Bedouin Encampment, S. Morocco. Frontispiece. 
 
THE LAND OF 
 
 n 
 
 AN AFRICAN SULTAN 
 
 TRAVELS IN MOROCCO 
 
 1887, l888, AND 1889 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER B. HARRIS, F.R.G.S. 
 
 (AL AISSOUI) 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY 
 
 Limited 
 
 <§t. g)unstan’s gjmts* 
 
 Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C. 
 
f/L.y- 
 
 V-3I7L 
 
 TO HIS EXCELLENCY 
 
 SIR WILLIAM KIRBY-GREEN, 
 
 K.C.M.G., 
 
 H.B.M. Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary to the 
 Court of Morocco, 
 
 AND TO 
 
 LADY KIRBY-GREEN, 
 
 AS A TOKEN OF SINCEREST FRIENDSHIP, AND IN REMEMBRANCE 
 OF THEIR BOUNDLESS KINDNESS, THIS BOOK IS 
 DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 September , 1889. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/landofafricansul01 harr 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 A JOURNEY THROUGH NORTHERN MOROCCO, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TAGE 
 
 Tangier 3 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Tangier to Laraiche 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Laraiche to Mequinez 54 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The City of Mequinez and the journey thence 
 to Fez 75 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Fez 105 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 From Fez to Tangier, via Wazan . . . .135 
 
Contents, 
 
 viii 
 
 PART II. 
 
 A JOURNEY WITH H.B.M. SPECIAL MISSION TO THE 
 COURT OF THE SULTAN AT MOROCCO CITY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGH 
 
 The Journey to Morocco City . . . .161 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Sultan 187 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The City of Morocco 215 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Great Atlas Mountains ..... 228 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Coast Towns 246 
 
 PART III. 
 
 •A VISIT TO WAZAN-MY RIDE TO SHESHOUAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A Visit to Wazan 267 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 . 298 
 
 My Ride to Sheshouan 
 
Contents, 
 
 IX 
 
 PART IV. 
 ABOUT THE MOORS. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 About the Moors 
 
 PAGE 
 
 • 321 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bedouin Encampment, S. Morocco . . . Frontispiece 
 
 Tangier Beach 21 
 
 Saint's House and Tomb, at Arzeilah . . to face 30 
 
 Peasant Girl 54 
 
 A Corner in Mequinez ....... 76 
 
 A Reservoir, Mequinez go 
 
 Street in Fez ......... 106 
 
 Upper Story of a Moorish House . . . to face no 
 
 Magazan „ 166 
 
 Falconing Gazelle ,,176 
 
 Lab-el-baroud— Rider standing on Saddle . . .187 
 
 A Village in the Atlas Mountains . . . to face 228 
 
 View from above Agregoreh, Atlas Mountains, looking 
 
 over the Plains to face 238 
 
 Mturga Haha 242 
 
 Buried Palace and Berber Village, near Mogador . . 246 
 
 The Islands, Mogador Bay 247 
 
 Old Palace buried in Sand, Mogador .... 249 
 
 Captain S. 257 
 
 A Peep in Shellah t 0 face 262 
 
 Alcazar 272 
 
xii List of Illustrations. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Shereefs Bath, Wazan ..... to face 290 
 
 Sheshouan 29S 
 
 Scene at Tetuan 303 
 
 The Author in Disguise 312 
 
 A Moorish Lamp 321 
 
 Corner in a Moorish House .... . . 329 
 
PART I. 
 
 A JOURNEY THROUGH NORTHERN MOROCCO. 
 
 B 
 
“The dry land appeared, not in level sands forsaken by the surges, 
 which those surges might again claim for their own ; but in range 
 beyond range of swelling hill and iron rock, for ever to claim kindred 
 with the firmament, and to be companied by the clouds of heaven.” — 
 Ruskin. 
 
THE LAND 
 
 OF 
 
 AN AFRICAN SULTAN. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TANGIER. 
 
 “ Ah Sidi Mahammed al Hadj. Ah Salama, Sidi 
 Mahammed al Hadj, Salaam alikum Sidi Mahammed 
 al Hadj.” 1 
 
 We have rounded Cape Malabat and are in almost 
 quiet waters again, and Tangier is in full view — a 
 white clustering of flat-roofed houses on the steep 
 hill-side, with its kasbah standing out against the 
 azure sky. 
 
 Even the sea-sick American lady raises her head 
 
 1 The usual salutation of the Moors to the patron saint of 
 Tangier. 
 
4 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 from her handsome courier’s shoulder, where it has 
 rested ever since we left Gibraltar three hours before, 
 and pulls a small hand-glass out of her pocket, 
 arranges her hat, and remarks, — 
 
 “ Well, I guess this is the cunningest place I’ve 
 ever seen. Boston ain’t no patch on it. Angela, get 
 up and see Africa.” 
 
 Angela raises herself languidly and watches the 
 shouting Moors who are alongside now in their 
 boats. 
 
 “ Ma,” she says, “ I shall marry a Moor.” 
 
 Her mother’s answer is lost in the shouts of the 
 natives, who are clambering on board and seizing 
 every one’s luggage, hurling it in the boats regardless 
 of ownership. 
 
 Two or three guides, decked out in the most gor- 
 geous of native costumes, into which a certain amount 
 of “ fantaisie ” has been imparted by the introduction 
 of patent leather shoes and European collars, are 
 hurrying about in every direction, touting for the 
 hotels. 
 
 “ Sebah-al-khair al assoui,” 2 cries a sturdy boatman 
 to me — an old friend — and a great brown arm is 
 reached up from a boat below, and my hand is given 
 such a shake as it did not forget for some time. 
 
 I go ashore in his boat. 
 
 1 have no trouble at the Custom-house, no luggage 
 to open. The three or four officials, who sit under the 
 arcade of horseshoe arches, know me well enough. 
 From under the rich folds of their silk striped haiks 
 
 2 My nickname all through the Moorish Empire. Aissoui 
 means follower of Sidi ben Aissa, the patron saint of snake- 
 charmers, &c. My tame snakes won me the name. 
 
Tangier. 5 
 
 they reach out a plump white hand and grasp mine, 
 murmuring a few words of welcome. 
 
 My servant meets me here — my faithful Selim — 
 and I really believe he is pleased to see me. 
 
 I leave him to look after my luggage and take it to 
 my old quarters, while I pass on, up the steep hill, 
 under the Bab al Marsa, past the great mosque, with 
 its richly tiled minaret, to the Legation. 
 
 Jack Green meets me at the door, surrounded by a 
 score of dogs, who welcome me as an old friend by 
 nearly knocking me down. 
 
 They are at tea upstairs. 
 
 A few questions and a few answers, a few messages 
 and the latest news told, and I feel myself no more a 
 new arrival at Tangier, but that I have bridged over 
 the four months I have been absent, and am continu- 
 ing my old life in Morocco just where I left it off so 
 short a time before. 
 
 I had come out a week earlier than the rest of our 
 party, to make preparations, so that as soon as possible 
 after their arrival we might start off for our trip into 
 the interior to Mequinez and Fez, and about these 
 preparations I set the next day with a will. 
 
 Men, mules, &c , had to be found ; no very easy job in 
 the winter sometimes ; but my former experience, and 
 my personal knowledge of most of the men who make 
 a business of accompanying caravans, made it an 
 easier task for me than it must be for most people ; 
 and, besides, I had the invaluable help of my friend 
 Carleton, whose knowledge of the Moorish-Arabic 
 language, of the people and country, is unequalled. 
 We two together set to work, so that by the time the 
 
6 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 rest of our party arrived, nearly a week later, we were, 
 though not in ship-shape order, yet prepared to some 
 extent. 
 
 The day of their arrival dawned. I got a telegram 
 from Ingram from Gibraltar to say that the Arcadia 
 had arrived, and that they would cross that day- 
 Somehow the Gibel-Tarik , one of the steamers that 
 ply between Gibraltar and Tangier, started very late, 
 with the result that they arrived after dark, a serious 
 thing in Tangier; somehow it poured with rain, and 
 somehow it was low tide. 
 
 I shall never forget that landing. I have landed 
 and seen landings in some of the worst surf ports in 
 the world, but never in my life have I seen anything 
 so screamingly funny as the advent of our party, 
 
 The steamer had whistled, so Carleton and I went 
 down to the “ Marsa,” or harbour, chartered a small 
 boat, and in the pouring rain set out ; set out, do I 
 say ? — were bodily lifted off our feet from the steps of 
 the little pier and carried some two hundred yards on 
 the backs of the Moors to the nearest spot that the 
 boats could approach to the shore. 
 
 Over the rocks tumbled and rolled the great sturdy 
 Moors, while we clung on like grim death to their 
 shoulders. Finally I was pitched headlong into a 
 boat, and a minute later Carleton was bowled in on 
 the top of me. My first idea, as soon as I was able 
 to have any ideas at all, was to keep this boat for 
 ourselves. However, the additional weight of Carle- 
 ton and myself (I weigh nine stone three) put the 
 boat so low that she could not be shoved off the ledge 
 of rock on to which she seemed glued like a limpet. 
 Meanwhile the guides from the hotels could be heard 
 
Tangier . 7 
 
 approaching. In the darkness we could see nothing, 
 but I knew that very few boats would meet the 
 steamer. Then came the tug of war. A moment 
 later our boat was assailed by a well-known hotel 
 guide, the gorgeousness of whose costume is one of 
 the features of Tangier. 
 
 The two Moors who were carrying him tried their 
 utmost, at his instigation, to put him on board. 
 Carleton and I would not hear of it. We had en- 
 gaged the boat, and no one should come in it, as we 
 knew well enough that we should require all the 
 boat’s available room for our large party and their 
 still larger amount of baggage. 
 
 A struggle ensued, Carleton attacking the two 
 Moors, while I made for the more docile guide, whose 
 struggles were pitiful to behold. There is nothing 
 that a Moor hates more than cold water, and here 
 was the poor fellow — in his best clothes too — swaying 
 about like a see-saw on the shoulders of two men 
 who were being attacked by Carleton. Suddenly I 
 saw my chance ; seizing his patent leather boots by 
 each heel, I gave a vigorous thrust upwards. There 
 was a dull splash, then a few bubbles, our boatman 
 gave one shove, the boat was free, and the guide 
 could be seen by the light of our one lantern up to 
 his shoulders in water and violently hurling curses — 
 there was nothing else to hurl — at our heads. 
 
 And so we saved our boat ! 
 
 Ten minutes or so stout pulling by our Moors got 
 us alongside. We were the second boat to arrive, so 
 got pretty close up to the side of the Gibel-Tarik. 
 But here was Babel. 
 
 Shouting and screaming on the steamer and in the 
 
8 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 boats, yelling of boatmen, men climbing on board 
 and seizing everyone’s luggage — and they had almost 
 to be thrashed before they could be made to drop it 
 — and amidst it all the recognized voices of our 
 friends. 
 
 A breakneck scramble, and Carleton and I were 
 on board ; had found Ingram, and were saving the 
 luggage from being hurled pell-mell into the boats — 
 or the sea. And all this in almost total darkness. 
 
 We were too late to collect all our party. Forestier 
 had been carried bodily away by a couple of Moors, 
 ‘sans everything,” as Shakespeare says, and could be 
 dimly heard from the distance shouting that he was 
 safe— safe in a boat full of sea-sick Jewesses and 
 filthy Jews, being rowed he knew not where. There 
 was a comic agony in his tones — comic at least to us. 
 I shouted to him to wait on the shore. 
 
 After fighting and struggling for near an hour in 
 the pouring rain, we managed to collect the baggage 
 together ; to get Rover, the retriever, and Don, the 
 setter, into the boat, and start. 
 
 There was only one man whose calm behaviour 
 never changed, whose features never moved a muscle, 
 who showed no surprise at the way of landing, and 
 that w r as Brookes, Ingram’s valet, who merely with 
 his eagle eyes watched that no one stole the luggage, 
 and on any one taking it would gently but firmly take 
 it from them again and in sepulchral tones, that made 
 one’s blood creep cold, remark, “Take care ; that is 
 not yours.” 
 
 Montbard had one little adventure. So eager were 
 the boatmen to obtain him as a fare — I think they 
 thought they might charge twice over, a special 
 
Tangier. 9 
 
 arrangement by weight — that a man in one of the 
 boats seized him when on the companion ladder 
 violently by the arms, and tried to lift him bodily into 
 his boat ; but nineteen stone — I beg his pardon, four- 
 teen stone — is no light weight. Great was the sur- 
 prise of that boatman when Montbard, with the 
 strength of a Hercules, lifted the man bodily out of 
 his boat and placed him in another boat with a 
 “ Mettez-vous la, mon enfant.” 
 
 The boats pushed away from the steamer’s side, the 
 dogs barked, the boatmen yelled, the rain poured 
 down, and all was confusion. After ten or fifteen 
 minutes’ rowing, the boat ran on the rocks, one of the 
 boatmen stepped overboard, seized. each of us in turn, 
 and carried us ashore. Ashore ! Far from it ; they 
 carried us on to the rocky remains of the old mole, 
 full of deep pools and water, and covered with 
 slippery sea-weed. However, purgatory ends in 
 time, and an hour later we were eating dinner in the 
 hotel and had forgotten all the miseries — I thoroughly 
 enjoyed it — of landing, and our two dogs had retired 
 to rest in their kennels — nor was it late before we did 
 the same. 
 
 The following morning we spent in overhauling 
 the baggage and getting our caravan together. 
 Carleton and I took stock of the luggage, and con- 
 sidered that twelve or fourteen mules were the least 
 we could do with to carry our tents, &c. These we 
 were not long in engaging, in the hopes of being able 
 to set out on the following Saturday. My horse I 
 had already bought, Ingram preferred to hire one, 
 while Forestier, Montbard, and Marshall chose riding 
 mules with native saddles — a very comfortable means 
 
10 
 
 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 of travelling. Brookes likewise rode a mule. Having 
 engaged our animals, we set about getting the men. 
 Antonio, a Spaniard, who took me to Fez two years 
 before, was indispensable, as not only was he a hard- 
 working man, but the keenest of sportsmen and a 
 wonderful shot. We were taking no head-man, as I 
 had undertaken to “ run the show,” but Antonio was 
 all through my right-hand man, and helped me most 
 considerably. 
 
 As a soldier, a more or less necessary precaution, 
 
 I chose old Hadj Hamed, a dear old ruffian, whom I 
 had known before, and not only knew him, but all his 
 dodges. 
 
 This taking a soldier is a law ordained by the 
 Moorish Government, and though on occasions when 
 travelling alone in Morocco I do not take one, yet I 
 should advise every one, unless able to make them- 
 selves comfortably understood in the language, to do 
 so. The principal use of the soldier is as insurance, 
 for, granted you have a Maghasni with you, anything 
 lost in the ordinary run of affairs can be reclaimed, 
 or its value reclaimed from the Moorish Government, 
 whereas if you have no soldier they hold themselves 
 responsible for nothing. 
 
 Having succeeded in obtaining the services of 
 Antonio and Hadj Hamed, the ticklish work began, 
 that of picking one’s men, for so much of one’s comfort 
 depends upon the way one’s men work. 
 
 I called all the Tangier men who make a living by 
 accompanying caravans, and about thirty or forty 
 having collected, with Carleton and Antonio I picked 
 out eleven, all of whom I had known before, or were 
 known to Carleton, and very successful we were with 
 
Tangier. 1 1 
 
 them, for only one of our original men had to be 
 sacked during the eight weeks we were up-country. 
 
 Selim, who had been with me on and off ever 
 since I arrived in Morocco for the first time, came as 
 my own particular servant, and worked well as usual 
 all the way. 
 
 We were detained in Tangier three days longer 
 than we intended by a heavy downfall of rain, so 
 we spent the time, all our preparations being 
 finished, in showing our artists round the town. 
 
 It is a queer little town, with steep streets and no 
 cabs or carriages, very dirty and very smelly, in fact, 
 thoroughly moresque. From the Marsa, or harbour, 
 runs a long, straight street, which ends at the Bab a! 
 Sok, or gate of the market-place, at the upper part of 
 the town. In this street all the principal buildings of 
 Tangier are situated. Here we find the large mosque 
 — there are several in Tangier, but none of such im- 
 portance as this — with its tiled minaret and prettily- 
 carved doorway. No sight, however, of its interior 
 can be obtained, for the fanatical Moors have erected 
 a hideous green wooden screen to prevent the 
 Christians looking in as they pass by. Contrary to 
 Turkey and Egypt, one cannot enter the mosques in 
 any part of Morocco, the penalty being probably a 
 very severe thrashing from the Moors, a thrashing 
 that might be so skilfully manipulated as to “stretch 
 him for a corpse ” in whatever place it might chance 
 to be. 
 
 The mosque has two entrances, one out of the 
 main street, another which faces a narrow tunnel- 
 like passage, a short cut from the main street to the 
 British Legation. 
 
12 
 
 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Often as I was coming from the Legation I passed 
 this gate surrounded by odoriferous beggars, and my 
 poodle, Balzac, hearing the gurgling water of the 
 fountain within, would put all his religious prejudices 
 on one side and enter the sacred precincts, catching 
 me up by leaving the building by the main gate, 
 which I had to pass a minute or two later. What 
 cursings used to issue from the mosque as they drove 
 him out. Sometimes he rushed forth with a howl, and 
 a well-aimed slipper would follow him into the street. 
 Finally he got tired of exploring, and gave up these 
 little feats of daring and passed the mosque door 
 without even looking in, though I am sure he used to 
 gaze round the corner of his eyes on the look-out for 
 the expected shoe. 
 
 A little further up than the mosques begin the 
 shops, first those of the lawyers and writers, for 
 writing is quite an unknown art amongst the lower 
 classes, who one and all adjourn to the shop of a pro- 
 fessional for their correspondence. Little box-like 
 shops they are, just possessing room enough to allow 
 the owner to squat down and count his beads, or, 
 spectacles on nose, to read some heavy, both materi- 
 ally and physically, religious work. 
 
 A little higher up is a sort of open space known as 
 the Little Soko, where the Jews congregate to con- 
 gratulate each other on their sharp doings and to look 
 out for Europeans to be dragged off to the bazaars, 
 and taken in — in both senses. 
 
 Near this Little Soko is the British post-office, a 
 small building of no pretensions. The street then 
 proceeds up, every available spot being used as a 
 shop. Gun-cases in red cloth, brown mountaineers’ 
 
Tangier. 1 3 
 
 jelabas or cloaks rich in embroidery, fine white haiks, 
 the toga-like garments of the richer Moors, daggers, 
 powder-flasks, lamps, and Manchester goods, fill up 
 the little bandbox shops, till one would almost wonder 
 how the shopkeeper gets in and out. 
 
 The front of the shops are closed by a shutter, 
 which when business is proceeding is fastened from 
 above, while a rope is used to allow the shopman to 
 scramble on to his miniature stage. 
 
 One or two fountains in very poor repair vary the 
 scene a little. But it is the people more than the 
 buildings that form the interest of Tangier. From 
 all over Morocco they come. The Genouah, from 
 Timbuctoo, with their head-dresses of shells and 
 strings and their clanking cymbals. The Susi in dark 
 blue linen, or black and brown jelabas, the moun- 
 taineers tall and fair, many with bright blue eyes, and 
 by far the handsomest of the Moorish peoples. The 
 men from the Gharb, or fertile plains, enveloped in 
 the numerous folds of their coarse haiks, speaking 
 with a strange accent, the Berbers, with their guttural 
 tongue, absolutely different from Arabic. These are 
 the original inhabitants of Morocco, and were Chris- 
 tians once. Amongst all this medley pass and re- 
 pass the rich town Moors on horse or mule, gaudily 
 caparisoned, or perhaps one may catch a glimpse of 
 his Highness Sidi Hadj Alsalam, the Shereef of 
 Wazan, of whom more anon, as he rides on a splendid 
 grey horse through the Soko, apparently indifferent 
 to the crowd of his devout followers, who kiss the 
 hem of his garment as he passes, and so crowd round 
 him as to render it necessary for his slaves to beat a 
 way for him. 
 
14 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 But iti enumerating the peoples of Tangier there 
 are some we must not forget, the Europeans. Here, 
 there, and everywhere can be seen Spaniards, many 
 of them half drunk, all of them most objectionable. 
 There is nobody more charming than a Spaniard of 
 the upper classes, but the dregs of the criminal popu- 
 lation that they are now so vigorously pouring into 
 Tangier are rendering the place unbearable. 
 
 They come, I believe, in the hopes of getting work. 
 They get none. They starve. What is the result? 
 Tangier, that once was as safe a place to reside in as 
 any spot in the world, is full of burglars. Six houses 
 were robbed in the months of March and April alone 
 in this year (1889). But with the recent change of 
 Spanish minister it may be hoped that this will be 
 remedied, and that the wholesale introduction of 
 starving Spaniards will cease. The difficulty of 
 bringing crime to justice in Tangier is enormous ; 
 all Europeans are under the laws of their own Con- 
 sulates, and this international arrangement of tribunal 
 — though all, I am sure, try to co-operate — is an ex- 
 ceedingly difficult matter, and generally results in 
 nobody getting convicted of anything. As a rule, 
 with the exception of these late burglaries, Tangier 
 is remarkably free from crime, especially on the part 
 of the Moors, who, though they despise the Christians 
 and look upon them as unclean, yet know full well 
 that they dare not insult them, more than to mutter 
 some meaningless curse now and again, such as : 
 “ May God destroy your grandfather and your great- 
 grandfather in the flames of the infernal regions.” 
 I sometimes answer when I hear their curses hurled 
 at my head, “ Go on, go on ; do you think God will 
 
Tangier. 1 5 
 
 listen to the curses of a dog of an unbeliever ? ” This 
 expression, “ Kaffirbillah,” takes the breath out of 
 their mouths ; the very idea of a Christian using it to 
 a Mahommedan being preposterous. 
 
 But to return to the main street of Tangier. A 
 sharp turn to the right, under an archway near which 
 men are shoeing horses and mules, another turn to 
 the left past the shops of the mountain Riffis, another 
 gateway, and one is in the Soko. In winter this Sok 
 is a vast expanse of mud, in the summer of burnt 
 clay. Here all the native traffic of Tangier is carried 
 on. On the right lie the camels, glad of their release, 
 no doubt, from the heavy burdens they have borne 
 from the far away. On the left are circles of men and 
 boys listening to the story-tellers, watching jugglers, 
 or perhaps a performing ape, and gazing in admiration 
 at the oft-repeated and poor performance of a snake- 
 charmer. A little lower down are the women from 
 the villages round selling “ rhibieh,” green food for 
 horses, thistles for the mules and donkeys, chickens, 
 eggs, and bread. At the top of the Soko is a little 
 shed, on the walls of which hang coloured waistcoats 
 and kuftans, to tempt the young mountaineers, by 
 their gaudy colours, to buy for their wives or daughters. 
 Such is the scene in the Soko on a Sunday or Thurs- 
 day morning, a motley crowd indeed intermixed with 
 horses, mules, and donkeys, and with a stray camel or 
 two, which have wandered away from their caravan 
 and are foraging on their own account. While 
 writing of the Soko, a story comes to my mind which 
 I think is worth repeating here. 
 
