MY JOURNAL 
IN 
THE ALGERIAN SAHARA. 
—_>— 
Monday, 25th of Fanuary, 1870. 
A SWARM of low-class Arabs and swarthy negroes pounced 
upon me as I stepped on to the quay at Oran, and bade 
me yield my luggage to their care. Pestered with their 
importunities I fled to the custom house, and while my 
cases were undergoing a nominal examination, the official 
in charge drove back the exasperated crowd of mendicant 
porters, until I could select two less frantic than the rest, 
to carry my baggage up to the hotel. It was a lovely day. 
Oran, the westernmost town in Algeria, a French seaport 
and chief place of the province, lay spread before me. It is 
no inconsiderable place, having a population half as large 
as that of Algiers, two hotels, a theatre, a place, a market, 
and sundry large bureaus; but it is not much visited by 
tourists. In this instance it appeared that there were some 
English there already, for a party of sportsmen who, I 
heard belonged to our nationality, had been out shooting, 
and had just brought back three wild boars: stretched upon 
the pavement they lay with bullet holes in their rugged 
sides. There is no lack of them in the brushwood on the 
