When you have concluded your visit to the Jardin d’Essai, I hope that you will cross the road to one of the little open-air native cafés which are set amid groves of trees above the Mediterranean. You can have tea, or an ice, or the thick, sweet Arab coffee, but the chief thing is the view, particularly toward sunset, when from the tables, as from nowhere else, you can obtain a glimpse of the old Algiers, the city of the corsairs, the white terraces of the town glowing like ivory in the soft afternoon light, the masts of the shipping in the harbor mirrored in the calm opalescent waters. On the slopes of Mustapha Supérieur, a few minutes’ walk from the Jardin d’Essai, is the Algerian Museum, which contains an admirably arranged collection of objects illustrative of the country’s varied history, including the flint instruments of primitive man, an assortment of Punic earthenware from Gouraya, Roman mosaics and sculptures, and numerous examples of Berber and Arab handicraft. It is laudably confined, as Mr. Thomas-Stanford remarks, to Algerian antiquities and native art; unlike so many American museums, it contains no irrelevant South Sea Island curios; it has not been used as a receptacle for the rubbish of the local collector, a dumping-ground for the perplexed widow and the embarrassed executor. By far the most interesting object in the museum, though a very gruesome one, is the plaster cast of a young man, lying face downward, his hands and feet bound with cords, his torso arched, his muscles strained in agony. It is not a cheap replica of some celebrated statue, as most casual visitors assume, but a life-mask which depicts with ghastly veracity the agonizing death-struggles of a man who was buried alive! Were it that and nothing more it would merely be revolting, but it is in some measure redeemed from the horrible by its amazing history.