 A well-disposed elderly gentleman was visiting 
 Tangier some years ago, before the country was as 
 
1 6 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 opened up as it is now. He, of course, visited the 
 Soko and was overcome to see the ignorance and 
 bigotry of its occupants. 
 
 Retiring to his hotel, he engaged a guide, to whom 
 he told his idea. 
 
 He was going to preach ! 
 
 The guide, who knew the danger of such an adven- 
 turous proceeding, held his own counsel, but pointed 
 out merely the risk he himself ran in interpreting, 
 demanding a proportionately large sum, which the 
 benevolently inclined old gentleman at once promised 
 him. Arrived in the Sok, the preacher mounted an 
 empty case and commenced his sermon. 
 
 Great was his delight to see a crowd quickly gather 
 round him as his guide interpreted his fervent words. 
 Larger grew the crowd — no one uttered a word — in 
 breathless silence they listened till the end, and then 
 departed. 
 
 So did the old gentleman. 
 
 The guide got his large sum of money, and not 
 many weeks later a leading English paper had a long 
 article on the missionary question in Morocco, re- 
 counting in full the patience with which th*is crowd 
 had listened to this sermon on the Christian religion. 
 
 I hope sincerely that the old gentleman will never 
 know that his interpreter was telling a story from the 
 Arabian Nights. 
 
 He might be annoyed. 
 
 Tangier possesses a fine old kasbah, or fortress, on 
 which are the Government buildings, the old treasury, 
 the courts of justice, the prisons, the palace, and one 
 or two other official residences. This kasbah lies to 
 the north of the town, and a steep climb it is up the 
 
Tangier. 1 7 
 
 narrow streets till one reaches the once beautifully 
 tiled gate, now whitewashed all over, that divides the 
 official from the non-official town. 
 
 Almost the first sight that meets one’s eyes is a 
 court, cut as it were in the solid masonry, the roof 
 supported by rows of columns with horseshoe arches, 
 and presenting an appearance not unlike the boxes at 
 a theatre. A flight of steps leads from the level of 
 the ground to this treasury, for that was the original 
 use of the building. All ruined it is now, with the 
 tiled pavement torn up and broken, with the doors 
 hanging on their hinges ; nor is the place inhabited 
 except by a beggar or two who during the heat of 
 the day takes shelter there from the sun and doubt- 
 less sleeps there at night. To the left of this building 
 and at right angles to it is a somewhat similar yard, 
 where the flogging takes place, though it is not very 
 often it is made use of for this purpose, being gene- 
 rally used as a resting-place by the soldiers attendant 
 upon the Bascha. The pillars in this case are of 
 marble, with marble Corinthian capitals. To the 
 right of the treasury .are the two prisons, the country 
 and the town prison respectively, gruesome dens full 
 of half-starved natives, most of whom are probably 
 guilty of no crime whatever. 
 
 What a history could be written in the prisons of 
 Morocco ! What tragedies have taken place within 
 their walls ! One story, most curious of all perhaps, 
 
 I cannot refrain from relating here. 
 
 Not many years ago there suddenly appeared in 
 Morocco, a young Austrian, who spoke a certain 
 amount of Arabic, and his secretary. His story was 
 a strange one. 
 
 c 
 
1 8 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 He made himself out to be a son of the late Sultan, 
 or a most direct descendant of some former Sultan, I 
 forget which ; he said he had been kidnapped in his 
 youth and brought up and educated abroad, thus his 
 slight knowledge of his mother tongue. He travelled 
 all through the country spreading this story, which 
 made a great impression on the minds of the Moors. 
 Whether he meant to attempt the throne, or merely 
 to obtain money from the Moorish Government, has 
 never' appeared, but he was frustrated. The Sultan 
 had him seized and thrown into Tangier prison. 
 Here he was called upon by the Austrian Consul, 
 who told him that he had only to allow he was an 
 Austrian, and he would immediately be set at liberty. 
 To every one’s surprise, he maintained that he was a 
 Moor. 
 
 Day after day he had the opportunity of freedom 
 offered him by merely allowing himself to be an 
 Austrian subject, a matter already known for certain 
 at the Austrian Legation ; but no, he still held out, 
 till a month or so later, in the prison with Moorish 
 murderers and robbers, he died of starvation and 
 exhaustion. 
 
 A narrow lane leads to the gate of justice, and as 
 one passes one can see the old grey-bearded Bascha, 
 seated on his throne of judgment, trying cases. The 
 plaintiff and the defendant are both kneeling before 
 him surrounded by soldiers, both crying out their 
 wrongs at the same time. Probably the one who 
 can afford to present his excellency with the largest 
 bribe, varying generally from a wax candle or a loaf 
 of sugar to a five-pound note, will win his case. 
 
 However, the Bascha of Tangier is far above the 
 
19 
 
 Tangier. 
 
 ordinary ran of Moorish officials, and is popular both 
 with Moors and Europeans. The work I have had 
 to trouble him with — for I have been obliged to see 
 him on business sometimes — as to the behaviour of 
 my men, &c., has been satisfactorily settled, and I 
 always found him most polite and easy to deal with. 
 Not so, however, his Calipha, the second in command, 
 who is hated all round, and who obstructs in every 
 way in his power every small case a Christian may 
 bring before him. 
 
 Beyond the gate of justice is the old palace. 
 This palace has recently been restored, as it was 
 rumoured in Tangier that the Sultan would visit 
 that place. That he intended and still intends to 
 come there can be no doubt, though constantly re- 
 curring war in other parts of his dominions keeps 
 his attention and his presence elsewhere. 
 
 Word having been sent that the Sultan would 
 visit Tangier in a month or two from that time, the 
 Bascha set to work to have the palace redecorated, 
 or rather to have all the exquisite Arabesque torn 
 down, and everything, including the wonderful tile- 
 work, whitewashed. However, our minister, Sir 
 William Kirby Green, with his usual energy, had a 
 stop put to this work of destruction, and informed 
 the Bascha that unless everything was restored and 
 not destroyed, he would inform the Sultan when in 
 Tangier of all the circumstances of the case. The 
 result has been that the palace is one of the best 
 specimens of Moorish architecture existing in the 
 whole country. 
 
 The central court is fine, with great white marble 
 columns and Corinthian capitals, a marble floor and 
 
 C 2 
 
20 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 fountain. On to this court open four rooms, each 
 with tiled and marble floors, rich tile and arabesque 
 walls, and magnificent ceilings in the style of Moorish 
 design and carving known as stalactites. The ceil- 
 ings have not been repainted in the bright colours 
 now in vogue amongst the Moors, but the old paint- 
 ing has been retained, and merely certain parts 
 regilded. Here again thanks are due to our 
 minister. 
 
 The rest of the palace is even finer than the 
 court, one minute courtyard with three small rooms 
 being a perfect gem, so rich is the arabesque and 
 painting, while some of the corridors that run round 
 the small enclosed gardens are very beautiful. The 
 exterior of the building, as is customary with all 
 Moorish architecture, is devoid of any decoration. 
 A mosque adjoins the palace, but this, of course, I 
 have never seen. 
 
 Beyond the kasbah is a large flat open space of 
 ground known as the Marshan, where there is quite 
 a European colony. Here, too, take place the races, 
 and sometimes polo. Beyond the Marshan flows, 
 far below it, for it is an elevated plateau, the Wad- 
 al-Ihoudi, or Jews’ river, a pretty little stream, nearly 
 dry in summer, but a roaring torrent in winter. 
 Across this stream is the “ mountain,” another Euro- 
 pean colony where are several lovely houses, those 
 of Sir John Drummond Hay, Mr. White, and Miss 
 Reade being perhaps the finest. From the mountain 
 there is a gorgeous view. Below one to the right 
 lies Tangier, beyond which one’s eye roves over 
 plains and mountains till, some fifty miles or more 
 away, one can see the snow-capped mountains of 
 
Tangier. 1 1 
 
 Tetuan, and away to the south at a much greater 
 distance the enormous crags of Sheshouan, a moun- 
 tain over 7000 feet in height. In front of one lie 
 the Straits, Gibraltar clearly visible at one extremity, 
 and behind it the snow-peaks of Mulaha9en and the 
 Sierra Nevada, and at the other extremity the bay 
 of Trafalgar and Cadiz ; while the whole expanse of 
 sea is dotted with vessels. 
 
 The fashionable resort of Tangier is the beach of 
 
 great wide sands, where every one can be seen riding 
 between four and five in the afternoons. A mile 
 and a half from Tangier along the beach is a river, 
 and beyond that the ruins of Tingis, the Roman 
 Tangier, of which not much beyond the walls remains. 
 As is usual all over Morocco, there are no bridges 
 by which to cross this river at this point, and until 
 quite lately, when the Spaniards instituted a ferry, 
 it had to be crossed by fording, not at all a pleasant 
 proceeding both on account of the depth and current 
 and the treacherous quicksands that exist in parts 
 
22 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 of it. In the time of the Romans there was a bridge 
 over this river, the remains of which still exist. 
 Higher up there are two bridges, one of them on the 
 Tetuan road. The surroundings of Tangier have not 
 been taken proper advantage of, and only the gardens 
 of Sinieh Hashti, one on the “ mountain,” and Lalla 
 Shaafia are good examples of what the soil and 
 climate of Tangier are capable of growing. 
 
 A few words — only a few — as to the history of 
 Tangier. 
 
 Tangier was taken by the Portuguese, 1471, and 
 remained in their possession till ceded to England as 
 part of the dowry of the wife of Charles II. in 1662, 
 soon after which we gave it back to the Moors. It 
 has several times been bombarded, the last time in 
 1844, when the French stormed the town. When 
 the next bombardment will take place, it is impossible 
 to say. 
 
 We beguiled our few days’ waiting in Tangier by 
 seeing the sights by day and by a dinner-party or 
 two in the evenings. Going out to dinner in Tangier 
 surprises those who visit the place for the first time. 
 It is often pouring with rain, and of course no cabs 
 or carriages exist, while the roads are generally so full 
 of mud as to render any attempt at walking futile. 
 
 The only means of proceeding are by mounting a 
 donkey, on a “ burda”or flat native pack-saddle, and, 
 braving wind and rain, to proceed. The residents 
 have got so accustomed to this means of progression 
 that they think nothing of it, and on rainy nights 
 every one turns out to a dance just as if it were a 
 warm summer evening. Figures enveloped in mack- 
 intoshes and shaded by huge umbrellas can be dimly 
 
Tangier. 23 
 
 distinguished threading their muddy ways through 
 the Soko by the light of the fantastic-shaped 
 lanterns that their servants carry. Strange to say, 
 their frocks do not seem to suffer, and one sees as 
 many smart frocks at a Tangier dance as one does 
 in most quarters of the globe. 
 
 Society in Tangier is split up into three factions ; 
 those who will know each other, those who won’t 
 know each other, and those who must know each 
 other but don’t want to. I do not know which is 
 the nicest faction, but I know no other little town 
 abroad where people are kinder and more hospitable 
 than at Tangier. Picnics and cheery little dinners 
 are of constant recurrence, while riding parties and 
 impromptu teas — not at all like an English “ at 
 home ” — are very common. 
 
 Another great source of amusement in Tangier 
 are the pig-sticking meetings held at about monthly 
 intervals through the winter and early spring. 
 
 Nothing can be imagined more charming than 
 these little gatherings, where every one — Tangier’s 
 every one — turns out and camps for five or six days 
 at Awara. The originator of this noble sport in 
 this country was Sir John Drummond Hay, Sir 
 William Kirby Green’s predecessor, an indefatigable 
 sportsman — and with the new minister the institu- 
 tion continues and flourishes. The camp is pitched 
 on the hill beyond the lake of Shaf-al-akab, near .a 
 village called Awara, in a dense cork and wild olive 
 wood. The camp varies in size. Our minister — 
 keenest of sportsmen — always has his camp out, and 
 is generally accompanied by his wife and daughter, 
 while Sir John Drummond Hay, who continues to 
 
24 The Land of an African Stilt an. 
 
 reside in Tangier during the winter, brings his camp 
 and family. Round the minister’s camp are pitched 
 the camps of the various residents, while Ansaldo, of 
 the Continental Hotel, supplies tents and food for 
 those who are not already possessed of them. 
 
 The sport itself is glorious, though to one un- 
 accustomed to it the riding seems very perilous, as 
 in some places one is going at full gallop over ground 
 full of holes, in another tearing through bushes some 
 five and six feet high, and again in cork woods, where 
 one has to keep a very keen look-out to prevent 
 getting one’s head knocked off. However, though 
 falls are common, very few accidents occur. 
 
 I have not space here to go through a whole 
 day’s pig-sticking, so will only describe one beat — that 
 known as the mud flats. 
 
 The beaters remain on the top of a series of hills, 
 while the “ spears ” are sent on and posted on both 
 sides of a dry lake, hidden in the bushes. A certain 
 time is given for the spears to be posted, and the 
 beaters begin their work, hitting the bushes with 
 sticks and shouting loudly all the while. 
 
 A pig is sighted, blank charges are fired by the 
 beaters, while the spears wait in anxiety to see where 
 “piggy” will break. Suddenly out he comes, and 
 then begins the chase. The two spears nearest to 
 him on the side he breaks dash after him, while those 
 on the other side trot gently forward and prepare to 
 meet him. The going is good and very fast, but to 
 get the boar he must be stuck before he crosses the 
 open ground, or he will be lost in impenetrable bush. 
 Some one touches him with a spear, a mere prick 
 however, but enough to turn him ; with a grunt like 
 
Tangier. 2 5 
 
 a miniature roar, he swings round. How his white 
 tusks flash in the sunlight. He charges ; not the 
 horse as he hopes, but on to the full point of the 
 lance levelled to receive him. All is not finished 
 yet — he is a tough old boar — he extricates himself 
 from the spear and charges first one horseman and 
 then another, from each receiving a dig. One perhaps 
 misses his mark, but is made to remember it by the 
 gash in his horse’s leg where the old tusker has given 
 a nasty wound. At last, worn out with wounds and 
 the chase, he gives in and lies down to die. 
 
 Sometimes five or six pigs are got out of one beat 
 alone, but this is very exceptional. The usual average, 
 I should say, is to kill two or three pigs a day during 
 the three or four days’ sticking. The dogs used for 
 driving the pig out of the bush are a curious set of 
 mongrels, but wonderfully cute, as they very seldom 
 approach within five or six yards of their foe, knowing 
 that one thrust of his tusks will send them to another 
 land. 
 
 It is a charming sight to watch the beaters, some 
 fifty or sixty in number, at work. They are for the 
 most part men from Suaneh, a village near Tangier, 
 and wear, like all men from that district, the brown 
 jelab and small coloured skull-cap, or red gun-case 
 wound round their heads. The excitement that they 
 get into, their shouting and blowing on horns, the 
 firing of guns when a boar is just sighted, and the 
 wild surroundings render the sport far more enjoy- 
 able than if it were managed with the precision and 
 order of an English covert shoot. 
 
 Perhaps the best time out in the pig-sticking camp 
 is the evening, when, after dinner, we all sit round the 
 
26 
 
 The Land of an African Sudan. 
 
 great camp-fires and tell ghost stories, or render the 
 night hideous by an impromptu band. I play on the 
 bath with a Zulu knobkerry. It has not, perhaps, 
 the tone and expression of a violin, but it makes more 
 noise ! 
 
 Far into the night we keep up the festivities, till 
 the fire burns lower, and then, after watching the 
 athletic Moors leap over the dying embers, we creep 
 away to our tents to wake refreshed and happy at an 
 early hour, prepared for a good day’s sport. We 
 usually go out into camp on the Monday, and strike 
 on Saturday, one day being an off-day, to give the 
 beaters and horses a chance. 
 
 On the whole, very little sport is to be found in the 
 neighbourhood of Tangier, everything having been 
 killed off by Spanish professional hunters to supply 
 the hotels ; but in winter a good many snipe may 
 be found on the lakes at Shaf-al-akab, and a few red- 
 legged partridges round- about, but the sport is not 
 really sufficient to bring a sportsman to Tangier, 
 unless he intends making a tour up-country. 
 
 Some years ago, I believe, the sport, even in the 
 immediate neighbourhood of Tangier, was very excel- 
 lent ; but the constant shooting of the birds without 
 a close season or restrictions of any sort has de- 
 stroyed everything. 
 
 A new sport has just been introduced into Tangier 
 — fox-hounds — and with wonderful success, some 
 splendid runs having been obtained ; the country is 
 good, the going particularly fast, and there are plenty 
 of foxes, the result being that all interested in the 
 introduction of the hounds have been pleasantly sur- 
 prised, as, though we felt confident from the beginning 
 
27 
 
 Tangier. 
 
 of good sport, yet the reality has surpassed our 
 happiest dreams. There ought to be no difficulty in 
 keeping the hounds through the summer, as the 
 climate at Gibraltar is a great deal hotter in the 
 months of July, August, and September, and there 
 the hounds manage very well. This opening up of 
 fox-hunting ought to attract many visitors to Tangier 
 who are fond of sport and are ordered abroad for 
 health. 
 
 But the rain has passed over, and January 7th 
 of this year dawned gloriously. Our mules were 
 brought early, but it took a long time sorting our 
 baggage and packing it so as the weights should suit 
 the various animals, collecting our men, &c. Carle- 
 ton kindly helped me, and after much shouting and 
 hurrying, kicking of mules and neighing of horses, we 
 were delighted by about noon to see our long string 
 of animals set out and cross the Soko, then turn to 
 the left and disappear on the mountain road. 
 
 I felt satisfied — we all did, I think — there was 
 nothing more to do but to rest for a time. Every- 
 thing had gone on, there was no more anxiety as to 
 getting away, and we had only to ride out late and 
 overtake our mules before they reached their first 
 camping-place, beyond Spartel. Though we were 
 proceeding to Fez, Carleton and I, who both knew 
 all the roads well, decided that our only means of 
 reaching it would be to travel by the coast as far as 
 Laraiche, and then strike inland, owing to the flooded 
 state of the rivers, which on the Fez road were quite 
 impassable. However, at their mouths there is not 
 so much water, or a ferry exists, as the case may be. 
 
 I rode down to bid them good-bye at the Legation, 
 
28 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 and with all sorts of good wishes from every one, we 
 mounted our steeds and, turning our faces away from 
 Europe and civilization, set out for the interior. 
 
 “ Ah Sidi Mahammed al Hadj. Ah salama Sidi 
 Mahammed al Hadj. Salaam alikum, Sidi Maham- 
 med al Hadj,” cried our Moors, as the three white 
 domes of the great patron saint of Tangier were hid 
 from sight, and we turned the corner from Soko on 
 to the Spartel road. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 TANGIER TO LARAICIIE. 
 
 We left Tangier by the way which leads to the 
 mountain. The road takes one along the lower 
 slopes of the Marshan, on its south side — a road full 
 of mud and crossed by dozens of tiny streams ; but 
 no adventure befell us, though once or twice the 
 horses and mules were up to their knees in the soft 
 clay. 
 
 We crossed the Wad-al-ihoudi by the new wooden 
 bridge. Some of the mules for a time utterly refused 
 to proceed. My horse passed over first and offered 
 no resistance, so that I was able to look back and see 
 Forestier and Montbard thrashing their beasts on, to 
 persuade them to cross. Nothing, however, seemed 
 to be able to make the mules comprehend that they 
 were to go over. I believe they knew it perfectly 
 well, but mules have a way — and a will — of their 
 own, and they began thus early on the journey to 
 show it. A few minutes later they crossed perfectly 
 quietly, having changed their minds for apparently 
 no reason at all, though I fancy I detected a smile 
 on one of the white mule’s thick lips, as much as to 
 say, “Well, we kept you waiting for a quarter of an 
 hour and are satisfied now ; but wait for the next 
 river ! ” 
 
30 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 They used to repeat this little game at various 
 stages of the road, varying it now and again by 
 bucking, and sending saddle — great heavy native 
 ones — and riders on to the wayside, then refusing to 
 be caught. 
 
 However, at length our caravan crossed the bridge, 
 and we began the steep ascent of the “mountain.” 
 What a rocky way it is, over great boulders and loose 
 stones, sloping slabs of slippery rock, between prickly 
 pear hedges and great spiky aloes. At length the 
 summit is reached, and, looking back, the wide 
 panorama of Tangier and the country beyond, Apes 
 Hill, Gibel Habib, and the Tetuan Mountains, is 
 stretched out before one, the Straits looking like an 
 azure river dotted with its numberless ships, while in 
 the midday haze the shore of Spain seems almost an 
 unreality — so soft an outline it has and so delicate it 
 is in tint. Tarifa — Tariks Town — is clearly visible, 
 the first landing-place in Europe of the great Moorish 
 general — a clustering of white houses low down to 
 the Spanish coast. Our road is now more level ; we 
 pass “ The cottage/’ one of the last European resi- 
 dences on the Spartel road, and say good-bye to 
 Tangier, which is soon lost to sight. 
 
 Almost as far as Cape Spartel the road runs along 
 the summit of the ridge of mountains. It is a wild 
 path ; here and there high into the air rise great crags 
 of rock, covered with fern, almost the only break in 
 the monotonous mountain-tops. Merely a track the 
 road is, cut through the thick brushwood of gum 
 cistus — the lovely white flower of which is not yet 
 in bloom. A little further on the view opens up on 
 our left, and we look down to the Atlantic beach, 
 

 saint’s house and tomb, at arzeilah. 
 
32 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 way further on, we enter the lighthouse, drink coffee 
 with the keeper, and sit for an hour or so on the 
 rocks near by. It was a glorious afternoon, with just 
 a fresh enough N.VV. breeze to cover the sea with 
 little white billows, and to render the sound of the 
 waves as they burst on the rocks below a wild melody 
 of music. 
 
 An hour though was all the wait I could allow, 
 and then once more we mounted and proceeded on 
 our way. The road after leaving the lighthouse is 
 much like the latter part we had passed over, but 
 about half an hour’s distance from Spartel, one de- 
 scends the steep, rocky side of the mountain, and 
 fording a small river, emerges on the sands. What a 
 gallop Ingram and I had. My horse, a celebrated bad- 
 behaviour brute, which no one could be persuaded 
 to buy in Tangier, and which had been for sale and 
 unridden for four months, had already been playing 
 some little tricks on the road, so I took it out of 
 him across that mile or two of sands. Half-an-hour 
 later the road began a gentle ascent, then leaving the 
 beach we turned a little inland, and an hour or so 
 before sunset reached Gibeleh, where we found our 
 mules already being unloaded. 
 
 Naturally, as it was our first camp, there was some 
 confusion, but we all worked with a will, and before 
 dark had the satisfaction of seeing our four tents 
 pitched, a fire alight in the kitchen, on which stood 
 a long row of saucepans and kettles, and our mules 
 all tethered in a long line. 
 
