through the nation of the autololes lies the road to mount atlas, the most fabulous locality even in africa.

from the midst of the sands, according to the story, this 31 mountain[33] raises its head to the heavens; rugged and craggy on the side which looks toward the shores of the ocean to which it has given its name, while on that which faces the interior of africa it is shaded by dense groves of trees, and refreshed by flowing streams; fruits of all kinds springing up there spontaneously to such an extent, as more than to satiate every possible desire. throughout the daytime, no inhabitant is to be seen; all is silent, like that dreadful stillness which reigns in the desert. a religious horror steals imperceptibly over the feelings of those who approach, and they feel themselves smitten with awe at the stupendous aspect of its summit, which reaches beyond the clouds, and well nigh approaches the very orb of the moon. at night, they say, it gleams with fires innumerable lighted up; it is then the scene of the gambols of the satyr crew, while it re-echoes with the notes of the flute and the pipe, and the clash of drums and cymbals. all this is what authors of high character have stated, in addition to the labors which hercules and perseus there experienced. the space which intervenes before you arrive at this mountain is immense, and the country quite unknown.