame O——, who had spent all her life in Africa, and was now settled down at Sig. Her husband was a Frenchman, and held an official post of some authority there, being entrusted with the supervision of the gigantic barrages, or waterworks, which are turning the barren plain of Le Sig into gardens of beauty and fruitfulness.

When the Emperor was at Algiers, he asked some great authority on Algerian affairs what was most needed in the colony.

“Barrages, sire,” was the answer.

“Et aprÈs cela?”

“Encore barrages,” repeated the political economist; and the Emperor gave heed to the words, as those who follow in our track from Oran to Algiers will see. These gigantic and noble works are well worth inspection, especially at Le Sig; and if future travellers have the good fortune that fell to our share, they will come away with a very clear idea of the importance and working of these monster systems of irrigation. Monsieur O—— most kindly drove us to the barrages himself, and told us, in round numbers the annual cost of the works and the quantity of water dispensed; but I am afraid of quoting figures from memory, especially when they come to millions, and refer the curious reader to statistical reports.

The reservoirs are colossal. You drive through a pleasant and verdant country, part cultivated, part pasture, and then come to the entrance of a wild gorge, above which rises the colossal mass of masonry, like a sentinel guarding the vast tracts beyond. The burning African sun shone straight down upon the broad surface of the reservoir, turning the hard grey of the granite to a soft and beautiful orange colour. One might have thought the place a thousand years old. Whilst we rested here to sketch a little, a grave Arab with three little girls came up to look at us. The little girls had complexions the colour of ripe chestnuts, and were as wild and fearless as monkeys, dancing to the very edge of the stone platforms in a way that made us sick. There was no sort of coping, and we were some hundred feet above the river bed.

Next to the extraordinary and monkey-like agility of these children, I was struck by their obedience. The father had but to knit his brow, to lift his finger, or to cry Ayesha, or Zorah, or Zaida, and these wild creatures obeyed like soldiers. Yet they did not seem one whit afraid of him, playing hide-and-seek behind the folds of his burnouse, caressing his hands, smiling up into his face.

When we had seen enough of the barrages, we went back to the town and spent a little time with Madame O—— and her children—half French, half English children, with Saxon skins and hair, and dark brown eyes, and speaking a pretty language of their own, mixed English, Arabic, and French. The house was very large, and stood embosomed in Eastern shrubberies; the orange, the oleander, the magnolia, the palm, and the almond; Arab servants in handsome dresses were lounging about the hall, and the whole made a pretty picture to bring away from the remote country of Le Sig. Madame O—— looked as fresh as a rose, but the children were a little fragile, and she told us how much they had suffered from malaria.

“The fever is the curse of the place,” she said, “and every one falls victim to it in turn. A few months back my husband was brought to death’s door by it, and the poor children suffer frightfully. Ah! what should we do but for that blessed, blessed quinine!”

Wherever we went, we heard the same complaints. The fever—the fever—every one was ill, or had been ill, or was falling ill of the fever. We were particularly warned from exposing ourselves to the smell of freshly-ploughed soil. The earth seems to emit a sort of poison, and there is no remedy for the evil—which is felt by thousands—save planting and drainage. The only wonder is that colonisation has prospered in these districts at all; especially when you consider that there are other scourges, hardly less insupportable, such as locusts and Arab incendiaries.

From Le Sig we journeyed—always by diligence, to Mascara, a town that will always have a romantic interest as the birthplace of Abd-el-Kader.

Mascara is charming. Great chalk hills, each crowned with its little mosque or marabout, rise round the town, and, when you have climbed these hills, you come upon broad belts of half wild, half cultivated country, flanked with settlers’ huts or Arab tents. The colouring of the place is thoroughly Eastern; you get here, as in Andalusia, long lines of wild cactus and aloe standing out against a burning blue sky, and those indescribable effects of yellow and white that are only seen where every building is whitewashed and every bit of ground is toasted and bronzed and baked by a blazing sun.

The place itself is quite French, and herein we were a little disappointed, as we had been led to expect a second Tclemcen, bright as Joseph’s many-coloured coat, with Moorish costume. The Arab population is a very shabby one, and is, for the most part, settled outside the town, in wretched huts built of cob and rubble. We went inside the mosque, now used as a granary, where Abd-el-Kader preached war against the Christians, and found it very pretty, but in sad ruin. There were formerly beautiful tiles and arabesques on the walls, not a trace of which remains. Nothing, indeed, remains, but the beautifully-proportioned domes and aisles and the ceiling of inlaid cedar-wood.

From Mascara we made an excursion to SaÏda, where we smelt the real air of the Desert, and saw many wonderful things that must be described without hurry. Finding that the diligence to SaÏda possessed neither coupÉ nor berlina, we engaged the whole vehicle to ourselves, and what a concern it was! The glass was out of the windows, the seats were rickety, the floor screeched ominously whenever we got in or out. Never was such a crazy old diligence in the world, and, as we went along, it had spasmodic attacks of creaking and cracking without any rhyme or reason, and we expected nothing more nor less than a total collapse in some wild spot or other—which, however, did not happen.