 Half-an-hour after sunset Carleton turned up, 
 having been detained in Tangier till four o’clock, 
 when he had left the town and ridden out across 
 
33 
 
 Tangier to Laraiche. 
 
 country in the almost incredible period of two hours. 
 It was late before we got our dinner, as stores had 
 to be hunted out, and there was much to be seen 
 to, nor were we sorry to turn in and seek refuge in 
 sleep from the worries of a “ first night.” 
 
 Now having got fairly off on the road, a few words 
 as to what is required for camping in Morocco may 
 not be out of place ; however, the following para- 
 graphs may be comfortably skipped by those who 
 have no intention of visiting this land of an African 
 Sultan. 
 
 To begin with one’s kit. I find — after consider- 
 able experience — that one requires very much the 
 same clothing camping out in the winter in Morocco 
 as one does in England in early spring. I had with 
 me on this trip two pairs of good strong cord riding- 
 breeches ; a pair of “ Field ” boots, to lace up the 
 front, of brown leather ; a pair of shooting-boots, 
 and a pair of ordinary walking-boots ; one pair of 
 knickerbockers and one of trousers, a blue football 
 jersey ; two cloth coats and waistcoats ; a covert coat ; 
 two mackintoshes ; a pair of waders, and a consider- 
 able amount of underclothing, stockings, pijamas, 
 &c. As to hats, small caps are excellent, but a shady 
 hat or two must be bought ; I prefer the large soft 
 felt hat to the helmet, as the latter are so difficult to 
 pack. 
 
 My tent is a square one, with double flat roof, 
 bamboo poles, and waterproof flooring. It is only 
 some seven feet square, but I find it quite large 
 enough. I always use, and have found most satis- 
 factory, one of Silver’s" Salisbury ” beds, which pack- 
 up very small, are light, and when carefully treated 
 
 D 
 
34 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 will last for years. My bedding consists of two very 
 large Moorish blankets sewn into a bag, and a native 
 striped coverlet ; an immense Russian fur coat, which 
 I picked up during a trip to the White Sea, always 
 accompanies me on all my travels. The bag of 
 blankets I find most excellent, as, being very large, 
 they form some eight folds, which one can vary 
 according to the weather, by sleeping with four at 
 the top and four at the bottom, or one at the bottom 
 and seven at the top. My huge fur coat makes a 
 mattress. Let me warn the intending “ camper ” of 
 one thing, that cold at night is not to be kept off 
 merely by thick coverings over one’s bed, as it is 
 far more important that between one and the ground 
 there should be a great thickness of blankets or a 
 mattress — on account of the damp rising from the 
 earth. Of all the important “ articles ” of camp life, 
 this is the first and by far the most important — a 
 camp-bed. I do not care how many waterproof 
 coverings there may be between one and the ground, 
 it is unsafe to sleep on the ground. 
 
 Stores for the trip can either be obtained in Tan- 
 gier or England. I prefer the latter. All the stores 
 we took on the tour I am now writing of, were sup- 
 plied -by the Army and Navy Stores, beautifully 
 packed into strong iron-bound boxes. There is no 
 need, I think, to go through a list of stores. The most 
 important are tea, coffee, candles, potted meats, tinned 
 soups, pepper, salt, mustard, tinned tongues and 
 hams, biscuits, liquor, &c. These are the most im- 
 portant items, the rest depends upon the travellers, 
 whether they intend to camp luxuriously, and how 
 many mules they intend to take with them. We 
 
35 
 
 Tangier to Laraiche. 
 
 took four boxes of stores, some two feet six inches in 
 length, eighteen inches in width and height, but I 
 should advise any one else to take them the same 
 height and width, but only two feet in length, as 
 that size would fit better into the native “shuarries” 
 or paniers. 
 
 Saddlery, guns, and ammunition must be brought 
 from England ; a good saddle is a necessity, as sore 
 backs are very common amongst the horses ; also it 
 is best to bring two bridles, breastplate, crupper, 
 numnah, &c. ; brushes and cloths can be procured 
 in Tangier. A headstall and chain are required for 
 tethering the horse, for though they are tethered as 
 well by the legs, yet I prefer the double precaution , 
 and do both. Tents too it is best to bring from 
 England, enough for oneself and a large tent for the 
 Arabs. I find that the only means of getting along 
 the roads without trouble from my men is to house 
 them well. As for the number of cartridges, I can 
 give no advice, it all depends on luck whether one 
 gets good shooting or no. Of course there are ex- 
 cellent spots to go to, but the birds vary very much 
 from year to year ; I believe myself the barbary part- 
 ridge is migratory to some extent. The best shoot- 
 ing we obtained two years ago was in a secluded 
 spot near Fez ; this year we shot all day over prc~ 
 cisely the same ground, and got nothing, absolutely 
 nothing, though our bag two years before had been 
 both varied and large. Nobody had shot the place 
 this year before us, and there seems no theory capa- 
 ble of accounting for the disappearance of game than 
 that they had tired of their old ground and sought a 
 new one elsewhere. 
 
 D 2 
 
36 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Cartridges can be obtained now at Tangier from 
 Mr. Ansaldo of the Continental Hotel. A small- 
 bore rifle is advisable for great bustard. 
 
 Now to return to our camp once more. We were 
 very early astir on the 8th of January, and soon had 
 our mules packed and ready to be off. Sending them 
 forward, we proceeded to the caves of Hercules, to 
 show our artists one of the sights of the neighbour- 
 hood of Tangier. 
 
 It is not surprising in a country that boasts of a 
 pillar of Hercules to find caves dedicated to the same 
 mythical hero, but it is surprising anywhere to find 
 caves so fine as these. 
 
 Though situated on the water’s edge, it is impos- 
 sible, owing to the surf and precipice, to enter from 
 the sea ; and the only means of access is through a 
 long, winding passage some little way inland. When 
 one has threaded a rather precarious path through 
 this dark passage, one finds oneself in a really magni- 
 cent cave, about which are grouped, like sepulchral 
 mummies, Moors, who earn their livelihood by hew- 
 ing mill-stones out of the solid rock ; nor has the 
 cave been to any degree defaced by this seeming 
 desecration. On the contrary, the innumerable circles 
 traced upon the walls and roof have, in the half-light, 
 a weird appearance that reminds one of the days when 
 astrologers covered the walls of their retreats with 
 strange hieroglyphics. 
 
 It is a beautiful sight to stand on a piece of pro- 
 jecting rock near where the sea enters and watch 
 wave after wave roll in, dashing through the narrow 
 natural archway swiftly onward till stopped by a wall 
 rock, over which, when it finds itself baffled, its throws 
 
37 
 
 Tangier to Laraiche. 
 
 its myriad drops of spray with a roar and a crash like 
 thunder. And so day and night, though sometimes 
 in calm weather the rush may be less, the sea will 
 lash itself into fury again, till a thousand echoes are 
 all crying aloud a chorus to the deep, dull roar below. 
 No ; it is not difficult, in times like these, to imagine 
 how the simple-minded Moor, ever ready to believe 
 what he hears, should have the idea that within lived, 
 and even lives now, some great spirit. As one sits 
 on the dry ground above the cave and listens, he can 
 imagine that below him, almost in the bowels of the 
 earth, is being waged a war, the like of which mortal 
 eyes have never seen or mortal ears heard ; and it is 
 a battle, too, for the sea is fighting to wear away the 
 rock, and the rock is fighting to keep back the sea, 
 and the sea is getting the better of it ; for year by 
 year it forces its entrance in further and further, and 
 in the dim future perhaps will own all the disputed 
 land, but that will be long after the Moors have ceased 
 to hew mill-stones. 
 
 But I have heard another sound in the dim caves 
 a sound strangely out of place where one expects to 
 hear nothing but the sea, the quiet hoot of the owl, or 
 the squeaking bats ; I have heard the ring of merry 
 laughter and the sound of happy voices. Readers, I 
 confess at once I have heard the clashing of knives 
 and forks, and the popping of champagne corks. 
 
 It is a great place for picnics in summer. Every- 
 thing lends itself to enjoyment. The ride from 
 Tangier, through valleys whose little streams are full 
 of basking tortoises, the hills with the gum-cistus all 
 in bloom, the steep descent through the village of 
 Meduna, with its small mud-and-thatch houses and 
 
38 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 its hedges of prickly-pears and aloes, the blue vast 
 ocean and the bludr vaster sky. Nor is the ride home 
 in the afternoon the least enjoyable part, especially if 
 one return by Cape Spartel, past the lighthouse 
 perched on the rocky promontory, along the edge of 
 the cliff, over the mountains, till as evening approaches 
 one sees Tangier at one’s feet, crowned in the glorious 
 rays of a setting sun, all gold and mauve, or one rides 
 through the now quiet sok, amidst sleeping camels, by 
 the light of an African moon. 
 
 After this little outburst of sentimentalism we will 
 return once more to our matter-of-fact journey through 
 Morocco. 
 
 The road led us along the sea-beach, over hard 
 yellow sands, for some distance, and many were the 
 races Carleton and I rode, both feeling that intense 
 sensation of freedom, which one can only feel in such 
 countries as Morocco. We found our mules waiting 
 on the banks of the Wad Tsahadartz, an unpleasantly 
 large river, which had to be crossed in two rickety 
 little boats, behind which swam the mules and horses. 
 This unloading the mules, piling the baggage into 
 the boats and then loading them on the opposite 
 bank is a tedious process, and we wasted much time 
 over the crossing. However, if Morocco possessed 
 bridges all through the country, half the pleasure of 
 tent-life then would be gone, for it is these great rivers 
 that form one of the principal means of keeping 
 Morocco in the state of “ B.CT existence it enjoys now. 
 
 About four o’clock, the passage of the Tsahadartz 
 having been accomplished without any mishap, we 
 pitched our tents in a village of the Gharbia, on 
 the side of a steep hill, near some charming gardens. 
 
Tangier to Laraiche. 39 
 
 Our barometers fell fast — I mean the spirits of M. 
 and F., our French artists. Evidently there was rain 
 in the air. No longer did the cheering notes of 
 “ Gais et contents, nous allons a Longchamps” issue 
 from their throats. Evidently, as I said before, there 
 was rain in the air. About six o’clock that evening 
 it began to fall, and fell as fast as the “ barometers ” 
 had done. It rained in torrents all night, though in 
 the tents we were quite dry. We tried to cheer those 
 whose knowledge of camp-life was just commencing 
 by prophesying fine weather for the morrow, but they 
 still stuck to their new idea, that Morocco was the 
 most horrible country they had ever set their eyes on- 
 When coffee, liqueurs and cigarettes followed dinner, 
 they cheered up a little, and we all began telling 
 stories of sport. Ingram and I had told a good many 
 when Montbard opened his mouth and told us the 
 following: — 
 
 “The True Story of Montbard and the 
 Burgundy Hare. 
 
 “ There is only one country in the world,” he be- 
 gan, “and that is Burgundy. Burgogne, c’est la 
 France, Paris is its suburb and all the countries of 
 Europe are as nothing compared with it. In Burgundy 
 the fruit-trees bear fruit seven times in the year — there 
 is no winter, no summer, it is always alike — and there 
 is no close season for game. The country is full of 
 game, swarming with it ! Why do you Englishmen 
 go to Central Africa to shoot, why do you come to 
 Morocco, when Burgundy is so near ? Why go to 
 Norway to fish when our streams are full of big trout 
 running from a pennyweight to two ounces ! 
 
40 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “ But enough ! Burgundy is the finest country in 
 the world ! 
 
 “ One May, when everything looked its best, I took 
 my trusty gun — for the blacksmith in the village had 
 put the bent barrel nearly straight, and set out. I had 
 broken it by using it as a brake to the pony-shay 
 coming down the steep hill behind the village. Well, 
 it was May when, pipe in mouth, my gun over my 
 shoulder, cartridge-bags and revolvers round my waist, 
 I sauntered out. 
 
 “ Why did I go shooting, you ask ? 
 
 “ Because I am a lover of* La chasse ’ and because,” 
 here Montbard’s voice was scarcely more than a 
 whisper, “ the people told me that a hare had 
 appeared in the neighbourhood, and was devastating 
 the country round. 
 
 “ In the open country I put away my pipe, loaded 
 my right barrel (the bent one) with shot and my left 
 with a bullet, in case I missed with the first, and 
 prepared for action. 
 
 “ There was scarce a breath of wind in the woods, 
 tire leaves just rustled sweetly on the trees. Every 
 now and again I waited to listen, but heard nothing. 
 
 “ Steadily I crept forward, listening as I went. I 
 hoped to find him asleep, gorged on the fowls he had 
 eaten the night before. For nearly half an hour I 
 walked, till, thoroughly worn out, I reached the further 
 side of the wood, passed through a small gate, and 
 threw myself wearily down in the orchard of a small 
 farm-house. 
 
 “ I must have slept some time, what woke me I do 
 not know, but I think it was that feeling that Provi- 
 dence has vouchsafed to mankind to perceive when 
 
Tangier to Laraiche. 41 
 
 danger is near. I never stirred, but opened one eye 
 slowly and looked out. 
 
 “ A cold sweat burst all over my frame, but I never 
 lost my head for a moment. 
 
 “ Imagine,” here Montbard was dramatic, “ imagine 
 my horror to see, devouring a cabbage close to my 
 feet, the HARE. 
 
 “ I never moved. Livingstone, when under the 
 lion’s paw, knew his only safeguard was in remaining 
 quiet. I did the same. 
 
 “ The hare seemed quite unaware of my presence, 
 and was calmly eating, but I could not help thinking 
 how few moments it might be before he would change 
 his diet of cabbage for one of human food. Still I 
 never moved. 
 
 “ All my life I will never forget that day, at night 
 now I sometimes dream of it. Every line of that 
 hare’s form is as clear before me now as it was then. 
 
 “ It was white — like a polar bear — with great 
 scarlet eyes — a sure sign that it was of the man-eating 
 species. Its teeth ground against one another with 
 horrible reverberation, while the fiery glance of those 
 scarlet eyes petrified me with terror. 
 
 “Yet I never moved. 
 
 “ Presently the hare turned the other way. I raised 
 my gun to my shoulder — and allowing for the bend 
 in the right barrel — took a long and steady aim. 
 
 “ My life depended on that shot, for the ferocious 
 beast was only a yard away, and did I miss would be 
 upon me at once ! 
 
 “ I fired — both barrels ! 
 
 “ When I dared to open my eyes the hare had 
 disappeared ! 
 
42 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “ With a shout I rose to my feet, expecting every 
 moment to feel his cruel claws tearing limb from limb, 
 while his fangs extracted my inside — like Prometheus. 
 Imagine my joy when I found I had killed him — not 
 only killed him, but blown him to atoms ! 
 
 “ All that was left was a blue velvet collar with 
 ‘Jeanne’ embroidered on it — tied by a fine cord to a 
 cabbage stalk — all do I say — no not all, for half an ear 
 was found some fifty yards away — a veritable trophy ! 
 
 “ The people in the farm tried to make a fool of me, 
 they said it was a tame Himalayan rabbit I had killed. 
 But I was not to be fooled. 
 
 “ I knew then, and I know now, that I had ridded 
 my fatherland of one of its worst enemies. 
 
 “'Who can tell how many herds and flocks might 
 not have been destroyed before its death, how many 
 children might not have been carried off, or graves 
 dug up and corpses exhumed !” 
 
 Montbard ceased. 
 
 I was the only one who dared speak. 
 
 “ Did notTartarin come from Burgundy?” I asked. 
 
 Montbard answered me with a look. 
 
 If the hare had seen that look, it would have died 
 of fright. 
 
 We all went to bed. None of our adventures com- 
 pared with Montbard’s. 
 
 All night it poured in torrents, and the following 
 morning the rain was falling as fast as ever, so we 
 decided not to strike camp, but to remain the rest of 
 the day at the Gharbia village, so as to allow our 
 tents, &c., to thoroughly dry. Ingram, Carleton and 
 I went out to try and shoot something, but had very 
 poor sport, though it was not wasted time, as it gave 
 
43 
 
 Tangier to Laraiche. 
 
 us an excellent opportunity of studying our dogs. 
 Mitza, a half-bred French pointer, belonging to An- 
 tonio, surprised us by her sagacity, and especially her 
 skill at following up wounded birds. We walked all 
 day over undulating hills surrounding a large marsh. 
 The sides of these hills were covered with palmeto — 
 a dwarf palm — which reaches the height of about two 
 feet, and affords excellent covert for the birds. We 
 only bagged four and a half brace, but our walk was 
 a thoroughly enjoyable one. On our return to camp 
 we found tea awaiting us, after which I spent an hour 
 grooming my horse and initiating Selim into the 
 mysteries of the curry-comb, &c. 
 
 A showery night succeeded a fine afternoon, but 
 the next morning was bright and sunny, so we decided 
 to make a move. There was no need to make an 
 early start, as we had a tidal river to cross en route , 
 and it was therefore eleven o’clock before our mules 
 were all packed and the caravan moved forward. 
 
 An hour’s ride brought us to the river, the Wad al 
 Ghreefa, near which are the ruins of a Roman aque- 
 duct. We had to wait some time before we could 
 cross, as the water was yet too high. On the opposite 
 bank we saw Mr. and Mrs. T. and Count H. on their 
 way back from a trip to Laraiche. Carleton and I 
 soon forded our horses across, though the water came 
 over the flaps of our saddles ; Ingram and the others 
 followed some few minutes later. On the south bank 
 we joined the other party, and had a pleasant lunch all 
 together. While this was proceeding our baggage 
 was being brought across, for the most part on the 
 mules’ backs, but for fear of the ammunition and guns 
 getting wet we had them carried over by men mounted 
 
44 The Land of an Ajrican Sultan . 
 
 on our saddle-horses. In this manner nothing got 
 damp. An hour or so we spent on the beach, and 
 then our party broke up, Mr. and Mrs. T. and H. 
 proceeding on their way and we on ours. 
 
 An hour or so later we reached Arzeilah, a small 
 walled town on the seashore, very picturesque, very 
 old and very dirty. There is little doubt that this 
 town is on the site of the Roman Zilio, the name 
 alone going far to establish this theory. It has 
 suffered the varied vicissitudes that nearly all the 
 Moorish coast-towns have passed through, having 
 been the scene of many a bombardment and many a 
 battle. Portuguese at one time, Spanish at another, 
 Moorish now, and rumour even speaks of it having 
 been English at one period. 
 
 We pitched our tents not far from the town, on a 
 site I had often occupied before, overlooking the sea. 
 Our party split up, some going after sport in the 
 neighbourhood, while I undertook to show our artists 
 the ins and outs of the little place. 
 
 Probably the population of Arzeilah is not more 
 than 800 or IOOO, but from the important look of 
 its solid turreted and betowered walls one would 
 think it at first sight to be a place of far greater im- 
 portance and size. We entered the town by the prin- 
 cipal gate, a curious old Portuguese structure, which 
 answers not only the purpose of a means of exit and 
 entrance for the population, but is also conveniently 
 situated, being on a steep slope, to carry away the 
 drainage of the town. However, we succeeded in 
 wading on ; and called upon our consular agent, a 
 Jew of the name of Bensheetah, whose acquaintance 
 I had made when passing Arzeilah on my return from 
 
Tangier to Laraiche. 45 
 
 visiting the Sultan at Morocco City with the British 
 Minister. Contrary to most Jewish houses, we found 
 his residence very clean, and it was a pleasure to sit 
 and drink coffee with the handsome old gentleman 
 while we discussed Moorish and European affairs in 
 Spanish, a language I am very slightly acquainted 
 with. However, I succeeded in making him under- 
 stand, though I had to vary my statements, without 
 strict accuracy to truth, to suit my knowledge of the 
 tongue. 
 
 Within the town walls there is little to see but dirt, 
 a not uncommon sight in Morocco ; the smells, too, 
 seemed to affect all our senses at once, so extremely 
 powerful they are. Arzeilah possesses many Jews, 
 who are, as a rule, as dirty here as elsewhere. 
 
 Between the town and our camp, about 150 yards 
 from the main gate is the tomb of a great Moorish 
 saint, and the “ saint-house ” belonging thereto. It 
 is certainly one of the most beautiful “ Marabouts ” 
 in the whole country, and the clustering palms and 
 creepers greatly enhance its appearance. Over or 
 through this luxuriant vegetation peep the little 
 horse-shoe arched door, a milk white dome, and the 
 green-tiled roof. 
 
 We took tea in the open air. The view looking 
 towards the town was very lovely. In the foreground 
 was the saint-house, beyond it the battlements and 
 towers of Arzeilah, a dull grey mauve against the sun- 
 set sky, a perfect harmony of colouring, while the sea 
 gently lapped along the yellow sands. 
 
 A gorgeous moonlight night succeeded a fine, 
 though chilly day. Shortly before dark our sports- 
 men returned, having picked up some three or four 
 
46 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 brace of partridges. Next morning we were off be- 
 times, and leaving our mules to be packed and brought 
 on under the charge of our soldier, we set out a la 
 chasse. A showery day, and the fact that we were 
 not yet far enough away from Tangier, rendered us 
 satisfied to return to camp with only four and a half 
 brace of birds, two pigeons, and a rabbit. Our camp 
 was pitched on the summit of a steep hill overlooking 
 a small lake ; close to our tents were large groves of 
 oranges, in which we sauntered during the evening, 
 stealing the fruit and shooting wood-pigeons. The 
 orange-trees were very large and covered with fruit, 
 though it was too early in the year for them to be 
 really sweet. However, we managed to eat a good 
 many, and suffered accordingly. Next morning I 
 was disgusted on rising to find the rain coming down 
 in torrents, and with every likelihood of its continu- 
 ing to do so all day. 
 
 Our barometers — the Frenchmen — down again, 
 down very low. “ Could we not turn back, this was 
 too awful. Why, it was better in London in fog and 
 snow, than in Morocco with only a tent to cover 
 one’s head, and the rain coming down as if a second 
 flood were about to take place,” &c., &c. But we 
 paid no attention, knowing that this rain was an 
 unusual occurrence, and that it must soon end. 
 
 Carleton had been seedy all along ; he left Tangier 
 unwell, and what with getting very wet shooting and 
 utterly refusing to cover himself sufficiently at night, 
 his cough had increased to such an extent as to make 
 us all exceedingly uneasy. Much against our will 
 he set off for Tangier in the pouring rain the follow- 
 ing morning — a ride which took him some thirteen 
 
47 
 
 Tangier to Laraiche. 
 
 hours. He feared an attack of inflammation of the 
 lungs in the camp, and risked all on this perilous ride. 
 It was not till our arrival in Tangier that we heard 
 how narrow an escape he had had in swimming his 
 horse over the Wad Ghreefa, which was in flood ; or 
 how he reached Tangier some time after dark, half- 
 fainting from fatigue, or how he was confined to his bed 
 for days with congestion. The same time as he swam 
 his horse over the river two Moors trying to swim 
 across were carried out to sea and drowned, and 
 Carleton almost suffered a like fate. Had not his horse 
 been a powerful one and its rider a most perfect 
 horseman, both would have been lost. 
 
