“Leaving Biskra is like dying—a thing we must all get through somehow,” an American lady wailed, partly because she “just hated going,” but still more because of her fate at being condemned to get up at the unearthly hour of 5 A.M. to catch the first train.

This used to be the only train in the day, but now matters have so far progressed that on three days in the week a new one has been added as far as Batna, which saves much tribulation on the part of those who wish to see Timgad and cannot bear beginning their day with the sun. Dawn, however, is as beautiful as sunset, so that it is perhaps as well even for the lazy to be obliged to see it sometimes.

The four or five hours on the backward journey seem long. The keenness of excitement is wanting; there are only the glimpse of El Kantara, and some smiling greetings as the train passes through, to help pass the time. In the afternoon it soon gets dark, and the train goes crawling on slowly as if groping its way.

It is not possible to get up much enthusiasm until Batna is reached, for that is only a halting-place from which the start will be made next day to the ruins of the City of Timgad. Batna itself is nothing more than a clean little town with wide streets and low houses, an important military centre, with a large garrison and barracks, which are perhaps the most striking buildings in the place. There is no quartier indigÈne; little or nothing to amuse or interest.

In consequence perhaps of this it is quite usual to arrive by the early train, lunch at the station, then drive straight out—a matter of three hours, “do” the ruins with a rush, and return in the dark. But there is too much to see and study for this to be satisfactory, except for those who do not really care for antiquities at all. It is certainly better to put up at Timgad for a night or two, and make the best of the inn, which, though rough, is new and perfectly clean, and that is more than can be said for the more pretentious one at Batna.

It has always been our lot to arrive at Batna during a spell of cold weather, of the sort that is a positive surprise to those who expect continual warmth in the far South. The cold is so great that it is almost a penance to drive at all, and this even as late as the end of March.

As the start has to be made fairly early, about eight o’clock, it is rather chilly work. However, the situation is thoroughly understood and prepared for. Foot-warmers, so scalding that they are a comfort for the three hours, and any amount of rugs are provided. Every one looks as if starting for a sleigh drive, mere bundles as they are of cloaks and furs, their faces covered with shawls, in a fashion which partakes of both the African and the Arctic.

This is our experience, whilst others, both before and after, felt the heat to an equally intense degree, for there is no shelter, when once the town is left behind, from either cold winds or broiling sun. Nothing is to be seen on either side but the wide, undulating plains, cultivated more or less at first, but later on growing wilder and wilder.

Our last visit was after a heavy snowfall, the countryside flooded with sunshine, sky and cloud, mountain and plain, dazzlingly and intolerably bright. The snow, though only a couple of inches deep on the road, was twice that number of feet in the drifts; the sheep and the Arab shepherds looking thoroughly out of place as well as miserable, their woollen garments and fleeces forming a brown and dingy contrast to the pure whiteness. As a snow landscape the scene was charming, the mountains of the Aures gaining much in dignity from their white robes. As a rule it must be owned that the drive is a trifle monotonous, notwithstanding the space and width and the sense of air and freedom. At first the soldiers exercising their horses, and the groups of Arabs coming in to town to do their marketing, provide some interest. Then Lambessa becomes visible, the PrÆtorium rising like a castle from amongst the trees. The modern village consists of barracks and a few houses and cafÉs, but the ruins of the ancient LambÆsis are scattered far and wide. Formerly, it seems to have been a military station, the headquarters of the third Augustan Legion. Perhaps this is the reason that the ruins have not much artistic value, with the exception of the peculiar massive structure called the PrÆtorium, which stands square and upright, in solitary dignity, amongst ruins and fallen columns on the bare paved square that was once the Forum.

Glimpses of walls and triumphal arches show among the olives and fruit trees of the farms, as the long, curving road sweeps up the hill out of the valley and on to the wold. The heat of the sun melts the snow so rapidly that the rich dark browns of the soil begin to make a restful contrast with the prevailing whiteness. For miles and miles the horses trot quietly on, passing only one or two houses and a few Bedawin tents on the way, then suddenly in the distance, set among the hills, under a great range of snow peaks, are seen two houses, some ruined pillars, and an arch. Timgad at last!

Desolation itself: not a tree, hardly a touch of green, where once all was forest; nothing but the inn, plain and uninteresting as a house from a child’s Noah’s Ark! the group of buildings and shanties which form the Museum, and a dwelling for the Directeur who superintends the excavations.

The ancient city of Tamugadi, or Thamagas, called also Thanutada by Ptolemy, was finely situated on rising ground with a wide outlook over the now barren wold, whose browns and reds, blending with the soft blues and purples of the hills, make a beautiful background to the pale gleaming of the slender pillars still left upright. The town was never very large, but was important and much mentioned in history. There are inscriptions in the Forum which tell of the 30th Legion Ulpia, and of the victories of Trajan over the Parthians.