It takes a day to get from Mascara to SaÏda, but not a long day. If there were only tolerable roads and saddle-horses, the journey would be trifling. As it is, you are shaken up and down in a way that turns you sick and blackens and bruises you, and, though a halt of five minutes and a breath of the sweet air of the Desert revives and heals, you get to SaÏda tired enough. What added to our discomfort was a high wind that accompanied us all the way, first making us shiver with cold, and afterwards burning us with a sirocco-like heat. We did our best to keep out the alternate cold and heat, but it was difficult work as all the windows were broken. As soon as one improvised curtain was up, another was sure to be down; and at last we solved the difficulty by covering our faces instead. I think the journey to Timbuctoo could hardly be wilder or more solitary than this. For the most part we passed through a totally uninhabited country—some parts all stone and sand; others overgrown with rosemary, wild asparagus, fennel, candied tuft, thyme, and stunted tuya and tamarisk trees. When the dust did not blow, the air was very sweet and invigorating, and sometimes the sky looked suddenly cold and blowy, and we could walk in comfort. After passing a vast and beautiful plain we stopped at a little village or post to breakfast and change horses. It was a curious half French, half Arab sort of settlement; and from the Arab douar in the village close by came lots of little half naked children to look at us. When we had breakfasted we went up to the tents to sketch, and soon had an eager group round us,—a stately Bedouin, his wives, his mother, and their children. Every one wanted to be useful, to hold the umbrella or the palette, or fetch water; and, when nothing remained to do, they watched the artist with smiles of amazement and gratification. The grandmother was a delightful old lady. She was by no means ugly as most old Arab women are, but had quite a nice face with very bright eyes and very intelligent features. She had keen observation too, as I saw, for, without being in the least degree rude and troublesome, she looked at us so narrowly that she doubtless preserves to this day an exact remembrance of what we were, how we looked, and what we said, or what she thought we said to each other. I should like to have adopted that old lady as my grandmother and brought her to England. Her sympathy with the sketcher was quite beautiful, and, when the children giggled and tittered and came so close to her as to hinder her progress and bring forth some such expression as this—“How are we to send these troublesome little things away,”—the old lady understood at once and commanded them to be still, which they were; and as the objects of the landscape were brought out one by one, the dark-brown tents, the bright blue sky, the wavy, yellow plain, the low line of purple hills beyond—she cried aloud in ecstacy.

Whilst we were so occupied, a little urchin of five years, utterly naked, ran out of the tent close by and stood still, as much amused with us as we were with him. All laughed aloud, but the father who looked a little ashamed, and I think it was because he had been to Mascara or some other town, and knew that nakedness was not quite the thing in the great world. The women were like big children, and giggled, showing their white teeth, if you but held up a finger.

When we had done we shook hands all round, and returned to the auberge to see a pitiful sight. It was a little Arab child of fourteen months old sick of the fever; he was riding on the shoulder of his grandfather, a patriarchal-looking old man, with silky white hair and beard. I don’t think I ever saw anything more touching than his care of the little suffering thing. Its poor little face was perfectly livid, its eyes leaden, its limbs shrunken. What could we do for it?

The mistress of the auberge came out and questioned the old man in Arabic a little, then turned to us.

“Ah!” she said, “think of it—that poor baby has neither father nor mother, no one to tend it but that old man, and it has been ill of fever for months; but then we all suffer alike! Three of my five children are ill now; that is, ill every other day with shivering fits and sickness, and there is nothing to do but try quinine. But quinine is very dear, and we have to do without it.”

“Do the Arabs try it?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders expressively.

“Voyez-vous, madame, the Arabs are poorer than we. We must buy bread before quinine.”

We gave the poor old man a little money, and recollecting that I had brought a small bottle of quinine from England, fearing these marsh fevers myself, I got it out of my travelling-bag and gave it to the woman. She promised to give the poor baby a dose, but I fear he was past all help, and I looked sadly after the old man as he stalked away in his tattered burnouse, bearing his poor little burden on his shoulders.

Farther on, we stopped to see some hot springs which lie within a few leagues of SaÏda. Following a small path that wound through labyrinthine thickets of tuya, palmetto, and lentisk, we came suddenly upon a scene, that with very little idealization might make as poetic a picture as one could see.

It was a party of Arab girls bathing in a small round pool. The bathers and the bathing-place were shut in by lustrous green foliage, above which showed the dark lines of the tents, the bright blue hills, and the brighter sky. A noontide shadow lay on the water, in which, like a flock of young ducks, plashed and played, and dived and ducked, a dozen wild young girls, their dark hair streaming to the waist, their faces expressive of the utmost enjoyment, their limbs glistening as they rose out of the water.

All at once they caught sight of us. There was a short succession of screams, a unanimous splashing, a glimpse of bare feet, and all was still again. They had fled the spot without even a thought of their clothes; and we unfortunate intruders were only harmless women after all!

After this we passed a tawny, monotonous region, all stone and sand, and only here and there varied by oases of cultivation. These little oases, poor patches of wheat and vegetables growing amid the intractable palmetto, were showing green and bright, despite the rudeness of the tillage; but, alas! the locusts had found them out. Both on our journey to SaÏda and back we saw swarms of these creatures settling like glittering birds on the corn, or filling the air like snow-flakes. My heart sank within me as I thought of the poor Arabs and the devastation that threatened their little all.

We reached SaÏda in good time that afternoon.