 Sunday being fine, we struck camp, and making a 
 tolerably long march of some seven or eight hours on 
 a tiresome path — as we constantly had to deviate 
 from the road on account of torrents and mudholes — 
 pitched our camp half-an-hour before sunset at Sahal- 
 al-Khemis. The road had tired us all out. The ups 
 and downs of the mountain track, through great high 
 brushwood and withered olive-trees, had been very 
 dull and monotonous, nor were we at all happy in 
 our minds about poor Carleton. 
 
 At Sahal we found Captain T. P. and his son 
 encamped — the former laid up with gout. These two 
 instances of illness may tend to frighten sportsmen 
 from the country, but the weather had been so ex- 
 ceptionally bad as easily to account for them. 
 
 Sahal-al-Khemis is a typical Moorish village of the 
 better class, with square mud-huts, for the most part 
 thatched, great hedges of prickly pears and cacti, and 
 storks everywhere. Scarcely a house there was that 
 had not a stork’s nest, commenced already, on its roof, 
 
48 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 while the birds strolled about quite tamely, clacking 
 their beaks as if to say, “No one touches us, we are 
 sacred — so take care.” The Moors never destroy the 
 storks, as the following fable is accepted all through 
 the country concerning them. 
 
 “They are men,” say the Moors, “who have come 
 from islands far away to the west, upon the great 
 ocean, to see Morocco. Like all the world, they 
 know there is no other land to compare to it, so they 
 even abandon their outward form of men to come 
 and see it. We will give them hospitality, we will 
 not harm them.” 
 
 This idea that Morocco is the only country of the 
 world worth anything, is well illustrated by a story told 
 by a French author, a man who knows Morocco well. 
 
 The Sultan, wishing to be like the Sultan of Turkey, 
 gave an order to a French firm to design and manu- 
 facture for him “ Orders.” This was accordingly done, 
 and the Orders arrived. On one side was a drawing 
 of the sun, a circle in the centre, with rays spreading 
 in every direction. On the centre was engraved in 
 Arabic, “ A1 Maghreb,” the native name for Morocco, 
 while each of the deviating rays contained the follow- 
 ing-— London, Paris, Moscow, Stamboul, India, and 
 others. The Moors do not know the European 
 countries except by the names of their capitals. 
 
 This naturally pleased the Sultan, but the design 
 on the other side struck him still more, and must have 
 added much to his knowledge of astronomy and 
 geography, for written in decorative Arabic were the 
 words : 
 
 “ The sun never sets on the Shereefian Empire.” 
 
 The Sultan never made use of these Orders, as he 
 
Tangier to Laraiche . 49 
 
 feared they would call too much attention to his 
 country and create jealousy. 
 
 We pitched our camp on one of my favourite spots 
 in all Morocco, the edge of a precipice overlooking a 
 rich fertile valley and the ocean beyond, while to the 
 north rise wooded mountains of considerable altitude, 
 and rumoured to be full of wild boar. 
 
 The following day G. T. P. joined us in a small 
 shoot over very rough plough. It was hot work, and 
 we found two hours of it enough, killing nine' and a 
 half brace of partridges, one hare, and a pigeon- 
 Near the sea-coast we bade adieu to our friend, who 
 returned to his camp, while we rode on by the sea 
 beach to Laraiche, a large town only some two hours’ 
 ride beyond Sahal. The view as we crossed the sand- 
 hills and caught sight of the town was a particularly 
 pretty one. The winding river, the Koos, rushing in 
 over its foaming bar, while its waters are like glass 
 within, is a river of no mean pretensions, and even at 
 Alazar, some twenty miles up, is no insignificant 
 stream. On the further bank is Laraiche, a rather 
 European-looking town, as the Jews, of whom a large 
 proportion of the community consist, have taken 
 largely to European ways and habits, bar cleanliness. 
 Above the town the river turns sharply to the north, 
 and here lie a few small European sailing-ships. 
 Thence the river changes its course considerably, 
 running in serpentine windings in and out of the low 
 marsh ground. A mile from its mouth, on the north 
 bank, is a high hill, the site of Lixus, while on the 
 south bank are low mountains covered with orange 
 and olive groves, one of the many sites of the Gardens 
 of the Hesperides. 
 
 E 
 
50 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Our mules were awaiting us at the ferry across the 
 river, as were also Montbard and Forestier, who had 
 found it too warm for shooting, but had done good 
 work in their sketch-books. 
 
 We soon had our mules safely conveyed across in 
 barges, and it was not long before our camp was 
 pitched at the top of the town, on a small disagreeably 
 scented piece of ground just outside the south gate. 
 
 What there is to see in Laraiche we spent the 
 following day in seeing, but there is little of any great 
 interest. It is more owing to the situation that 
 Laraiche has the reputation of being a picturesque 
 town, than to any of its buildings or decorations. 
 The Soko within the town walls is certainly pretty, 
 though scarcely oriental, the long colonnades of pil- 
 lars and arches on either side of the square savouring 
 strongly of the Portuguese. At the end of the Sok, 
 however, there is a purely Moorish archway of the 
 usual horseshoe type, in good preservation and of 
 fine workmanship. Passing under this arch, one enters 
 the kasbah, or fortress, in which all the official resi- 
 dences are situated, including the prisons, as gruesome 
 as usual. The gate of Justice is certainly fine, and 
 not unlike that of Tangier. Here we called upon the 
 Governor, a pleasant-spoken old gentleman, though 
 his reputation is not exactly a good one. He is the 
 Bascha of the town, and his rule extends over the 
 whole district of Laraiche, including all the Koos 
 plains and the town of Alcazar, where he is repre- 
 sented by a Calipha. 
 
 The exterior of the fortress is fine, surrounded as 
 it is by a deep moat. The walls are high, and are 
 of solid masonry, the top decorated with small towers, 
 
Tangier to Laraiche. 5 1 
 
 through the buttresses of which peep a few old 
 Portuguese guns. Laraiche has been the scene of 
 many a deadly fight. From century to century it 
 changed hands amongst the Moors, Portuguese, and 
 Spaniards ; from the latter it was captured just two 
 hundred years ago (1629) by Moulai Ismail, one of 
 the greatest and most cruel of Morocco’s Sultans. As 
 late as i860 it was bombarded by the Spaniards in 
 justification of some wrong, and previously, in 1830, 
 it was nearly knocked to pieces by the Austrian 
 fleet. 
 
 But Laraiche has a history far more ancient ; when 
 the Spaniards were still barbarians, the Portuguese 
 still more so, before ever Austria possessed a fleet (!), 
 Laraiche and the country round was a flourishing 
 Carthaginian colony. At Lixus, only about an hour’s 
 ride from the town, on the north bank of the river, 
 one can see great walls they raised, stones sixteen 
 feet in length, four wide and four thick, piled one on 
 the top of the other. But exploration here, on the 
 very small scale that exploration can be carried on 
 amongst these ruins, is much impeded by the density 
 of the vegetation. On this visit to Laraiche I did 
 not have an opportunity of visiting Lixus, but I had 
 spent some hours there on a previous occasion. We 
 grovelled about in the earth a little, and found some 
 small pieces of mosaic and a little stucco fresco-work, 
 on which the colours were still in brilliant preserva- 
 tion. Doubtless were one able to overcome the 
 prejudice of the native officials and obtain permission 
 to dig, many interesting remains would come to light. 
 
 The ruins consist for the most part of walls, though 
 here and there the remains of a forum or temple can 
 
 E 2 
 
5 2 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 be traced. As I said, however, the place is too over- 
 grown with brushwood to allow one to gain any clear 
 idea as to the extent of the remains. 
 
 The steep streets of Laraiche with their uninterest- 
 ing semi-European buildings, and filthy smells, do 
 not tempt one to remain, so that we only stayed one 
 day, long enough to have some of our mules reshod 
 and a panier or two mended. One incident happened 
 the day after our arrival there. One of our men— 
 Ingram’s gun -bearer — succeeded in abstracting the 
 silver end off Ingram’s walking-stick, and selling it to 
 a Moorish woman for half a peseta (4^.). 
 
 Proofs were clear against him. He had been seen 
 stealing and also selling it. At first we thought of 
 taking him before the Bascha, but we could not 
 harden our hearts sufficiently to let him lie for an 
 indefinite period in the filthy prison. I therefore took 
 from him what money he had, which had been 
 advanced to him on leaving Tangier, and his new 
 brown jelab in part payment thereof, and gave him 
 five minutes to get out of sight, telling him if he had 
 not disappeared by then, I would take a shot at him 
 with my pistol. In five seconds he was gone. I 
 replaced him by a brawny nigger who had been loaf- 
 ing about the camp, and whose services I afterwards 
 dispensed with at Fez, as he did not hit it off with 
 my other men. Ingram and the others, to whom 
 Arabic names were rather a mouthful, had by this 
 time nicknamed all our men. Very naturally our 
 nigger passed as “ Sambo ; ” while Gil Ali, a fine 
 strapping Moor, a servant of Carleton’s, was called 
 “Jubilee;” Selim, my own man, Fondak, on ac- 
 count of some trouble he' had given Ingram 
 
53 
 
 Tangier to Laraiche. 
 
 and myself, some two years before, at the Fon- 
 dak, or Caravanserai, half way between Tangier and 
 Tetuan. Abdurrahman, a handsome young Moor, of 
 most gentlemanly habits, and features of pure Roman 
 type, went by the name of Caesar. He was a charm- 
 ing youth, and the most satisfactory man I have ever 
 had to do with, working always with a will, and ready 
 to do anything to please one. I took him later on 
 to YVozan, on my second tour in the interior this year, 
 and found him as good as ever. One elderly man we 
 had with us possessed only one eye, and accordingly 
 went by the name of Cyclops, while another was 
 called Sindbad. They soon got to know their nick- 
 names, and called each other by them, though some 
 got strangely muddled in their pronunciation, Caesar 
 becoming “ Seissors ” and Sindbad “ Shinbaek.” 
 
 On January 15th we left Laraiche for Mequinez. 
 
54 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LARAICHE TO MEQUINEZ. 
 
 We left Laraiche on January 15th. It was the first 
 really hot day we had yet experienced and the 
 
 “ barometers” were up accordingly. The sun streamed 
 down upon us and seemed to thaw the cold in our 
 bones, the result of a week’s wet. I know no feeling 
 
55 
 
 Laraiche to Meqztinez. 
 
 more exhilarating than to ride under a warm sun 
 after suffering from cold — one can almost feel the 
 warmth forcing its way into one’s inside and warming 
 the very “ cockles of one’s heart,” though I believe it 
 puzzles anatomists to fix the exact location of that 
 portion of the organ. About an hour after leaving 
 Laraiche we entered a grand forest of cork and wild 
 olive-trees, which here reach a great altitude. The 
 scene was lovely, the branches overhead sufficing to 
 keep off the almost too powerful rays of the midday 
 sun, which pierced, however, the thick foliage here 
 and there, shedding slanting lines of brilliant light 
 on to the green sward. Every now and then the 
 forest opens up into delightful glades, where were feed- 
 ing cattle, while on every side gambolled and danced 
 the lambs and kids — and the soft notes of the shep- 
 herd boy’s pipe and the rich song of the birds added 
 to the perfect enjoyment of the pastoral scene. But 
 this forest has also a darker side, as it is said to be 
 infested with robbers, who plunder the small caravans 
 as they carry their merchandise to and from the 
 coast. We spent an hour or so shooting in these 
 woods, and got a few brace of partridges. 
 
 We pitched our camp before sunset some way on 
 the further side of the forest at a minute village called 
 Ein-Buileh-Sidi-Muhktar. The long name I suppose 
 was to add to the importance of a few mud and 
 thatch huts and a “ ghima ” or two — the brown canvas 
 tents of the Arabs proper. This was the first en- 
 campment of “ ghimas ” we had come across, and 
 clearly told us that we had said good-bye to the 
 hills and were entering the plains, where the wander- 
 ing Bedouins have their abode. 
 
 These tent villages are usually pitched in a circle, 
 
56 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 each tent touching its neighbour, so that there is no 
 way into the circle except by the one entrance, closed 
 at night by a high stack of brambles. Into these 
 villages at night the flocks and herds are driven, as 
 raids by other Bedouins are not uncommon. 
 
 A wonderful life these Bedouins live, wandering 
 from place to place, a month here, a year there, a week 
 somewhere else. Passing their days as their ancestors 
 passed it when Rebecca was found at the well, simply 
 pastoral, simply poetical, simply filthy. O dirt, what 
 would artists do without thee ? What an addition thou 
 art to the picturesque ! Wash the Bedouin lady, undo 
 the tangles of her hair, give her clean clothes and a 
 dress improver, and all her beauty is gone. It is one 
 of the most poetical sights in the world an Arab 
 “ duar ” at nightfall. The sun has set, yet the Eastern 
 sky is a blaze of crimson and silver with the after- 
 glow. Slowly winding their way from the well are 
 the women and girls, bearing on their heads their 
 heavy pitchers. Over the hill-top come the lowing kine 
 and the bleating herds, driven by little boys who dance 
 along to the music of their reed pipes, not shrill and 
 harsh, but with soft, low-sounding strains. From the 
 “ghimas ” can be heard the sound of the corn-mill as 
 the women sit and turn with never-ceasing arm the 
 heavy stone, while here and there from the encamp- 
 ment a thin coil of blue smoke ascends pillar-like into 
 the breathless air. Glorious must be the life of a 
 Bedouin. 
 
 The Skeikh of Ein-Buileh-Sidi-Mukhtar called on 
 us, bringing a present of some milk and two chickens. 
 We found him most pleasant, but like most Moorish 
 visitors he stayed too long, and all our plots and plans 
 
Lav aic he to M equine 2. 5 7 
 
 to dislodge him failed, so that at last I had to tell 
 him that we wished to go to bed. 
 
 The next day witnessed one of those changes of 
 temperatures one sometimes — often even — experi- 
 ences in Morocco, and was bitterly cold. The road 
 was a dreary, treeless one, over great prairies, with 
 nothing to relieve the monotony, but marshes, a few 
 duars, and rain. It rained in torrents, but we decided 
 to push on. Wc had already been detained long 
 enough on the road, and now braved Providence and 
 refused to give in to her, shaking our fists in her 
 face. 
 
 Early in the afternoon we pitched our camp in a 
 highly picturesque village on the left of the road, the 
 name of which I was unable to discover, as none of 
 the natives I inquired of knew it. However, it is a 
 place of some importance, and possesses the shrine of 
 a very holy man — a white-domed saint-house, with a 
 mosque adjoining. One by one our men, as we passed 
 in the pouring rain, reverently knelt and kissed the 
 doorstep or lintel of the tomb, calling blessings from 
 above on the head of the dear departed. 
 
 The saint business is a grand thing in Morocco. 
 When every other business has failed a man usually 
 takes to being a saint, and as all Moors are brought 
 up with the most extraordinary ideas as to honesty 
 and morals, they generally succeed in gaining an 
 average fortune in the “saint line.” 
 
 Saints are seen everywhere. Often distinguished 
 by peculiarities of dress, generally by the fact that 
 they carry battle-axes, and always by the re- 
 verence they obtain from their fellow-men, they are 
 easily distinguishable. Every visitor to Tangier will 
 
58 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 have noticed an old gentleman with long grey 
 hair and beard, a pale blue cloak and a breast 
 covered with such charms as tin match-boxes and 
 tooth-combs. He is a great saint ; and the goodwill 
 of his business would be well worth purchasing. He 
 was, so it is said, a tolerably respectable man, but 
 one day for amusement he killed his wife, for which 
 he was hamstrung. Finding himself incapable of 
 work, he promptly and wisely took to the saint busi- 
 ness, and is now a rising star in that profession. 
 
 Towards evening it cleared up, and the setting 
 sun dried our tents. A big bonfire blazed till late 
 at night in camp, and many were the ghost stories 
 we were told by our men, or told ourselves. Arabic 
 is a wonderful language for story-telling — powerful 
 in the extreme. One story I told my men — half 
 founded on a tradition of the Moors and half invented 
 in my imagination — caused an unexpected move on 
 the part of Selim. 
 
 I told them that once camping with Aleck Bereus 
 near Alcazar Sorehr in the Anjera, close to a spot 
 called the Haunted Ford I had seen a ghost. 
 
 This is what I told them. 
 
 “ The Haunted Ford. 
 
 “ Not long ago Bereus and myself were encamped 
 in Anjera. We had pitched our tents on the steep 
 bank of a fast-flowing river under the shade of some 
 lofty olive-trees, for, although it was early in the 
 year, the sun was powerful. On the evening of 
 which I am speaking the sun had set stormily, and 
 the moon’s rays could only now and again pierce the 
 filmy clouds that appeared to be running races in 
 
59 
 
 L arctic he to M equine s. 
 
 the sky. My friend and myself were seated in front 
 of our camp fire, and were just thinking of turning in, 
 when a ghostlike voice, proceeding from the wood 
 behind us, said in Arabic, ‘ Who dares to pitch his 
 tent at the haunted ford ? ’ Thinking that this might 
 be some trick to call our attention away — for the place 
 was infested with robbers — we stuck to our posts, 
 merely drawing our revolvers. The voice repeated 
 its words for a second time, and then there issued 
 from the wood into the full glare of our camp fire 
 the strangest figure I have ever yet set my eyes on. 
 An old man, nearly bent double with long grey tan- 
 gled locks hanging wildly over his haggard, sallow face, 
 scantilyclad in a torn' jelaba,’ and bearing a battle-axe. 
 But the strangest feature of all were his eyes — black 
 fiery eyes that never stood still, but gazed every 
 moment in some new direction. I instantly recog- 
 nized that we had nothing to fear from our aged 
 friend— and that he was only one of the mad shereefs 1 
 — who wander over the country begging their way 
 — and reverenced on account of their madness. 
 
 “ ‘ Who dares pitch their camp at the haunted ford ? ’ 
 he said again. 
 
 “ ‘ I do,’ I answered. 
 
 “ He turned quickly towards me — gazed at me for 
 a moment and said, ‘ You speak Arabic ? ’ 
 
 “‘Yes,’ I responded, then added, ‘Sit down by 
 our fire and warm yourself, and we will give you 
 something to eat.’ 
 
 “‘ I will sit down,’ he said, ‘ but I cannot eat at the 
 haunted ford.’ 
 
 1 A man who is “ hamak ” or “ silly ” obtains much re- 
 verence in Morocco, as in the East. 
 
60 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “ He sat down by the fire and stretched his bony 
 hands over the sparkling embers. Suddenly a thought 
 struck me. 
 
 “‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘the story of the haunted 
 ford.’ 
 
 “ He got up and changed his position — seating him- 
 self opposite to us on the further side of the fire, so 
 that every detail of his face and person was illu- 
 minated ; and a strange creature he was. As he 
 looked half starved I again pressed him to eat. 
 
 He dies,’ he mumbled— half to himself, ‘he dies 
 who eats at the haunted ford,’ but in spite of this he 
 ate some bread, mumbling the while, ‘ I shall die for 
 it. He dies who eats at the haunted ford. I shall 
 die for it.’ 
 
 “ Then he began his tale, in strange poetical lan- 
 guage such as all the Arabs use when narrating their 
 weird stories : — 
 
 “ ‘ Two hundred years ago, on the very spot where 
 your camp is now pitched, was fought a great battle, 
 and many were the slain and many the wounded ; for 
 a portion of the Sultan’s army, with the Sultan’s 
 brother, Sidi Mahammed al Fileli at the head — was 
 attacked by the mountaineers. Now the Sultan’s 
 brother fought like one of the royal line, and here, 
 there, and everywhere in the fray could be seen his 
 great white horse charging to and fro while every 
 blow the Prince dealt was a blow of death. But the 
 mountaineers were too many, and all the Sultan’s 
 army were slain and the Sultan’s brother himself was 
 taken prisoner. 
 
 “ When evening came on and the mountaineers were 
 singing and shouting their songs of victory, they led 
 
Laraiche to Mequinez. 61 
 
 out their prisoner into their midst and just where 
 your tent is now pitched they beheaded him. No 
 sooner was his head severed from his body than his 
 horse broke loose from its tethering rope and dashed 
 into the circle of mountaineers. Then from the pool 
 of blood arose the body of the Prince, and lifting on 
 high in his right hand his head, mounted his horse 
 and galloped away up the bed of the river, while 
 the mountaineers ’ — he stopped suddenly. He was 
 bending forward over the camp-fire till the flames 
 almost licked his dishevelled grey locks. 
 
 “ ‘ Continue,’ I said. 
 
 “ ‘ Listen !’ he shrieked, ‘ listen ! ’ 
 
 It is only the rain,’ I said, for I heard a splash, 
 splash, splash down the river — but it was not the 
 rain. 
 
 “ Suddenly there was a flash of lightning, then a 
 crash of thunder echoed and re-echoed a thousand 
 times on the mountain-tops — then there was silence 
 again. 
 
 “ Splash, splash, splash in the river ; louder and 
 louder the wind howled in the trees. With one 
 accord we turned to the river tearing its wild course 
 along below us. Again a flash of lightning, for a 
 moment the flash quivered in the air, then died away, 
 — but we had seen enough, for by the momentary 
 flash there was revealed to us, a white horse tearing 
 past at full gallop over the rushing stream ; on the 
 horse was seated a Moor — headless, his haik and 
 jelaba stained crimson with blood, while high above 
 his severed neck in his right hand he bore — his 
 head. 
 
 “ For a moment my senses left me, then a sickly 
 
6 2 The Land of an African Sultan . 
 
 smell of burning brought me to myself. I looked at 
 the old shereef; he had fallen into the fire dead, 
 struck down by the last flash of lightning. 
 
 “ Before daylight we had left the horrible spot, and 
 were well on our road homewards.” 
 
 I finished my tale half, as I said, from imagination, 
 half from an old fable. The men had listened in 
 breathless silence. 
 
 “ Is it true ? ” one of them asked. 
 
 Before I had time to say anything, Selim had given 
 the answer : 
 
 “Yes,” he said, “it is true.” 
 
 “ How do you know ? ” asked one. 
 
 “Because I was there and saw it all,” responded 
 Selim. 
 
 I was staggered. I had exaggerated averagely in 
 my tale, and was rather proud of the effect it had 
 produced upon the men, but Selim’s ready lie took 
 my breath away. 
 
 The night was gloriously fine, the moon being par- 
 ticularly bright, and our evening of ghosts, of hidden 
 treasures, of djins and fairies, passed most pleasantly. 
 When I “ turned in ” the moon was sinking to rest, 
 but her soft cool beams still fell over the plain around 
 us, till every marsh and every puddle looked like 
 plates of beaten silver. 
 
 We pushed on the following day. The weather 
 was bright but cold. I held a consultation with our 
 men in the morning, which resulted in our deciding 
 to abandon the direct route to Mequinez on account 
 of the late rains and present mud, and by taking a 
 course over the low hills to strike the high road 
 between Alcazar and Mequinez, near R’hmus. Our 
 
Laraiche to M equine 2. 63 
 
 change turned out well, and we found but little mud 
 as far as R’hmus, though a great deal afterwards, 
 between there and the Sebou plains. 
 
