Commence crossing the Hamadah—­Last Pillar of the Romans—­Travelling in the Desert—­Rapid March—­Merry Blacks—­Dawn—­Temperature—­Ali returns—­Day-travelling—­Night-feelings—­Animals—­Graves of Children—­Mirage—­Extent of the Plateau—­It breaks up—­Valley of El-Hasee—­Farewell to the Hamadah—­Arduous Journey—­The Camel-drivers—­New Country—­Moral and religious Disquisitions—­The Chaouches—­Reach Edree—­Abd-el-Galeel—­Description of Edree—­Subterranean Dwellings—­Playing at Powder—­The Kaid—­Arabic Literature—­Desertion of the Zintanah—­Leave Edree—­Sandy Desert—­Bou Keta the Camel-driver—­Wady El-Makmak—­The Lizard—­Reach Wady Takadafah—­Sand—­Another Embroglio.

The sun was setting as our caravan, which we had collected in as compact a body as possible, got under way, and rising out of the valley of Tabooneeah, began to enter upon the plateau.  It is difficult to convey an idea of the solemn impressions with which one enters upon such a journey.  Everything ahead is unknown and invested with perhaps exaggerated terrors by imagination and report.  The name of Desert—­the waterless Desert—­hangs over the horizon, and suggests the most gloomy apprehensions.  Behind, in the fading light, the trees of the valley still show their dim groups; before, the lofty level, slightly broken by undulations, stretches away.  There was one cheering thought, however.  My companions had by this time set up their tent for the night; and although, creeping along at the camel’s slow pace, we could not expect to come up to that temporary home until it was about to be deserted, still the knowledge of its existence took away much of the mysterious terror with which I entered upon this desolate region in the hour of coming shadows.  An additional solemnity was imparted to the commencement of this arduous journey by the fact that we now passed the last pillar erected by the Romans.  Their mighty power seems to have recoiled, as well it might, before the horrid aspect of the Hamadah.

We pushed on at a steady pace over the rough ground; and as I surveyed the scene from my elevated position on the camel’s back, I could not help contrasting this primitive style of travelling with that with which I had been conversant a few months before.  Instead of whirling along the summit of an embankment, or through a horizontal well miles deep, in a machine that always reminded me of a disjointed dragon, at the rate of some fifty miles an hour, here I was leisurely swaying to and fro on the back of the slowest beast that man has ever tamed, in the midst of a crowd loosely scattered over the country, some on foot, some in the saddle—­not seeking to keep any determinate track, but following a general direction by the light of the stars, which shine with warm beneficence overhead.  There is no sound to attract the ear, save the measured tread of the caravan, the occasional “Isa!  Isa!” of the drivers, the hasty wrench with which our camels snatch a mouthful of some ligneous plant that clings to the stony soil, the creaking of the baggage, or the whistling of the wind that comes moaning over the desert.  These are truly moments in a man’s life to remember; and I shall ever look back to that solemn night-march over the desert, which my pen fails to describe, with sentiments of pleasurable awe.