 We were not able to reach Hurbasseh, as I had 
 hoped, that night, but after a long ride we pitched 
 our tents near the tomb of Sidi-Aissa-beni-Hassan, 
 at a village of the same name. It is situated just on 
 the borders of the plains formed by the river Sebu, 
 an immense prairie, dotted with Bedouin encamp- 
 ments, and exceedingly fertile, the soil being im- 
 mensely rich. The village itself is a picturesque 
 little place on the side of a steep hill overlooking the 
 plains, which stretch almost as far as the eye can see 
 in every direction. It was a decidedly more lively 
 camp than our last in every respect, as we were now 
 on the caravan road, and our camp was surrounded 
 by camels, mules, donkeys, Arabs, and fleas. The 
 four former kept to themselves, but the latter came 
 early and stayed all night. 
 
 The camels kept up their “bubbling” all through 
 the night. It is a horrid sound and sight. The 
 noise can only be compared with crossing the channel 
 on a rough day with many sea-sick passengers around 
 one ; while the sight is worse, as the camel, apparently 
 for no reason, protrudes a large portion of its stomach 
 — like an inflated bladder — from its mouth, and 
 swallows it again with apparent difficulty. 
 
 We witnessed an example of Moorish law being 
 administered here. The Sheikh of the village had 
 sent a man, as is customary, from his village to guard 
 our camp during the night. This was a precaution 
 always taken by the head of the villages ; the fact 
 that a soldier accompanied our caravan, made him 
 
64 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 liable for any harm that might befall us. The man 
 refused compliance with his chief’s commands, as he 
 said it was too cold. Being hard pressed, he drew his 
 dagger. In a moment he was seized and thrown to 
 the ground, while the Mokaddam of the village and 
 our soldier — Hadj Hamed — lay into him with knotted 
 straps till their victim yelled with pain. 
 
 I did not think it necessary to interfere, as the 
 matter had nothing to do with me, and I try and push 
 my nose as little into Moorish affairs as I can, except 
 where I am directly interested. Though the flogging 
 he got was of a severe kind, and the term of imprison- 
 ment he entered upon the following day a period that 
 might extend over any length of time from a week to 
 a year, yet his punishment cannot be compared to 
 what he would have got in England for the same 
 offence, i.e. drawing his knife on his superior officer, 
 with evident intent to murder. Once or twice I was 
 tempted to interfere in such affairs, and have several 
 times been successful, by petitioning a Kaid or Sheikh 
 to get a man out of prison. Once already on this 
 journey, between Arzeilah and Laraiche, we had sud- 
 denly found the door of our tent surrounded by some 
 dozen Moors leading a sheep, which, before one could 
 say a word, had been sacrificed. After a sacrifice of 
 this kind, it would be a “ hashuma ” — a word we have 
 no translation for, except, perhaps, to invent an oppo- 
 site to “ comme il faut ” — to refuse to listen to their 
 petition, and to press it, together with a small bribe — 
 which, generally, does not need much pressing — upon 
 the Kaid or Sheikh. 
 
 The man in question had been imprisoned for 
 some trivial offence, which, probably, he never 
 
Laraiche to Mequinez. 65 
 
 committed, and we were successful in gaining his 
 release. 
 
 About two hours after leaving Sidi Aissa, the 
 following day, we passed through the little town of 
 Hurbasseh, which stands on a slight elevation — the 
 only one — in the Sebou plains. There is nothing to 
 see there, nor on a former occasion did I find the 
 Kaid particularly pleasant. 
 
 An hour and a half later we reached the river 
 Sebou, a stream of some size ; one of the largest, in 
 fact, in Morocco. 
 
 It is a sluggish, muddy river, not unlike the Nile 
 at parts, flowing between steep clayey banks.. The 
 passage of this river is one of the things in Morocco 
 most liable to try one’s temper, as all the beasts have 
 to be unpacked, and pack-saddles and animals ferried 
 across in clumsy great rafts. On this occasion we 
 spent three hours and a half over the crossing, during 
 most of which time I stood on the further bank, 
 waved my gun, and shouting the most horrible 
 language in Arabic at the boatmen on the other side, 
 all to no avail, for not a word could they hear, as the 
 river is over a quarter of a mile across, and the wind 
 was blowing from them to me. I tried to- make them 
 understand that our animals were to cross first,, and 
 that the various caravans waiting to be ferried across 
 must come afterwards. I had engaged all the boats 
 for our passage, and therefore naturally was annoyed 
 to see camels and various beasts of burden being 
 shipped while ours were kept waiting. Finally, I 
 made them understand by sending a man back across 
 the river with a message that I would shoot the first 
 animal that did not belong to us that I saw enter a 
 
66 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 boat. My man crossed, and as I saw him deliver the 
 message I raised my 20-bore shot-gun to my shoulder 
 with threatening attitude. They did not know how 
 useless a shot-gun would be at that distance, but the 
 desired effect was accomplished, and the camels were 
 speedily withdrawn from the boats. However, the 
 passage was a novelty to the artists, who sat on the 
 bank and sketched while I swore. Three hours and 
 a half of swearing did not put me in the best of tem- 
 pers, especially as Arabic swearing is difficult, the 
 pronunciation of some of their antediluvian words 
 being impossible. I call them antediluvian words, 
 because they are as far removed from our ideas of 
 language as the animals of “ pre-floodite ” times are 
 from the beasts of toMay. 
 
 It was night when we pitched our camp in a small 
 Arab duar, and confusion reigned supreme accordingly 
 till a late hour. At length things got sorted, or sorted 
 themselves, and we settled in comfortably for the 
 night. The dogs of the village barked at the moon, 
 or because there was no moon, or at nothing — I did 
 not ask them which— the livelong night. One barked, 
 then another, then a chorus, finally there was silence 
 in camp for the space of — -a minute, then a miserable 
 puppy — may it never rise to years of discretion — 
 yelped, and all set off again. We found, next morn- 
 ing, the reason of their proximity to our camp ; we 
 had planted our tents quite close to the decomposing 
 carcase of a some ten-day-dead mule, whose highly 
 flavoured and scented inside formed the dinner, sup- 
 per, and breakfast combined of the canine tribe. The 
 wind changed in the morning, so we made the dis- 
 covery quite early. There was no need to go outside 
 
67 
 
 L arctic he to Mequinez. 
 
 and look. Oh, no ; that mule had a knack of making 
 his presence felt within the tents, without troubling 
 us to come out. The Moors never clear away the 
 dead beasts from, around their villages. Even at 
 Tangier, only just outside the gates, I have seen dead 
 horses, oxen, mules, and camels left to rot in the most 
 casual way imaginable. One gets used to it in time, 
 however. 
 
 We camped at Sidi Cassim the following night, a 
 village of importance on account of the size, and from 
 the fact that it is the residence of the Kaid of the 
 neighbouring district — a very large one. The road 
 between our dog-and-dead-mule village and Sidi 
 Cassim is a dull level one, which gave my fiery black 
 horse an ample opportunity of showing his temper, 
 and me also, for I spent my day in galloping and 
 thrashing him, while he spent his in galloping and 
 bucking. However, it was one of the last tussles we 
 had, and I fancy he learnt then that I was to be the 
 master. 
 
 At Sidi Cassini the Calipha, the second in com- 
 mand, called, and I renewed the acquaintance of two 
 years before. So few Christians do these Moors see 
 in the interior, that though I only spent one night 
 there exactly two years before, he recognized me at 
 once and welcomed me as an old friend. 
 
 The Kaid insisted on supplying us with all our 
 wants ; food for ourselves, and for our horses and 
 mules barley in abundance. He very kindly presented 
 me with a fine Moorish greyhound, which, though 
 not to compare with our prize-bred dogs in England, 
 yet do very well in Morocco. 
 
 The Kaid himself called, mounted on a large grey 
 I*' 2 
 
70 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 ruins; two archways, each of great size, and in mode- 
 rately good preservation, alone tell of the grandeur of 
 the old city, while acres and acres of land are strewn 
 with monuments and broken sculpture. A few 
 isolated pillars also remain, and an immense drain or 
 aqueduct, not unlike the Cloaca Maxima at Rome, 
 opens on to the little river below. We spent an hour or 
 two crawling over the huge stones and trying in our 
 mind’s eye to picture the old place as it once must 
 have been, a minute Rome in the midst of a barbarian 
 country. Above the ruins on the steep brow of the 
 hill, at the summit of a precipice, is situated the town 
 of Moulai Idrees, called after the same great saint as 
 founded Fez. It is one of the most sacred towns in 
 Morocco, and therefore very strictly forbidden to 
 Christians. The town is one of some size, with steep, 
 hilly streets. There is not much to see within it 
 except the shrine of Moulai Idrees, father of the one 
 buried at Fez, which is most gorgeously decorated, 
 and ranks as a “ first-water ” shrine all through the 
 country. The little city has a most romantic situa- 
 tion, as it is built at a great height and on a very 
 steep slope, rising to a point at the top, while all 
 around are olive and cork forests and precipices. It 
 is a great place for pilgrimages, and I was surprised 
 that none of our men took advantage of being in the 
 neighbourhood to visit it. All they did was to mutter 
 a few prayers as they first saw the town, and a few 
 more when it was hid to sight behind a brow of a 
 hill. 
 
 The Moors call the ruins of Volubilis — as they do 
 most things of great antiquity — Pharaoh’s castle, 
 though, on asking who Pharaoh was, I could obtain 
 
Laraiche to Mequinez. 71 
 
 no answer beyond that he lived a long time ago, and 
 was probably a great man, and a Christian ! 
 
 About mid-day we mounted our animals and set 
 off for Mequinez. Finding it would very probably 
 be dark before we arrived, Ingram and I decided to 
 ride on with our soldier and procure a house from the 
 Governor, to whom we bore a letter of introduction 
 from Si Torres, the Moorish Minister of Foreign 
 Affairs, resident at Tangier. However, our soldier 
 utterly refused to ride on with us, the excuse being 
 that his horse could not stand fatigue. I therefore 
 took the matter into my own hands, and Ingram and 
 I rode on without him, a very unusual and scarcely 
 to be recommended plan. As we crossed the ridge 
 of hills a wonderful view opened before us. A steep 
 rocky decline led to the plains below, which stretched 
 far away in every direction. Beyond to the south 
 rose a range of low mountains, their tops speckled 
 with snow, while more to the east glistened in the 
 sunlight the snow peaks of the northernmost portion 
 of the great Atlas range. Though the name of Atlas 
 has been bestowed upon some of the south Algerian 
 mountains, it has been done so without any cause, 
 as the Atlas proper are an isolated range, and not in 
 any way connected with the mountains of North 
 Morocco or the Algerian ranges. 
 
 On the plains below us, surrounded by groves of 
 olives, lay the great town of Mequinez, spread out as 
 in a panorama, with its mosques stretching towards 
 heaven their minarets of green and gold. We saw 
 that a long ride lay before us yet, so we pushed our 
 horses on at a good pace. The country surrounding 
 Mequinez is well known for its fanaticism, and our 
 
70 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 ruins ; two archways, each of great size, and in mode- 
 rately good preservation, alone tell of the grandeur of 
 the old city, while acres and acres of land are strewn 
 with monuments and broken sculpture. A few 
 isolated pillars also remain, and an immense drain or 
 aqueduct, not unlike the Cloaca Maxima at Rome, 
 opens on to the little river below. We spent an hour or 
 two crawling over the huge stones and trying in our 
 mind’s eye to picture the old place as it once must 
 have been, a minute Rome in the midst of a barbarian 
 country. Above the ruins on the steep brow of the 
 hill, at the summit of a precipice, is situated the town 
 of Moulai Idrees, called after the same great saint as 
 founded Fez. It is one of the most sacred towns in 
 Morocco, and therefore very strictly forbidden to 
 Christians. The town is one of some size, with steep, 
 hilly streets. There is not much to see within it 
 except the shrine of Moulai Idrees, father of the one 
 buried at Fez, which is most gorgeously decorated, 
 and ranks as a “ first-water ” shrine all through the 
 country. The little city has a most romantic situa- 
 tion, as it is built at a great height and on a very 
 steep slope, rising to a point at the top, while all 
 around are olive and cork forests and precipices. It 
 is a great place for pilgrimages, and I was surprised 
 that none of our men took advantage of being in the 
 neighbourhood to visit it. All they did was to mutter 
 a few prayers as they first saw the town, and a few 
 more when it was hid to sight behind a brow of a 
 hill. 
 
 The Moors call the ruins of Volubilis — as they do 
 most things of great antiquity — Pharaoh’s castle, 
 though, on asking who Pharaoh was, I could obtain 
 
Lar niche to Mequinez. 71 
 
 no answer beyond that he lived a long time ago, and 
 was probably a great man, and a Christian ! 
 
 About mid-day we mounted our animals and set 
 off for Mequinez. Finding it would very probably 
 be dark before we arrived, Ingram and I decided to 
 ride on with our soldier and procure a house from the 
 Governor, to whom we bore a letter of introduction 
 from Si Torres, the Moorish Minister of Foreign 
 Affairs, resident at Tangier. However, our soldier 
 utterly refused to ride on with us, the excuse being 
 that his horse could not stand fatigue. I therefore 
 took the matter into my own hands, and Ingram and 
 I rode on without him, a very unusual and scarcely 
 to be recommended plan. As we crossed the ridge 
 of hills a wonderful view opened before us. A steep 
 rocky decline led to the plains below, which stretched 
 far away in every direction. Beyond to the south 
 rose a range of low mountains, their tops speckled 
 with snow, while more to the east glistened in the 
 sunlight the snow peaks of the northernmost portion 
 of the great Atlas range. Though the name of Atlas 
 has been bestowed upon some of the south Algerian 
 mountains, it has been done so without any cause, 
 as the Atlas proper are an isolated range, and not in 
 any way connected with the mountains of North 
 Morocco or the Algerian ranges. 
 
 On the plains below us, surrounded by groves of 
 olives, lay the great town of Mequinez, spread out as 
 in a panorama, with its mosques stretching towards 
 heaven their minarets of green and gold. We saw 
 that a long ride lay before us yet, so we pushed our 
 horses on at a good pace. The country surrounding 
 Mequinez is well known for its fanaticism, and our 
 
72 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 pushing on in this way was not an over-safe plan, 
 though all the natives who met us on the road 
 responded to my salutation cordially, and laughed 
 when I answered their inquiries as to the whereabouts 
 of our soldier, and on my telling them how he 
 refused to push on, so we had come without him. 
 Many asked me if I had a revolver, which of course I 
 had, and slung too in a very prominent position. 
 
 While crossing a small river I chanced to turn my 
 head, and caught a glimpse of Hadj Hamed pushing 
 his old chestnut, with an expression on his wicked 
 old countenance of perfect devilment. We pushed 
 on accordingly, but finally allowed him, cursing and 
 grumbling, to overtake us. A queer old figure he 
 was too, that soldier of ours, with his great turban 
 of white linen and terra-cotta coloured suit, almost 
 hidden in the folds of his graceful new white sulham 
 and his disgraceful old blue one, which had almost 
 lost any traces of colour it might once have possessed. 
 His crimson peaked saddle too was not in the 
 best condition, though much of its antiquity and 
 “ minuses ” were covered by a prayer carpet, which, 
 I must say, I never saw used for its proper purpose, 
 though the old boy was rather fond of praying when 
 he had a sufficiently large audience. 
 
 His temper soon pacified down, and he began 
 telling marvellous stories of the game in the neigh- 
 bourhood, of the Sultan’s army, and of his own im- 
 portance. One remark on cooking — for he was a 
 gourmand — is worth repeating. ,l There is only,” he 
 said, “ one kind of game worth eating in Morocco — 
 wild cat. Its taste is as the taste of all other varieties 
 of game mixed. When once you have tasted wild 
 cat, never will you eat anything again with pleasure.” 
 
Lav aiche to Mequinez. 
 
 *1 'l 
 
 7 o 
 
 Probably not, I should think it is enough to poiscn 
 most people, but I dared not say so. I merely 
 proposed in a weak voice that I preferred owl stewed 
 with mustard and sand. He said that ought to be 
 good too, but he had never tried it. 
 
 An hour or so later we approached Mequinez by a 
 richly wooded park-like valley, full of gardens and 
 ruins. Crossing a bridge of some beauty and great 
 size, which was, however, fast falling into disrepair, 
 we ascended through more gardens, a steep hill, 
 passed the lovely saint-house of Sidi Ali ben Ham- 
 douch and fountain pertaining thereto, and found 
 ourselves face to face with one of the glories of 
 Mequinez, the north gate. 
 
 I will not describe here what lies within or about 
 the town, I will leave that for the next chapter. 
 
 We rode to. the gate of the Bascha, or governor’s 
 house, where our soldier presented our letter. Mean- 
 while, Ingram and I waited without, a small crowd 
 collecting round us. They seemed utterly uncon- 
 scious that I understood a word c f their language, 
 and their remarks were often more personal than 
 polite, some even venturing to call down curses on 
 our unoffending heads. Our black retriever excited 
 much curiosity, which gradually grew into a party 
 dispute, one section asserting he was a dog, the other 
 that he was a black sheep. Christians are a rare sight 
 in Mequinez ; thus the attention we excited. A good 
 kick from my horse dispersed the crowd, and a 
 moment later our sold er arrived with some of the 
 Bascha’s people to escort us to our house. This 
 lending of a house during the stay of Europeans in 
 the larger towns is not so much a compliment as a 
 safeguard for the Bascha, who is responsible for any 
 
74 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 harm that may befall one during one’s residence in 
 his town. Our house was already inhabited, but the 
 Bascha’s soldiers made quick work in bundling the 
 inhabitants out, who dragged their furniture with 
 them as fast as they could. Men, women, and 
 children, beds, and cooking-materials, saucepans and 
 kettles, stoves and tables and rugs streamed out of 
 that house for upwards of half an hour. They 
 removed to next door, which belonged apparently to 
 the same owner. They seemed quite annoyed at 
 having so hurried a notice to quit, but were quite 
 pleasant to us. 
 
 We found the house large, roomy, damp, and 
 smelly, but very picturesque, some of the wood 
 carving of the “ patio ” being of very fine workman- 
 ship, while the balustrade of the balcony of the upper 
 storey was of old “ musheribeyeh ” work. A fountain 
 too of rich tile-work enhanced the scene and the 
 smell, as it seemed to have served for drains as well. 
 We had the house well washed down, and bought 
 charcoal-pans, which we placed in the various rooms, 
 furnishing them with our camp furniture, and really 
 we were very comfortable all our stay. 
 
 We had been a fortnight reaching Mequinez, a 
 distance of not much over a hundred and thirty miles 
 by the main road, but we had come a long way 
 round and been much impeded by rain and mud on 
 the road ; nor had we hurried, as we were in search 
 of sport and pleasure, and not hard up for time. The 
 weather the first week had been very bad, but the 
 second week was glorious, almost too warm to be 
 pleasant in the mid-days, but frosty at night. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CITY OF MEQUINEZ AND THE JOURNEY 
 THENCE TO FEZ. 
 
 “ Ah Sidi Ali ben Hamdouch, ah Sidi ben Aissa, 
 Assalamkum.” 1 We are in Mequinez, installed in our 
 house. The fountain bubbles in the court, night 
 comes on, the clouds come over, the rain comes 
 down, the water comes in, and the smells come up. 
 Such is our house at Mequinez. Oh ! inhabitants of 
 civilized countries who till your houses with rich 
 treasures of the East, how far you fall short of true 
 reality! Not till you have totally done away with 
 drains, except as a means for the entrance of rats and 
 smells, not till you have taken out your glass and 
 put in musheribeyeh work, through which rain trickles 
 delightfully, not till you have paved your floors with 
 slippery tiles and built your staircase one foot wide 
 with no windows and your ceilings of blotting paper, 
 not till you allow rack and ruin to reign supreme on 
 every side, will you realize the glorious pleasure of 
 residing in an Eastern house. But we forget our 
 discomforts, we are in Mequinez, in one of the most 
 sacred and one of the most fanatical cities in the 
 whole country, surrounded by the wild tribes of the 
 
 1 Patron saints of Mequinez. 
 
76 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Zarounis and Zimmouris, the city of the ferocious 
 sects of the Hamdouchis and the Aissouis. How- 
 ever, no ill befalls the stranger, here as elsewhere the 
 Moor has resigned himself to the presence of Chris- 
 
 A Corner in Mequinez. 
 
 tians, though of course none are allowed to reside 
 for any period. 
 
 A wonderful old city Mequinez is, bearing in 
 every street, in every corner, the impress of its 
 former grandeur and its present ruin— a city of the 
 dead. Trade has fallen away, and unless the Court 
 
The City of Mequinez, and Journey to Fez. 77 
 
 be in residence, one can walk through the long 
 narrow bazaars with their wooden roofs, and pass 
 scarcely a soul. Typical of the whole Empire — a 
 grand, a very grand ruin, held up merely by props, 
 the jealousy of foreign countries and the now vanish- 
 ing reputation of former power. Yet Mequinez 
 possesses some of the finest remains that exist in the 
 whole country — notably the northern gate of the 
 city, the gates of the Kasbah, and the immense 
 blocks of masonry that alone remain to tell of the 
 magnificence and size of the palaces of Moulai 
 Ismael and Moulai S’liman. From the day we 
 arrived in Mequinez to the day we left we never 
 seemed to lose the extraordinary feeling of depres- 
 sion that must come once over any one who visits 
 the town — provided the Court is not in residence, 
 when things may be gayer. Otherwise, as I said, 
 Mequinez is a city of the dead, half the shops are 
 empty or crumbling away, the mosques fail to draw 
 full houses, and there is a look of despair written in 
 every face. We spent several days there. I took 
 our artists all round the town, pointing out its beau- 
 ties and its curiosities. Like all who visit Mequinez, 
 they were most pleased with the gates, which are, I 
 think, as fine in their way as anything to be seen in 
 the Alhambra — the Alhambra at Granada I mean. 
 Again, I infinitely prefer gates when one knows that 
 there is no restoration, and when one feels certain 
 that one is gazing on the true and original, and not 
 on the stucco and plaster. The northern gate of the 
 city is particularly happily situated, as the approach 
 from without the walls is by a wide ascent directly 
 facing the archway. It is a perfect specimen of 
 
78 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 sixteenth or early seventeenth century arabesque and 
 tile-work, the delicacy of which bars description. 
 The arch is a pure Moorish one of the horseshoe 
 type flanked by two massive buttresses. Round the 
 arch itself are coloured tiles intersected by delicate 
 tracery in arabesque, while above runs an inscription 
 in ornamental Arabic, black letters on dull green 
 tiles. Standing near the tomb of Sidi Ali ben 
 Hamdouch, itself and its adjacent fountain both of 
 great beauty, and facing the gateway, no more 
 striking scene can be imagined. The sandy road, 
 the azure sky, low walls over which peep the tops of 
 dull green olive-trees on either side, the great gate 
 in front, its tiles glistening in the sunlight, an 
 emerging caravan of camels and Arabs, all present a 
 wonderful scene, the very contrary to the dark 
 covered streets and deserted appearance of the city 
 within. Beautiful as this gate is, it is surpassed by 
 that of the Kasbah, a massive block in much the 
 same style, which though perhaps inferior in grace, 
 yet far surpasses it in its effect of grand solidity and 
 power. It is almost overpowering, this great gate, 
 with its open square before and its winding arcade 
 and seats of justice within. Delicate in colour it 
 is, too, the dull grey stone standing out in relief 
 from tile-work of an indescribable shade of green. 
 Above this filigree runs an inscription as on the 
 North Gate, in black letters on green tiles, while 
 below the arabesque pattern varies, forming itself 
 into panels each filled with exquisite designs in 
 coloured tiles. On either side of the great arch are 
 columns of white marble, each of single piece, sur- 
 mounted by Corinthian capitals. However, the Moors 
 
The City of Mcquinez, and Journey to Fez. 79 
 
 never built any two things alike, and this peculiarity 
 is nowhere better shown than in this gate, for on the 
 right is a covered chamber or arcade, with pillars 
 supporting the roof, evidently intended for, and used 
 now as, a seat of justice, while the left is bare. 
 
 There are many stories as to the building of this 
 gate. Some say that the architect had his eyes put 
 out because he said he could build something better, 
 some say he had his head cut off, but the tale I 
 prefer is the following : — 
 
 The Sultan on the completion of the gate rode out 
 to see it, accompanied by the architect. 
 
 “ It is a magnificent building,” said the Sultan 
 from under his crimson umbrella. “ I am very pleased 
 with it.” 
 
 The architect bowed his thanks, and said he was 
 glad the Sultan was pleased, and if his Majesty could 
 propose any improvement he (the architect) would 
 immediately carry it out. 
 
 The Sultan looked for some time at the gate, then 
 added, — 
 
 “ Well, I maybe wrong, but I think it wants some- 
 thing to set it off at the top. I know ! I will write 
 and ask her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England 
 for the old statue of the Duke of Wellington from 
 Hyde Park Corner.” 
 
 Whereupon the architect in desperation committed 
 suicide. 
 
 This story is not very authentic, but is probably as 
 true as any of the others. 
 
 Within the Kasbah Gate is another large open 
 space much resembling that without. On to this 
 square look the roofs of the Tomb of Sidi Moulai 
 
So 
 
 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Ismail, a deceased Sultan who reigned some two 
 centuries ago, and who, having killed more men, 
 Christians and Moors, than any of his predecessors, 
 having wasted more money on impossible palaces 
 and such-like than could ever be counted, and, when 
 tired of a wife, having her for amusement tortured 
 and killed before his very eyes, is now reverenced as 
 one of the greatest saints of the Moorish religious 
 calendar. 
 
 “ Ah, Moulai Ismail,” cry the Moors, “ may God 
 shower blessings on thy immortal soul. Peace be with 
 thee, Moulai Ismail.” 
 
 Good old Moulai Ismail ! 
 
 There is one little idea of his I cannot help 
 mentioning here. He complained very much of the 
 road — a mere track — between Mequinez and Morocco 
 city, and as a remedy commenced to build a wall 
 from one to the other, along which he intended to 
 drive in a carriage, a distance of some two hundred 
 miles. The wall, needless to say, was never com- 
 pleted, though some hundred and fifty yards of it 
 still stand. It is nearly sixty feet in height, and 
 varies in breadth from twenty-two to twenty-five 
 yards. The natives grow Indian corn on the top, 
 which seems to flourish well. 
 
 A village near this wall still bears the name of the 
 Christians — doubtless slaves — who inhabited it in 
 former times, for “ the sons of the Christians ” it is to 
 this day called. No doubt, it was the piece of land 
 put aside by Moulai Ismail for his Christian captives, 
 who, becoming Moors and marrying Moorish wives, 
 gradually merged into the native race, no difference 
 being now appreciable. 
 
The City of M equine z, and Journey to Fez. 3 t 
 
 Near this village is a great reservoir, in working 
 order, too, full of beautifully clear water, on which 
 on my first visit was a boat, though now this had 
 disappeared. Near this tank, which is of great size, 
 are some curious and inexplicable ruins, one of which 
 contains between three and four hundred columns ; 
 of course the roof has fallen in, there is scarcely a 
 roof in Mequinez that hasn’t. The calm disregard 
 with which Moors look after the safety of their houses 
 is nowhere else in the world surpassed. Predestina- 
 tion in everything. A house falls down and kills a 
 dozen or so people. 
 
 “It is written,” says the owner as he begins to 
 build it up again, or more often to let it lie where it 
 fell. 
 
 “ It is written,” say the people who are killed by 
 its fall to each other. 
 
 When a Moor sits down on a pin he doesn’t swear. 
 He says, “ It is written,” and as he extracts the pin 
 he does not wince ; he merely says, “ God is great,” 
 and puts the pin back for some one else to sit on, or 
 to sit on again himself. Not so the Moorish Jew ; 
 he sits down on a pin and swears, then smilingly 
 draws the pin out, and sells it to an unsuspecting 
 Moor as silver. 
 
 To everything the Moor says, “ It is written.” 
 When he catches the small-pox ; when he beats his 
 wife ; when his house is robbed, or he robs some one 
 else’s ; when his horse falls down and breaks his leg, 
 or he puts poison in his friend’s tea, he says, “It is 
 written,” and takes it as a matter of course. 
 
 Close to the tomb of Moulai Ismail, under the open 
 square, are a series of great subterranean vaults, as 
 
 G 
 
82 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 inexplicable as most of the ruins of Mequinez. We 
 descended, as I had done once before. One “ glis- 
 sades ” down ; the first time I glissaded down I 
 alighted on a skeleton of a camel, and bruised my 
 knee, this time on the decomposing carcase of a cow. 
 It was softer, but I preferred the camel. These 
 dungeons extend to a great distance, the roof being 
 supported by massive columns ; the long black 
 arcades in which flit the squeaking bats, and the re- 
 freshing odour of carcases in every stage of decay 
 have inspired the Moors with awe, and the popular 
 belief is that these vaults are the residence of many 
 a “ dj in ” and devil. On this account our Moors were 
 very reluctant to allow us to descend, though Selim 
 came with us, his intercourse with Christians having 
 destroyed some of his superstition. Beyond the 
 square which contains these unpleasant remains 
 is a gateway, of no great beauty or size, passing 
 through which one finds oneself in a long, straight 
 road, shut in by high walls, the object of which can- 
 not be gathered. It is certainly over a quarter of a 
 mile in length, and, like many roads in Morocco, leads 
 nowhere. It is generally used now as a camping- 
 ground for some of the Moorish troops, whose tents 
 and tethered horses vary the otherwise monotonous 
 scene. The ground at one place is strewn with 
 marble columns, no doubt brought there by Mouli 
 Ismail from Volubilis. 
 
 Mequinez is surrounded by ruins, though most are 
 great masses of tabbia without any pretensions to 
 beauty. It would take weeks to properly examine 
 these remains, nor do I think the work would repay 
 the trouble. 
 
The City of M equine z , and Journey to Fez. S3 
 
 Within the town little is to be seen, though the 
 half-deserted main street, which by-the-bye contains a 
 magnificent mosque with beautiful bronze gates, is 
 picturesque, but so much rain having lately fallen, we 
 found every street filthy, which did not add to the 
 charms of the place. 
 
 The carpet and haik bazaar was a constant source 
 of amusement to us of an afternoon, and we picked up 
 some pretty carpets and embroideries at remarkably 
 low prices. 
 
 The scenes in the streets much resemble those in 
 all the Moorish cities ; there are a great many 
 beggars, though they scarcely worry one at all ; 
 mountaineers in their picturesque garb pass and re- 
 pass, audibly cursing the dog of a Christian. Here is 
 a blind negro whose eyes have only been torn out 
 with hot irons a few days before and over whose cheeks 
 still trickle tears of crimson blood — there is a wedding 
 procession all gaiety and music and torches. Such is 
 life in Mequinez. 
 
 Our house was constantly invaded by troops of 
 dirty Jews who tried to sell us poor curiosities at 
 perfectly impossible prices, and whose cringing, 
 whining ways and tone thoroughly disgusted us. 
 Finally we ordered our soldier not to allow a single 
 son of Israel within our door. 
 
 The Mellah, or Ghetto, at Mequinez is as dirty 
 as anywhere, though some of the Jews’ were fine 
 houses. The Mequinez Jewesses’ dress is per- 
 fectly hideous, the tawdry gold braiding and high 
 cap, with its black silk imitation hair, being grotesque 
 in its ugliness. The Jews are treated in Mequinez 
 much as they are in Fez, and on the whole have little 
 
 G 2 
 
84 The Land of an A Jr lean Sultan. 
 
 to complain of except dirt, and they seem to revel in 
 that. 
 
 A curious circumstance happened in Mequinez 
 during our stay, namely a heavy fall of snow. Snow, 
 though not unknown here, for it is generally visible 
 all through the winter in the neighbouring hills, very 
 seldom falls in the town, and this particular snow- 
 storm no doubt formed the topic of conversation in 
 the cafes for many a long day to come. Not only did 
 snow fall, but it lay, and the view from the terrace of 
 our house was very curious, the surrounding plains 
 and olive groves being completely covered with it, as 
 were the flat roofs of all the surrounding houses, 
 while the emerald green mosque towers wore night- 
 caps. Our Moors were surprised beyond measure, as 
 being for the most part Tangier men, where the snow 
 never lies, this was their first experience of it ; nor did 
 their surprise abate when a carefully aimed snowball 
 hit our old soldier just below the ear and trickled 
 down his neck. At first he thought he was shot, and 
 was seized with fright, which increased when he dis- 
 covered it was water which was slowly threading its 
 course over his skin. Not being familiar with cold 
 water, or any kind of water for the matter of that, the 
 sensation was startling, and for a time I thought he 
 would have a fit. 
 
 From the terrace of our house we obtained a charm- 
 ing view, looking over the whole city, and the plains 
 beyond. The outer walls of the town can clearly be 
 traced all around. There are three distinct high 
 walls at various distances from the town wall proper, 
 each consisting of tabbi'a, while the enclosures thus 
 formed are full of olive-trees, or cultivated with grain. 
 
The City of Mequimz, and Journey to Fez. 85 
 
 As Mequinez is the seat of the two most fanatical 
 sects of the Mohammedan religion in Morocco, I will 
 here describe, as far as I can, the : r religious rites. 
 
 These two sects are respectively the Aissoui and 
 the Hamdouchi. The former are the followers of 
 Sidi Ben Aissa, whose remains rest at Mequinez, as 
 do those of Sidi Ali Ben Hamdouch, the patron saint 
 of the other order. 
 
 I have had the good fortune to witness the strange 
 rites of both sects on several occasions, and can there- 
 fore vouch for my description of their performances. 
 The Aissoui are not unseldom seen in Tangier, and 
 I have also seen the Hamdouchi there en masse , 
 though very seldom. However, a stray follower may 
 turn up in the market upon occasions. 
 
 Who Sidi Ben Aissa was, it is difficult to say, but 
 he lived co-evally (and probably co-evilly) with Sidi 
 Moulai Abdul Ivader, not ,the celebrated Moham- 
 medan saint whose remains lie in Baghdad, but a 
 Moorish namesake. 
 
 Whoever Sidi Ben Aissa may have been, we know 
 what power he is said to have possessed, viz. that of 
 rendering harmless the bite of serpents and reptiles to 
 those who are his followers. Any one, any Moham- 
 medan, can become an Aissoui. The inauguration is 
 simple. He journeys to Mequinez, calls upon the 
 present representative of Sidi Ben Aissa’s family, to 
 whom he offers prayers and money especially money. 
 This over, the priest blows upon him, and the devotee 
 arises and sets out in the firmest belief that however 
 many venomous snakes may bite him, however many 
 scorpions sting him, no harm will befall. How dis- 
 comforting the disillusion must be at times ! The 
 
S6 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 believer who sits clown on a scorpion soon discovers 
 that he has given the priest of the Aissouis more 
 power than he is justified in receiving — and more 
 money. 
 
 The great feast of the Aissouis generally takes 
 place about our Christmas time, though the date 
 varies considerably. From all sides collect the 
 fanatics, crowding the market-places of the towns 
 throughout the country. With heads uncovered they 
 form into rings, some thirty or forty perhaps in each 
 ring. Drums and fifes and tomtoms are brought out, 
 and the hideous music begins. Slowly they rise and 
 fall in spasmodic jumps to the sound of the music, 
 which gradually increases in time, finally becoming a 
 wild burst of discord without any attempt at tune. 
 By this time the spell has begun to work, and the 
 Aissouis’ little jumps have become hideous leaps. 
 Their long hair, a sign of the sect, flies wildly around 
 their heads, while horrible cries rend the air in every 
 direction. They have doubtless put themselves into 
 a state of wild frenzy or madness, and seem totally 
 unconscious of what is going on. One falls in a fit — - 
 green in the face and foaming at the mouth — the 
 rest leap and dance over him in a terrible ecstasy. 
 
 A live sheep is thrown amongst them by some 
 onlooker. In a second it is torn limb from limb, 
 and each is wildly tearing the raw flesh with his 
 teeth, smearing his face and limbs with crimson 
 blood. It is a scene that writing cannot describe, that 
 needs seeing to realize. 
 
 Another strange rite connected with this religious 
 outburst of fanaticism is the sacrificing of a sheep. 
 Sacrificing animals is not uncommon all through 
 
The City of Mequinez, and Journey to Fez. 87 
 
 Morocco, no doubt an old Pagan custom which 
 existed in the country long before the Arab conquest. 
 The sheep’s throat is cut at Tangier at an enclosed 
 N’Sala, or “ praying-house.” The moment the knife 
 has severed the jugular vein, an Aissoui seizes the 
 struggling beast with either hand, holding it aloft 
 above his head, and with a continual stream of 
 blood flowing upon him, runs as fast as he is able to 
 the great mosque in the main street, a distance of 
 about a quarter of a mile or more. If he succeeds 
 in bearing the sheep alive to the mosque, it is a 
 sure sign of a successful year ; if, however, the sheep 
 dies en route , it brings ill-luck. Woe betide the 
 Christian or the Jew who approaches near the 
 Aissouis when they are performing their horrible 
 rites. So terrified are the inhabitants of the town 
 of these fanatics that shops are shut and doors 
 barred during the days they are about ; nor do the 
 Jews venture into the streets. I know as an un- 
 doubted fact, that three or four Jews were torn to 
 pieces and eaten by the Aissouis in Mequinez this 
 last winter. However improbable such an event 
 may seem, yet it is perfectly true, as not only was 
 I told of it by the relations of the victims in Me- 
 quinez itself, but heard it from official sources, both 
 European and native. 
 
 The rites of the Hamdouchis much resemble those 
 of their fellow sect, though instead of preserving 
 them from snake bites, they are enabled to wound 
 themselves without suffering any after result. 
 
 I will not enter fully into the details of a Ham- 
 douchi festival, as the sight is too loathsome even to 
 describe, and it will be sufficient, I think, to say, 
 
88 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 that when in a state of frenzy they cut their heads 
 open with fast falling self-inflicted blows of battle- 
 axes, and gash their bodies with knives. I have 
 seen Hamdouchis, stark naked, covered with blood, 
 blue in the face and foaming at the mouth, their 
 heads a network of long cuts, and daggers passed 
 through their cheeks, rolling in the sand and biting 
 stones. 
 
 A former servant of mine I once saw in this state 
 amongst many others. The occasion was the visit 
 of the head of the sect to Tangier. The “ Saint ” was 
 mounted on a splendid grey horse gorgeously trapped, 
 stationed on the market-place of Tangier. Each 
 side of him stood standard-bearers, carrying crimson 
 and yellow flags, while behind him were the musi- 
 cians. He was dressed all in white, his haik being 
 of fine silk. In type he is a particularly poor speci- 
 men of a Moor, his expression being both low and 
 sensual. In front of him were the devotees going 
 through their horrid performance. Though mounted 
 on my horse, I kept a fair distance off, especially as 
 one or two of the Hamdouchis, armed with battle- 
 axes and knives, kept volubly cursing me and looking 
 most unpleasant. 
 
 The following day I found an excuse to call upon 
 the man who had once been my servant, and who had 
 surpassed the others in frenzy, and found him very 
 chippy, in fact more dead than alive. I examined 
 his wounds, which were all flesh wounds, though some 
 were deep and all severe. He tried to keep up his 
 spirits and pretend he suffered no ill, but to no avail, 
 as the nineteen gashes on his head alone must have 
 caused him unutterable agony, not to mention that 
 
The City of Mequinez , and Journey to Fez. 89 
 
 he had been some hours with a dagger-blade through 
 both his cheeks and was covered with wounds all 
 over. 
 
 Another favourite pastime of the Hamdouchis is to 
 throw cannon-balls and heavy stones into the air and 
 to allow them to fall upon their clean-shaven heads 
 with a thud that would knock the brains out of 
 most men. There is no trickery about any part of 
 the performance, the whole affair is too horribly real. 
 
 No doubt both the sects of the Aissouis and the 
 Hamdouchi are closely allied to what are known as 
 the howling dervishes in Turkey and Egypt. I have 
 seen them in Constantinople and elsewhere several 
 times, and though the sight is very disgusting, par- 
 ticularly as highly respectable Turks take part in it, 
 yet for morbid horrors it is not to be compared with 
 the two sects of Mequinez. 
 
 On Friday, January 25th, we left Mequinez, 
 passing out by the gate of the Fez road. Near 
 this gate we met the Bascha of the town, mounted 
 on a beautifully caparisoned mule, and attended 
 by some dozen armed horsemen. The group 
 formed by the Bascha and his suite was a striking 
 one, the old white-bearded man in his cloak of 
 pale mauve forming the centre, while the horse- 
 men’s gorgeous raiment and long guns completed the 
 picture. His Excellency was very polite, telling us 
 to camp near his country seat, and that everything 
 would be supplied for ourselves and our beasts. I 
 thanked him for his kindness (purely imaginary) 
 during our stay and rode on. Leaving the city we 
 passed over a bridge, in tolerably good condition, 
 that spans a small stream. Here washing was being 
 
go The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 carried on on an extensive scale, hundreds of women, 
 for the most part negresses, stamping or jumping 
 on the white or parti-coloured linen, and singing as 
 they worked. The men’s washing was more simple, 
 as they merely stripped stark naked, and then 
 washed the clothes they had previously been wear- 
 ing, sitting still in a state of unblushing nudity, while 
 the clothes dried in the warm sunlight. 
 
 It reminded me of a story of a Scotch Professor, 
 which though absolutely unconnected with Morocco, 
 I think worth telling here. 
 
 A large party were shooting on some moors 
 in Perthshire, amongst them an elderly Scotch Pro- 
 fessor. It suddenly came on to pour with rain, nor 
 was there any protection in the neighbourhood. 
 As the rain was falling too fast to permit shoot- 
 ing, the sportsmen merely sat down and got drenched. 
 As soon as the shower had commenced, however, 
 the Professor had wandered off, and during the 
 whole hour or so for which the rain fell was not 
 seen. It cleared up in time, and, to every one’s 
 surprise, the Professor reappeared perfectly dry, not 
 even a drop of rain on his clothes. 
 
The City of Mequinez , and Journey to Fez . 9 r 
 
 The rest were annoyed, and asked him where he 
 had found shelter, but on this subject he was very 
 reticent. At last they persuaded him to tell them 
 how he had kept dry the while. 
 
 “ Directly the rain came on,” said the Professor, 
 “ I stripped, and sat on my clothes till it ceased.” 
 
 The story is not, I know, a new one, but I fancy 
 it is not generally known. 
 
 To return to our road from Mequinez. Having 
 crossed the bridge, the road ascends, turning slightly 
 to the right. From this spot a wonderful view of 
 Mequinez is obtained, the whole town lying slightly 
 below one on a gentle slope. A turn in the road 
 soon hid the city, and for the following three quarters 
 of an hour we passed through groves of olive-trees, 
 evidently cultivated here with great care. 
 
 Three separate walls of the town vve passed by, 
 each situated at equal distances from the other two, 
 and all three in a state of disrepair. Beyond the 
 last of these walls we entered upon open country, for 
 the most part uncultivated. After four hours’ ride 
 we arrived at a small village in the district of Jedida, 
 where I had camped two years before. Two hours’ 
 daylight yet remained, so, leaving our camp to be set 
 up by the men, we strolled out, and three guns 
 picked up ten brace of birds in under the two hours, 
 also a quail and a landrail. We determined to take 
 the journey to Fez very slowly, as the plains be- 
 tween the two towns contain some of the best shoot- 
 ing to be found in all Morocco ; so accordingly the 
 following morning, leaving our camp to be struck 
 and taken on by-our men, we started off on foot, and 
 for two hours walked through low palmetto bushes, 
 
92 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 most excellent covert for the partridges, of which 
 we obtained sixteen brace and a half, one quail, 
 seven snipe, and a pigeon. The barbary partridge 
 takes a great deal of shot, and we lost many run- 
 ners. They do not fall like an English wounded 
 bird, lie for a moment, then run, but the moment 
 they touch the ground — almost before they reach it 
 — away they go, often doubling back between the 
 guns. After two hours of sport we left the covert 
 behind, and entered cultivated ground, where our 
 animals were awaiting us. A little later we arrived 
 at an immensely deep ravine, with precipitous walls 
 of clay and a river dashing through its midst. On 
 my former visit I had crossed this ravine by a bridge, 
 but the last winter’s rains had completely carried it 
 away, and one had now to proceed some way higher 
 up and cross on an extemporized bridge of logs, 
 against which the river rushed with tremendous 
 force, seeming as if each moment it would carry the 
 rickety structure away, and wash bridge and all 
 over the high waterfall below. However, we crossed 
 in safety, and, keeping to the edge of the ravine, pro- 
 ceeded to a large village of Jedida, where was the 
 residence of the Kaid of the district. The view look- 
 ing down into the valley was very grand. The 
 narrow ravine descended some hundreds of feet pre- 
 cipitously, the walls being of bare clay, while the 
 river below rushed, and tumbled, and foamed over 
 great boulders of rock, from amongst which rose tall 
 pampas and bamboos. Thousands of blue rock- 
 pigeons filled the air. I tried once or twice to de- 
 scend, but found it impossible to get below a ridge 
 about a hundred feet down, where were planted 
 
The City of Me quinez, and Journey to Fez. 93 
 
 several groves of orange and iolive trees, almost over- 
 hanging the river below, like some ,of the' farms on 
 the fjords of Norway. 
 
 I called upon the Kaid on my arrival, accompanied 
 by Hadj Hamed, but so insolent was he in manner 
 that I was obliged to use severe measures to bring 
 him to his proper level. I never saw a man so taken 
 aback as he was when I spoke to him seriously, though 
 not kindly, and finally exerting all my sarcasm and 
 theatrical force, I worked myself into a delightfully 
 ungrammatical peroration which exhausted all “ bad ” 
 Arabic, at the same time flinging at him a small paper 
 document. He picked it up, opened it, started nearly 
 off his feet, kissed it reverently, and pressed it against 
 his forehead, then turning to me, held out his hand, 
 exclaiming, “You are very welcome.” I answered 
 nothing, refused his proffered hand and with a half- 
 muttered “ Kelb ” 2 strode away. A minute later his 
 Excellency was at my tent door ; I refused to admit 
 him, but allowed him to be seated outside, while he 
 took down a list of the provisions, &c., for men and 
 beasts that I should require from him, free of cost. 
 They all duly arrived in time with numerous messages 
 from the Kaid, begging me not to report him at head- 
 quarters at Fez. With the exception of a quarrel 
 with the Bascha at Fez a few days later this was the 
 only inconvenience we suffered all the road from 
 native rulers. If one behaves decently towards them, 
 one has nothing to fear on their part, and I pride my- 
 self that all the months I have at various times tra- 
 velled in Morocco, with the exception of my ride to 
 Sheshouan, I have never had any serious trouble ; on 
 2 Dog. 
 
94 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 the contrary, on the well-trodden paths of Northern 
 Morocco, and even in the out-of-the-way fanatical 
 mountains beyond Wazan, untrodden by any one, I 
 believe, till I entered them this year, I am always well 
 received, and in the evenings my little tea-parties in 
 my tent are fully attended. In this way I have friends 
 all over Morocco, and it is a great charm added to the 
 delights of travelling on entering a village, instead of 
 being received with frowns, to hear “ Mahabee, al 
 Aissoui, Mahababee.” 3 
 
 I do not go so far as to say that one should give in 
 to Moorish prejudices in attempting exploration in 
 Morocco, for these prejudices are the prejudices for the 
 most part of officialism and not of the people them- 
 selves, but I will say this, that exploration amongst 
 the Moors requires far more tact than courage. I do 
 not speak as an explorer, for what little work I have 
 done in that line has been of no consequence ; but this 
 year I was enabled, sans disguise, to travel in perfect 
 safety and comfort in the hitherto unvisited regions 
 of the Beni M’Sara, Ghruneh and other mountain 
 tribes, which country always has had the reputation 
 of being one of the most fanatical districts in Morocco. 
 But I will describe my short journey through these 
 districts in my chapters on “ A visit to Wazan.” 
 
 The following morning I was awakened at an early 
 hour by a great noise, and on rising to see the why 
 and wherefore, discovered that all the village was up 
 in arms, and that men were collecting from the other 
 villages round on the war-path. 
 
 3 “You are welcome, Aissoui, you are welcome.” The name 
 Aissoui has always followed me all through Morocco on account 
 of my fondness for snakes and reptiles. 
 
The City of Mequinez, and Journey to Fez. 95 
 
 On making more careful inquiries I found that a 
 battle was about to be fought at no great distance 
 away between this particular tribe and some Berbers. 
 I dressed hurriedly, and buckling on my revolver and 
 taking my small-bore rifle, burst in upon the crowd, 
 informing them that I was going to accompany them 
 to see the affair. 
 
 At first they were quite pleased, and examined my 
 rifle and pistol with much curiosity, but finally I was 
 not allowed to go, our soldier having informed the 
 Sheikh of the village that if any harm were to happen 
 to me, he would hold him responsible. I am glad now 
 I did not go, as I was informed afterwards on good 
 authority that probably each side would have for- 
 gotten his quarrel in their endeavour to take such a 
 good advantage of shooting a Christian, afterwards 
 each party accusing the other of having done it. An 
 hour or so later the warriors started, setting off at a 
 brisk trot. A grand hundred men they were, with all 
 their finery on, and their long, useless-looking guns 
 with barrels cased in silver and flint locks. 
 
 What was the ultimate result of the row I cannot 
 say, but I rather suspect when it came to the point 
 there was no fighting at all, and that the whole affair 
 was settled, as on inquiries in Fez I could learn no 
 news of any battle having taken place. 
 
 The result, however, of every man and every boy 
 who was capable of holding a gun leaving the village 
 was a very marked one, as no sooner were the warriors 
 hidden to sight, than the ladies of the tribe began to 
 make their appearance, and there being no one to 
 restrain them, their curiosity led them into our camp, 
 though the appearance of a, to them, infernal machine 
 
96 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 in the shape of Ingram’s photograph camera, soon 
 dispersed them. However, by Selim’s ingenuity and 
 some small bribes we managed to persuade some to 
 stand for us, and were successful in obtaining some 
 very pretty groups. They did not in the least seem 
 to care that their husbands and brothers might all be 
 shot and never return ; on the contrary, the village 
 wore quite a gala air, and laughter and singing were 
 heard on every side. 
 
 The treatment of women in the East, like the 
 slavery question, is a very difficult one to touch on, 
 especially for those who know a little of it, and do 
 not write the astounding articles which appear in some 
 of the papers dated from the offices of the “ Societies ” 
 they belong to. 
 
 Missions for the enlightenment of women in Mo- 
 rocco are very different from the Zenana mission in 
 India, one of the noblest of all our institutions in that 
 Empire. In India we raise, or try and succeed too, 
 to raise the women from their low station and make 
 them the companions and the friends of their husbands 
 instead of their slaves. India belongs to England, 
 and in governing India we have taken under our pro- 
 tection its inhabitants ; we are able to watch day by 
 day the progress that our example is making amongst 
 the natives. We are responsible, in fact, not only 
 legally but morally, for the welfare of our people 
 there. Where all are striving with the same object 
 in view, we may confidently look for success. Not 
 so in Morocco. A solitary missionary or two spread- 
 ing the doctrine of the equality of men and women 
 does no good, no, he does much harm. It but im- 
 presses upon the minds of the women a fact that they 
 
The City of Mcquinez, and Journey to Fez. 97 
 
 have till now been totally unaware of, namely that 
 they are, to our ideas, degraded, coarse, and of no 
 intellect ; that their husbands are their equals, if not 
 their inferiors. A very little sets the Moorish mind 
 on fire, and a woman who has once heard these words 
 shapes out her life accordingly ; she tries it on, she 
 fails, and if troublesome is removed by sale, or by 
 poison. She learns nothing of the ideality of Chris- 
 tian womanhood — she must go to the East End on a 
 Saturday night to see that, — she is merely imbued with 
 a contempt for her husband and with discontent for 
 herself. 
 
 I have written strongly, as I feel strongly— far more 
 strongly than' I write — on these questions. I have seen 
 the work in many lands, I have found one fact, that 
 where missionaries go, goes also drink. Now allow 
 that the Mahommedan religion is in every way in- 
 ferior to ours, an allowance I do not make in every 
 case of the tenets of the two, allowing for climatic 
 differences, yet the Moors live in tolerable peace. 
 Crime with them is not nearly so rife as crime with 
 us. Now let us, for a moment only, Christianize the 
 whole Moorish nation. What is the result ? The 
 natives let their hair grow instead of shaving their 
 heads: the result is disease. They drink wine: the 
 result is crime — with which they are entirely unable 
 to cope on account of possessing no police — and 
 drunkenness and death. They eat pork, and suffer 
 with scrofula and horrible diseases at once. In fact, in 
 introducing Christianity as it now exists, or is sup- 
 posed to exist, we would only be hurrying a fallen 
 nation more quickly to its grave. We might, it may 
 be argued, introduce some of their customs, such as 
 
98 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 teetotalism, the shaving of the head, and the abstin- 
 ence from pork amongst them, but it is not for us to 
 alter what Christ has so plainly laid down. 
 
 It is a serious question — a most serious one — but it 
 is a question I have studied to some extent. I have 
 met with missionaries in many parts of the world and 
 I am not satisfied. Though no great friend of the 
 Church of Rome, I have found among the Catholics, 
 amongst the Jesuits particularly, the most devout, the 
 most striving of all missionary sects. They give up 
 their lives to their work, they live single, they have 
 no worldly cares, no thought for worldly things, nor 
 have they that desire which so many of our mission- 
 aries have expressed to me, of some day returning 
 home and dying in comfort in England. I think 
 that the best remedy that could be found would be 
 to make all our volunteer missionaries to foreign 
 parts go through a three years’ training in the East 
 of London or in some low home district first. 
 
 At present Fez and the other great cities of 
 Morocco are in a far higher state of civilization, and 
 less given up to crime, than any of the poorer quarters 
 of our metropolis. It is safe to walk in the streets — 
 for a Christian as well as a Moor — by day or by 
 night — yet there are no police, nor does one see the 
 flagrant immorality that exists in even our most 
 fashionable quarters of a night. Far be it from me 
 to preach, but comparing the two capitals, London 
 and Fez, together, and seeing the advantages and the 
 disadvantages of both, I say, without hesitation, and 
 after careful thought, that it will be an evil day for 
 the Arabs and Moors if ever they become Christians. 
 It will be but the kicking away of the few steps of 
 
The City of Mequinez , and Journey to Fez. 99 
 
 the ladder that exist between them and destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 That comment will be made on these words I 
 know — just as comment was made on what I wrote 
 on the slave question in Morocco two years ago — 
 and which brought down on my young and inoffensive 
 head a letter in the Times , a letter from an individual 
 who commenced by saying my words were “state- 
 ments of a misleading nature,” and who concluded 
 by contradicting me on one or two points altogether. 
 Since then two years have passed, and of those two 
 years I have spent the greater part in Morocco. I 
 have studied more closely the slavery question there, 
 and when the time comes shall not only reiterate my 
 former statements but write still more strongly on 
 the subject. 
 
 To return to more pleasant subjects. We paid a 
 visit to the deep ravine at Jedida before leaving our 
 camp that morning, and I could not help being struck 
 at the adaptability of the place for a fourth-act 
 suicide on the stage. Everything that could be 
 required is there, a precipice, grand scenery, a rushing 
 river. All it wants is to be set up, say at Drury 
 Lane, and a heroine who nightly would sacrifice 
 herself in a melodramatic way to save a lover or two 
 — a fine ending for a play. We left camp about ten, 
 as usual allowing our mules to overtake us on the 
 road. We shot for an hour and a half, and obtained 
 seven brace of partridges. The country was much 
 the same as that we had travelled on the previous 
 day, undulating plains partly cultivated, and partly 
 covered with a thick growth of palmetto and asphodel. 
 Away to the north lay the steep rocky mountains of 
 
 H 2 
 
ioo The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 the Zaraoun. One peak is crowned by a building', 
 and on inquiring from the men the object of this, I 
 was told that it is a most sacred spot, there being a 
 large deep hole in the ground from which ascends 
 air with great force, so great indeed that if one 
 throws a stick into the hole it is promptly ejected 
 again to a great height into the air. Of course the 
 place cannot be visited by Christians, or I should be 
 by this time able to give a more minute account of it 
 than can be gathered from the men ; however, I 
 believe the tale to be perfectly true, nor do I see any 
 reason to disbelieve it, as at Moulai Yakoob, near by, 
 are marvellous hot springs with great heating pro- 
 perties. 
 
 An instance of the bona fide power of Moulai 
 Yakoob water came under our notice at this very time. 
 One of our men, Abdullah by name, had been suffer- 
 ing from a terrible eruption on his leg, which was 
 one mass of deep-rooted boils, causing him extreme 
 agony. During our stay at Fez I insisted on his 
 visiting Moulai Yakoob, which he did. I watched 
 with interest for his return. He had walked some five 
 hours to the spot, and five back, so did not arrive till 
 late at night. The following morning I examined his 
 leg, and found it far worse, the morning after it was 
 still worse, fresh places having broken out, but the 
 third morning it commenced to heal, and on our 
 leaving Fez, ten days later, he was completely cured. 
 Ivaid Maclean told me many instances of wonderful 
 cures that had come under his most direct notice, 
 some being servants in his house. From our men 
 I was able to learn something about this spot. 
 The water rises in a pool near the white-domed tomb 
 
The City of Mequinez, and Journey to Fez. ioi 
 
 of Moulai Yakoob, a great saint, and flows into an 
 open, oblong tank, some fifty feet long. In this the 
 men bathe, while the women use a second tank, sup- 
 plied by the overflow from the men's. The whole 
 place is situated in a small circular valley, that seems 
 to answer the description of the crater of an extinct 
 volcano. The time may come when Moulai Yakoob 
 will replace Homburg and Baden Baden, and a band 
 will play on the esplanade at three, and every one 
 will go to Brahe’s for ices. On our road we passed 
 a charming spot, where a fine bridge, richly decorated, 
 and in good condition (marvellous to state) spans a 
 stream of clear running water. Here, under the 
 shade of a palm-tree, we waited for lunch. Just 
 below the shady spot the river widened out into a 
 little marsh, in which we obtained some excellent 
 snipe-shooting on a small scale. Shortly after 
 leaving the bridge the clouds cleared that had been 
 over the great Atlas range away to the south-east, 
 and their glittering summits of snow towering into 
 the azure sky were fully revealed to our wondering 
 and admiring gaze. The Atlas range at this point 
 does not reach nearly such an altitude as it does near 
 Morocco city, but the snow and the soft white clouds 
 suspended above formed a lovely picture. 
 
 We pitched our camp near some lakes, or rather 
 marshes, in the hope of bagging some snipe and 
 duck, as on a former visit I had obtained excellent 
 sport at this spot ; but, strange to say, though we 
 rested the following day there, we shot absolutely 
 nothing at all. But our visit was not without a little 
 adventure, for the second night a house in the village 
 took fire. We instantly hurried to the spot, and 
 
102 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 found the natives doing absolutely nothing to ex- 
 tinguish the flames. The men were shouting, the 
 women screaming, and that was all. Every one said, 
 “It is written,” and it would have been “written” 
 with a vengeance if we and our men had not arrived on 
 the scene, and after half-roasting our hands and faces 
 in pulling the burning house down, saved the whole 
 village from destruction.. 
 
 The days were very hot about this time, but the 
 nights bitterly cold, and many were the mornings we 
 were obliged to break the ice on our buckets before 
 we were able to wash. However, in the tents we did 
 not suffer at all. 
 
 At this spot I spent a long and wearying afternoon 
 in stalking four great bustard. From our camp 
 Antonio had seen them settle in the open ground on 
 the opposite side of the lake. I at once seized my 
 rifle and set out. I walked over plough under the 
 burning sun for half an hour or so, then waded through 
 water up to my knees for half an hour more, and 
 then the stalk commenced in earnest. The country 
 was very open, and my only chance of approaching 
 the wily birds was by crawling along the edge of the 
 lake on my— well, chest. This I did for upwards of 
 half an hour, now in mud, now creeping through 
 thorns that ran into me everywhere. However, the 
 excitement of the sport made me forget all else, and 
 I persevered. On and on I crept, from little scrubby 
 bush to little scrubby bush. I never obtained a 
 glimpse of them, I dared not look up, as the covert 
 would not hide my head ; half-fainting with fatigue 
 and anxiety I crept on. At last I reached a patch of 
 scrub I had noticed from the other shore ; raising my 
 
The City of Mequinez, and Journey to Fez. 103 
 
 rifle to my shoulder, I prepared to fire, at the same 
 time lifting my head gently and peeping over the 
 bushes; there, not twenty yards from me, was a cow ; 
 the bustard had cleared off twenty minutes or so 
 before, and I never even got a sight of them. Reader, 
 I said a naughty word, a very naughty word, but it 
 was in Arabic, so it doesn’t count, at least not for 
 much. 
 
 I was glad of my tea on my return to camp, 
 and had soon regained my crushed spirits in one 
 sense, but not the broken bottle of maraschino that a 
 mule had kindly rolled on that morning. However, 
 our high spirits were soon down to zero, for we 
 witnessed that evening one of the few sights that 
 render travelling in Morocco sad. 
 
 A little caravan in single file wandered past our 
 camp. Just a dozen or two men in high relief 
 against a sunset sky, a few soldiers on horseback, and 
 a few camels, and chained to the camels by cruel 
 fetters the head-men of the Beni M’Tir tribe, who 
 had revolted against the Sultan the year before and 
 been captured. Eight of these poor fellows there 
 were dragging their heavy chains behind them, on 
 their way . to Morocco city, hundreds of miles away 
 across the monotonous plains, to die in the rank 
 dungeons of a subterranean prison. So noble they 
 looked. There was no cringing about them, they 
 toiled on, with head in air, along the dusty way. I 
 doubt not they fully deserved their punishment, all 
 rebels do, but one could not but feel sorry for them, 
 and regret that such splendid-looking men had no 
 more future before them than dungeons and death. 
 They had played the stake. Fortune had turned the 
 
104 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 wheel and they had lost. They must have known 
 the risk. . . . “ It is written,” said one to me, as we 
 gazed on him, “ it is written.” 
 
 “ Peace be with you,” I answered. 
 
 Alas ! poor the peace, I fear, that they would 
 find. 
 
 The following day we rode into Fez. The ap- 
 proach to Fez from the Mequinez road is not fine, 
 as the city, sloping down from this point, one only 
 obtains a view of its upper or western part, which 
 forms a long, low line on the near horizon, above 
 which rise a few minarets. 
 
 Immediately outside the gate are the ruins of the 
 old palace, commenced by Moulai Ismail, situated on 
 the banks of the Wad Fas. Before reaching this, 
 one obtains a view, and passes close under, the walls 
 of the Sultan’s new palace, but little of it can be 
 seen from without. A few scattered tombs and a 
 stunted olive-tree or two vary the monotony on the 
 other side of the road. 
 
 Passing through a small and insignificant gateway, 
 one enters the city. A hundred yards or so down a 
 crowded, narrow street, and one turns sharply to the 
 right, under two large but coarsely-decorated gates, 
 into the city proper beyond. We proceeded at once 
 to the house of my friends, Kaid and Mrs. Maclean, 
 and it was with real and sincerest pleasure that I 
 renewed the acquaintance of two years ago. Of 
 their great kindnes to us in Fez I will speak anon. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 FEZ. 
 
 P'EZ, Fas it is called by the Moors, is the capital, or 
 northern capital, of Morocco, and is by far the most 
 important town in the empire, not only on account 
 of its size and the number of its residents, but also as 
 being one of the official residences of the Sultan and 
 court, and on account of its trade. Certainly no town 
 in the country boasts such a situation as Fez. The 
 City of Morocco is as picturesquely, or even more 
 picturesquely, situated ; but whereas the latter owes 
 more to its surroundings, the former is in itself 
 superior in position, for the town lies on the slopes 
 of the Wad I'as, a small, fast-running stream, an 
 affluent of the Sebou, and is thus, both as regards 
 health and our ideas of situation, far more advan- 
 tageously placed. The two capitals have much alike, 
 however ; in fact there is much that pertains equally 
 to all Moorish cities, the total want of restoration, or 
 even repair, the dirt, the smells, and the rough muddy 
 or stony roads, full of holes leading into what little 
 drainage there is ; but perhaps these holes are there 
 on purpose to point out to the traveller the fact that 
 drains do exist. This I know, that though two years 
 separated my visits to Fez, yet I remembered the 
 holes and took special guard to keep my horse out of 
 
io6 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 them when riding through the streets for the second 
 time ; and there they were, a little larger perhaps from 
 the number of horses, mules, and donkeys that must 
 in that period have stepped into them, and perhaps 
 broken a leg or two. 
 
 The history of Fez is composed of wars and 
 murders, triumphs of arts and sciences, and a good 
 deal of imagination. 
 
 Even the founding of Fez is a matter of doubt ; but 
 authorities seem to agree in giving 800 A.D. as about 
 
Fez. 
 
 107 
 
 the probable date. Leo Africanus.if I am not mistaken, 
 gives A.H. 185, which brings it very close to 800 A.D. 
 But though the date of the foundation is more or less 
 a guess at hazard there is no doubt as to the founder. 
 
 Moulai Idrees was the grandson of the Prophet 
 Mahommed, who wandered far from his native land ; 
 we are not told whether it was on account of his 
 having got into trouble there, but I rather think it 
 must have been, as surely the “ saint business ” must 
 have been good enough in those days, and a grand- 
 son of Mahommed would never have wanted for 
 £ s. d. ; however, he came to Morocco, and recog- 
 nizing that the slopes of Gibel Salah would form an 
 estimable site for a city, planted himself and his 
 followers there, though it was not till his son, Idrees’ 
 time, that the foundation of the city of Fez can be 
 said really to have taken place. 
 
 Whether this Idrees was as interesting an individual 
 as his cousin Haroun-al-Raschid it is difficult to say, 
 but he succeeded in gaining a very large amount of 
 reverence, probably far more than he deserved, from 
 the Moors, and it was not long after his death that 
 Fez began to grow into the “ beautiful and Holy 
 City ” that it now is. 
 
 From that time till some two centuries ago it in- 
 creased rapidly, became a seat of learning to which even 
 Spaniards were sent to finish their education, where 
 astronomy was to some extent understood, where 
 medicine was progressing in rapid strides, and where 
 poets were putting upon their vellum scrolls, and in 
 vellum books the old songs of Spain. How things are 
 changed now ! The roofs have fallen from the colon- 
 nades of the colleges and mosques ; astronomy has 
 
10S The Land of an Af rican Sultan. 
 
 given place to the lowest ideas of astrology ; medicine 
 is but the concoction of a filthy potion, or a few words 
 scrawled on a small piece of paper, and worn round 
 the neck, vellum is unknown, and they use kitchen 
 paper instead ; poetry has disappeared, and has given 
 place to lewd verses ; while the Spaniards have to go 
 elsewhere to be educated, or as seems rather to be 
 the case to-day, to let education “ slide ” altogether. 
 
 Yet Fez is a charming old city. After all it is only 
 as if we let Cambridge fall a little more to ruin, give 
 time to the statues on Caius gate to gain respectability 
 by age, and to allow the grass to grow in full luxu- 
 riance over the John’s and Trinity tennis-courts. We 
 should love Cambridge just the same then, I think ; 
 perhaps more, and I am sure I should prefer the 
 wicked, idle Fez of to-day to the bustling Fez of two 
 or three centuries ago. There is not a great deal re- 
 maining in the Fez of to-day to tell of these brighter 
 and happier times, but two mosques of great beauty 
 still stand almost intact, those of the Kairouin, and the 
 sacred shrine of Moulai Idrees. 
 
 The former is probably by far the largest mosque 
 in North Africa, and what glimpses we were able to 
 obtain of its interior did not belie Leo and Rohlfs, 
 both of whom rave about its magnificence. Row 
 after row of columns and arches, dusky colonnades 
 only half-lighted by the coloured lamps that hang 
 suspended from the roof, a great sunlit court full of 
 worshippers, two exquisite erections of tall, graceful 
 columns with carved roofs shading a marble fountain- 
 basin with its ever-gurgling water, such is the mosque 
 of the Kairouin. 
 
 By passing a small side gate we were several times 
 
Fez. 
 
 109 
 
 able for some minutes at a time to stand and gaze 
 upon the impressive scene, to watch the long line of 
 worshippers prostrate themselves and rise again at 
 the voice of one who read the Koran in a particularly 
 nasal accent. This mosque boasts a fine minaret, 
 from which the muezzin calls to prayer at the ap- 
 pointed hours. 
 
 Fez loses much beauty by the fact that its minarets 
 are not the splendid palm-like structures as at Con- 
 stantinople and Cairo, but square or octagonal towers 
 rich enough in brilliancy of colour, but still not to 
 compare with those of the true orient in grace. 
 
 The mosque of Moulai Idrees is the most sacred 
 shrine in Morocco, so sacred indeed that the streets 
 surrounding the tomb of the great saint are forbidden 
 to the dog of a Christian, and one way is even pro- 
 tected by chains put across to prevent Jews or Chris- 
 tians passing by. However in spite of these stringent 
 rules Christians have succeeded in reaching and 
 entering, in disguise, of course, the holy building. 
 The mosque of Moulai Idrees is not nearly so large 
 as that of the Kairouin, but it is kept in far better 
 repair. The small room that contains the holy re- 
 mains of the saint is a wonderful sight with its 
 paintings, delicate tracery and rich embroideries, for 
 the most part “ haities ” or wall hangings of coloured 
 velvet embroidered in gold, and gorgeously decorated 
 roof supporting hundreds of small lamps and one very 
 large one. 
 
 Of the other mosques of Fez one cannot say much> 
 except that there are a great number of them. 
 
 The city is divided into two parts, Fas Jedid and 
 Fas Bali, New and Old Fez. The former is the fashion- 
 
i io The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 able quarter, in which are situated the Sultan’s palace 
 and most of the houses of the richer classes. These 
 houses are for the most part surrounded by gardens, 
 and are gloriously situated, the great attraction being 
 that each is supplied with running water, drawn skil- 
 fully from the Wad Fas, and supplied to nearly all the 
 houses of the town by means of small canals. The 
 gardens are full of orange-trees ; and flowers too grow 
 luxuriantly in many, but very few Moorish gardens 
 are at all our ideas of gardens, as they are allowed to 
 grow pretty much as they like. No doubt it was 
 these gardens and the running water that led the 
 poets of old to sing so extravagantly the praises of Fez. 
 
 Fas Bali, or Old Fez, is the commercial part of the 
 place, the “ city,” so to speak, and contains the Fon- 
 daks and the shops. The streets here are narrower 
 than in New Fez, but far more picturesque, for instead 
 of the tall garden walls on either hand there are the 
 little box-like shops, full of rich colouring and dirt, 
 smells of incense and dead cats, and containing also 
 the shop-owner, who sits cross-legged, counting his 
 beads perhaps, and scarcely paying any attention to 
 his business or the rare sight of Christians. I seldom 
 yet saw anybody buying in Morocco ; every one seems 
 to have things for sale, but no one buys and no one 
 seems to care much whether he sells or no. Casual 
 beyond anything are these town moors. 
 
 One long street, roofed in from the sun, forms the 
 highway of Fez. It runs from New Fez right through 
 the town, ending opposite one of the many gates of 
 the Kairouin mosque. In this street are exposed for 
 sale almost every article one can imagine, but curiously 
 enough the shops that contain one variety of goods 
 
UPPER STORY OF A MOORISH HOUSE. 
 
 [ Page no. 
 

Fez. 
 
 1 1 r 
 
 are all together, for instance there are a dozen shops 
 full of old iron and metal, old brass and copper 
 kettles, bolts, chains and screws ; the next cluster, if 
 one may speak of a cluster of shops, contains old 
 daggers, swords, and knives, while a little further on 
 is a district of shoe shops. Others again are full of 
 Manchester goods, linens and calicoes, cretonnes and 
 beads, and many an item besides, while a whole street 
 is given up to pottery. These shops are for the most 
 part only some few feet square, so that there is not 
 room for a large stock, and the selling is carried on in 
 an old-fashioned process. No one is '* selling-off, must 
 be cleared in three days. To-day last day of sale ; 
 everything at immensely reduced prices.” In fact, 
 the art of advertising is scarcely, if at all, known. 
 
 The floor of the shop is elevated some few feet 
 above the level of the street, and boarded over ; on 
 the boards is a carpet, and on the carpet the shop- 
 keeper. The front of the shop is a shutter that 
 opens upwards. A piece of rope is used by the 
 shopman to scramble in by. Altogether the tout- 
 ensemble more resembles those little Japanese shrines 
 containing an idol that we are all acquainted with 
 now, rather than a place of trade. We have seen 
 the outside of the shop. Let us go shopping now. 
 We are in search of curios, buying old rubbish, little 
 scraps of embroideries for instance. 
 
 We approach a likely-looking place and salute the 
 owner. 
 
 “ Salaam alikum,” I say. 
 
 “ Salaama,” he replies, carefully avoiding repeating 
 “ alikum,” a word never used to the dog of a 
 Christian. 
 
1 12 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “ Have you any embroideries ? ” I ask. 
 
 “ I may have,” he replies'. 
 
 “ Let me see them.” 
 
 “ They are at my house, not in the shop.” 
 
 I propose that he should send for them. He re- 
 sponds by asking me if I will promise to buy. This, of 
 course, I refuse. After perhaps a quarter of an hour’s 
 discussion, he shuts up his shop and disappears in the 
 crowd, reappearing in another half-hour or so with a 
 large bundle. 
 
 Once more the shop is opened. I examine his 
 wares and pick out three or four small pieces for 
 purchase. 
 
 “ How much will you take for these three ? ” I ask. 
 
 “ Name your own price,” he replies, smiling. 
 
 “ No, tell me how much you will take.” 
 
 He examines the embroideries carefully, and after 
 pointing out all their good points mentions a fabulous 
 sum. 
 
 I turn away disgusted without a word and proceed 
 down the street. Ten yards from the shop I hear 
 him calling me back. I return. 
 
 Then it is my turn, and I point out that the em- 
 broideries are in anything but good condition, and 
 put my fingers through various holes ; discover sud- 
 denly some defect, apologize for the trouble I have 
 given him, and tell him I am sorry but I don’t want 
 them at all, they are too torn, or too faded, as the 
 case may be. 
 
 Once more I go away. 
 
 This is repeated for half an hour or more, and 
 finally I buy the wares at my own price, usually about 
 a fifth of what the owner first asked. 
 
Fez. 
 
 o 
 
 1 1 
 
 A great deal of trade is carried on in the Kesserieh, 
 or auction-market, where the auctioneers every day 
 at midday run through the narrow ways of the bazaar 
 holding out their goods and crying the latest bid. It 
 is marvellous to see the way the bids go up when a 
 Christian appears ! I have known a man selling an 
 embroidered cushion to call it out at a dollar till he 
 caught sight of me, when it suddenly rose to five > 
 however I purchased it for a dollar and twopence 
 eventually. In this Kesserieh we spent an hour or 
 two every day. Selim always accompanied me, and 
 between us we managed pretty well. On one oc- 
 casion I was very pleased with an exceedingly fine 
 piece of embroidery I had bought for four dollars 
 (sixteen shillings). Selim’s face when I told him was 
 a picture. Unutterable scorn was written on every 
 feature. “ Four dollars,” he said sarcastically, “ why 
 you could buy a house for that in Fez then added, 
 “ tell me where you bought it.” I was quite annoyed 
 at my bargain being treated in this way, and told him 
 it was very cheap. 
 
 “ But where did you buy it ?” he asked again. 
 
 “ In the next street,” I answered, “ two shops down 
 from the top on the left-hand side.” 
 
 Selim disappeared. 
 
 A few minutes later he came to me smiling, and 
 handed me a dollar. 
 
 “ What’s this for ? ” I asked. 
 
 “ Oh,” he said casually, “ I went back to the shop 
 and told the man I was your servant and that he had 
 swindled you, and also informed him if he did not give 
 me a dollar’s commission I would bring you back to 
 return the stuff and take back the money.” 
 
 I 
 
1 14 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “ And he gave you a dollar ? ” I asked in surprise. 
 
 “ Certainly,” he responded, “ and here it is.” 
 
 Even I who speak the language to some extent get 
 swindled, knowing as I do the Moors and their ways. 
 How much more must a stranger be done who has to 
 speak with an interpreter, who, of course, must have 
 his commission, and a very considerable one it gene- 
 rally is. On the whole there is very little to be bought 
 in Fez, nor do the Moors yet understand that an 
 Englishman will buy anything that is old and ugly, or 
 at least fantastic. They try, unavailingly of course, 
 to tempt one with Manchester calicoes of brilliant 
 hues, or very poor modern silver work from Mequinez. 
 The old striped brocaded silk, long since ceased to 
 be manufactured, is very beautiful both in texture 
 and colour, but is very difficult to obtain in anything 
 like good condition. “ Haities,” or wall-hangings, of 
 coloured velvet panels arranged in the form of 
 Moorish arches and embroidered in gold, can some- 
 times be picked up, and now and again a good old 
 Spanish sword, but the whole country is very devoid 
 of objets d’art, and what there is is usually much 
 poorer in design and execution than the work of 
 India, Persia, Damascus, or Egypt. 
 
 But we have done our shopping, and will return 
 once more ; not by the high-road this time, but by 
 little winding lanes with tunnel-like passages under 
 the overhanging eaves of the houses ; through a small 
 open square or two, past a few richly-painted and 
 carved doors of mosque or tomb, and so on once 
 more to New Fez and its gardens. 
 
 The inhabitants of Fez are a peculiarly fair race. 
 I do not, of course, mean to say that in Fez the gene- 
 
Fez. 
 
 i '5 
 
 rality of men are fair, because so few of the people of 
 Fez are really natives of that town, the tribes round, 
 and the constantly arriving caravans, forming the 
 chief part of the visible population, and again, the 
 intermarriage of these original inhabitants with black 
 or dusky wives has greatly changed their colour. 
 Yet amongst the old Fez families that have kept 
 distinctively to themselves, and have intermarried 
 amongst themselves, the rule is to find the men with 
 blue eyes and fair beards. Doubtless their origin is 
 from the far north, for they could never have settled 
 in the country at the time of the Arab invasion. 
 This same light type is found also a great deal 
 amongst the Beni M’Sara, and other mountain 
 tribes. 
 
 An important feature in the trade of Fez are the 
 Fondaks, which answer, perhaps, more to our corn or 
 coal exchanges than to any other of our institutions. 
 
 These Fondaks are often very beautiful buildings 
 of several storeys in height, open in the centre with a 
 “patio,” and surrounded by galleries in carved wood. 
 One especially at Fez is remarkable for its great 
 architectural beauty, not only with regard to its 
 interior, but also its magnificent gateway. They are 
 now almost entirely in the hands of the Jews, who 
 trade in various European goods. There are other 
 Fondaks of far less pretensions, which answer more 
 to the caravanserai, and where the weary animals, 
 who have borne their burdens from some far-away 
 corner of the country, rest during their sojourn in the 
 city. 
 
 While on the subject of the buildings of Fez, I 
 cannot pass on without slight mention of the public 
 
 I 2 
 
1 16 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 fountains. Though I have seen no fountains in Fez 
 to compare in beauty or workmanship with those in 
 the southern capital of Morocco, yet there are some 
 of picturesque design. The excellent manner in 
 which w.ater is supplied to the city of Fez renders 
 these fountains in the northern capital of not so 
 much importance as those in the southern, where 
 water is only procurable at certain spots. However, 
 in spite of the “ waterworks ” of Fez, the fountains 
 are well patronized. 
 
 There still remain in Fez some relics of the great 
 libraries that in former times were the chief ornament 
 of the place, but the books have been worm-eaten 
 almost to dust, and decay and damp have set their 
 indelible seal upon the manuscripts. Nevertheless 
 there must be still works of great value hidden away 
 in the recesses of the library that adjoins the Kairouin 
 mosque, which probably will never come to light till 
 some European power takes possession of the country. 
 I am thankful that I shall not be a school-boy in 
 that day, for rumour says that the lost books of 
 Euclid — are there such things as the lost books of 
 Euclid ? — lie hidden there, together with some of 
 Livy’s hitherto undiscovered works. Probably not. 
 Probably when the libraries are opened, as they 
 undoubtedly will be some day in the future, nothing 
 but musty Arab manuscripts will be found, the others 
 having been destroyed by the bigotry and ignorance 
 of the native rulers. 
 
 It is quite impossible, of course, for any Christian 
 to force an entry into these libraries, as, pertaining to 
 the mosques, they areheld religiouslysacred,and there- 
 fore must never be defiled by the feet of Christian or 
 jew. 
 
Fez. 
 
 i t 7 
 
 During my two visits to Fez I made several charm- 
 ing excursions outside the city walls, on one occasion 
 riding completely round the city — a ride of some 
 four or five hours’ duration. The views from all sides 
 are lovely, one especially so, when one has reached 
 the higher ground of the cemetery to the south of the 
 town. On all sides are the domed tombs of the 
 saints, while here and there a change in the scene is 
 given by the presence of dark green olive-trees. Far 
 below one lies Fez, the whole city clearly visible. 
 To the left is New Fez, with the Sultan’s palace and 
 park, and the many gardens with their white houses 
 half-hidden in the trees ; to the right lies Old Fez, 
 one mass of flat roofs, in which scarcely a street can 
 be traced, so narrow are they. Here, there, and 
 everywhere, rise the minarets of the many mosques. 
 Between the cemetery and the town is a deep gully, 
 through which flows one of the branches of the Wad 
 Fas. High above the stream, on the summit of the 
 steep bank, are the walls of the town, great stone and 
 “tabbia” erections of immense height, but fast falling 
 to rack and ruin. Picturesque though in the extreme 
 they are, half-covered with creepers, while on the old 
 turreted towers have sprung up big trees and vines. 
 In one place the whole wall and a tower have slid 
 into the stream far below, and there they lie to-day, 
 the water forming a pool above them and rushing 
 over the crumbling stone in tiny cascades. 
 
 Unlike Mequinez, Fez does not boast very fine 
 gates, the principal entrance of the town being most 
 insignificant, though the two gates of the Kasbah are 
 finer. The great builder of gates, Moulai Ismail, did 
 not turn his attention much to Fez, but rested content 
 with his works in Mequinez. 
 
i iS The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 The soks, or markets, of Fez are well worth visiting’. 
 These soks are held on two days of the week on 
 a large piece of ground just outside the city 
 walls. 
 
 Here one sees exposed for sale all manner of native 
 manufactures. Auctioneers run screaming up and 
 down amongst the crowd, hawking embroideries, 
 swords, pistols, and all manner of second-hand goods. 
 Women sit veiled and cross-legged, selling under- 
 clothing and rough mountaineer’s haiks and blankets. 
 In another quarter is the market for horses, mules, 
 and donkeys ; and here the professional riders gallop 
 up and down on the sturdy little barbs, crying out 
 the latest bid. Another quarter is given over to the 
 sellers of corn and barley, while in every direction 
 are the caterers for the public amusement — snake- 
 charmers from the Sus valley, story-tellers from 
 everywhere', powder play by the mountaineers, a 
 Hamdouchi hacking holes in his head with a battle- 
 axe, acrobats and musicians. But let us wander 
 through and look at them more closely. 
 
 A large ring of people surrounds a snake-charmer 
 from far-away Sus. He stands talking to the people, 
 while his three musicians render anything but sweet 
 music on tomtoms, gimbris, and shrill pipes. 
 
 “Ah Sidi ben Aissa,” 1 he cries. “ Sidi ben Aissa 
 will not allow me to be hurt. He will guard me 
 when I draw forth from this basket the terrible 
 Lefah 2 of the Sus. Come and see him,” he cries, 
 forgetting the religious part of his performance in 
 his endeavour to increase his crowd. “Come and see 
 
 1 Patron saint of snake-charmers, &c., buried at Mequinez. 
 
 2 Puff-adder. 
 
Fez. 
 
 119 
 
 the Lefah, with fangs two inches long. In the name 
 of Sidi ben Aissa, charity ?” 
 
 Many are the small copper “flus” thrown to him 
 by his admirers, when he draws out of a reed basket 
 a Lefah. A shudder runs through the crowd. I 
 notice how very careful our friend is not to allow the 
 Lefah to get a chance of biting him. He holds it 
 safely by its neck as he hands it round for inspection. 
 Certainly its fangs are there, and very large they are 
 too. He plays no tricks, however, with his venomous 
 pupil, who is soon returned to the basket ; but with 
 other and harmless snakes he performs a few poor 
 feats. Holding a snake at arm’s length, he shakes 
 his head — clean shaven except for one long lock — 
 violently to and fro, at the same time groaning and 
 crying to himself. This is supposed to charm the 
 snake, as well as to put himself into a religious frenzy, 
 during which he can suffer no harm. 
 
 Suddenly he puts his tongue out, the next moment 
 the serpent has fixed its long sharp fangs into it, and 
 the charmer is running round the circle with the snake 
 suspended from his mouth. More money is thrown 
 into the ring, and our friend moves off to another 
 part of the sbks to perform elsewhere. 
 
 The next crowd we pass is round a story-teller. 
 Wild indeed are his gesticulations as he alternately 
 flourishes his arms over his head, and springs forward 
 with spasmodic gestures. His story is just finished. 
 A tambourine is passed round, into which his admiring 
 auditors drop their offerings. Five minutes later he 
 tells another story. 
 
 This is his modus operandi. Round goes the tam- 
 bourine first, but not much is dropped in. Then a 
 
i 20 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 couple of musicians strike up a little music. That 
 ceases. The tambourine is handed round once more, 
 and the story commences. 
 
 “ Long ago,” he says, “ in the time of Moulai Idrees 
 and Moulai Abdul Kader” — here he kisses his hand, 
 as a sign of reverence, as do all the crowd— “there 
 was a poor man, a Shereef , 3 who lived a very righteous 
 life, nor ever did he commit any sin. But he was 
 very poor, and had not wherewithal to supply himself 
 with food. One night, as he lay asleep on his bed, 
 a vision aopeared to him, and he saw standing before 
 him” — [here the tambourine was passed round with 
 some success] — “the Prophet Mahommed, the be- 
 loved of God, the Head of God ” — [more hand-kiss- 
 ing] — in a flame of fire. And the Prophet said to 
 him, ‘ Abdullah , 4 I have seen thy poverty, and am 
 come to help thee. I have seen how, even in the 
 days of starvation, thou hast never stolen, nor bor- 
 rowed not to return , 5 and now I will give thee great 
 wealth. Go early to-morrow to thy friend Achmedo, 
 and borrow his white horse. I will put it in his mind 
 to lend it thee ; and take this horse and ride to the 
 pass of the lost lamb, and then leap on thy horse 
 from the precipice, and surely thou wilt find great 
 wealth.’ 
 
 “ Before Abdullah had time to thank the Prophet — 
 God shower blessings upon his holy beard — he had 
 vanished. Early he arose and donned his jelab, 
 and set forth and begged the loan of the white horse 
 from Achmedo, his friend. After three hours’ ride, 
 
 3 Descendant of the Prophet Mohammed. 
 
 4 Slave of God. 
 
 5 Abdullah must have been very different to most Moors. 
 
Fez. 
 
 12 I 
 
 he reached the pass of the lost lamb, and gazed over 
 the precipice. A hundred feet at least in height it 
 was. Gathering his reins in his hand, he galloped at 
 the brink ” — [round goes the tambourine with still 
 more success] — “but on the edge he reined in his 
 horse for fear. 
 
 “ Five times he essayed to go, but each time his 
 courage failed him. While he was sitting on his 
 horse, he suddenly heard a great noise behind him, 
 and, turning, saw ” — [tambourine again] — “the Holy 
 Prophet himself, seated on a snow-white horse, with 
 fire bursting forth from its nostrils and mouth, coming 
 towards him at full speed. 
 
 ‘“Weak man/ he cried as he passed, ‘and hadst 
 thou fear? Follow me ! ’ 
 
 “ A moment later the Prophet and his horse had 
 disappeared over the edge of the precipice. A mo- 
 ment later, too, Abdullah had followed his example. 
 It seemed an hour he was in the air, but suddenly he 
 alighted ; his horse never fell, but merely tore up the 
 turf with its paw. 
 
 “ He looked round ; the Prophet had disappeared ; 
 but in the hole that the fall of the horse had caused, 
 lay” — [tambourine with evident success] — “an iron 
 ring. 
 
 “After some hard work, Abdullah succeeded in 
 raising from the ground an iron chest full of gold 
 pieces, and so lived in luxury till the Holy Prophet 
 lifted him into his bosom and placed him near to 
 God. 
 
 “ And so are the righteous rewarded.” [More tam- 
 bourine.] 
 
 Close by are a party of mountaineers at their 
 
122 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 powder play, or as they call it, “ lab-al-baroud.” 
 Splendid figures they are too, as they half-leap, hah- 
 dance round in a circle, waving their long-barrelled 
 guns on high, and uttering loud cries. Suddenly they 
 throw their guns in the air, catch them again, and 
 set them spinning at arm’s length above their heads. 
 Faster and faster spin the guns, till the silver-mounted 
 barrels are only as a flow of light in the brilliant sun- 
 light. Suddenly the spinning ceases, the guns are 
 given one fantastic spin and fired. Not as picturesque, 
 perhaps, as the “lab-al-baroud” on horseback; but 
 these tall fair men, with brown embroidered jelebas, 
 gorgeously coloured powder-flasks, belts and shot- 
 bags, and a red gun-case wound round their heads, 
 are very fine. 
 
 From the wild heights of the Beni M’Sara. Beni 
 M’Sgilda, and Ghruneh they come, country almost 
 untrodden by Christian feet . 6 
 
 But time is gliding on, the sun has risen high in 
 the vault of heaven, and the heat is intense in the 
 sole. Business is slack now, except for the half-nude 
 water-carriers with their goat-skin bottles and brass 
 cups, whose cry of “ alma-alma ” 7 is more heard than 
 ever, and the “ genouah niggers from the far 
 Soudan and Timbuctoo — with their strange head- 
 dresses of feathers, shells and matted cords, to whom 
 the heat is as nothing compared with their own 
 country. What grimaces the thick-lipped hideous 
 old fellows make as they clap their noisy cymbals 
 and hop first on one leg and then on another. The 
 
 6 I believe I am the only European who has visited those 
 mountain fastnesses. I was there in March and April, 1889. 
 
 7 Water. 
 
Fez. 
 
 songs of these genouah are curious. Arabic, of course 
 is not their native language, and is only acquired on 
 the long way from Timbuctoo to Morocco. The first 
 words they learn are naturally of food, and thus their 
 favourite song is merely : — 
 
 “ Colou jedada, 
 
 Colou patata — 
 
 Makleia.” 
 
 In other words, “ Bring the chicken, bring the pota- 
 toes — my food.” 
 
 This is their highest ideal of poetry. 
 
 One is always surprised in Morocco not to find 
 more beggars. Certainly the place, especially Tan- 
 gier, is not devoid of them, but in the interior they 
 are very little trouble. They sit round ' the mosque 
 doors, crying in monotonous tone, “In the name of 
 Moulai Idrees, charity ; in the nameofMoulai Idrees, 
 charity,” but they never impede one’s traffic as they 
 do in Southern Europe. 
 
 The saint-business of Fez is a very extraordinary 
 one. One never does anything in Fez without 
 naming Moulai Idrees. He is the patron saint of the 
 children, of sweetmeats, of everything. When a man 
 sits down he cries, “ Bismillah, Moulai Idrees when 
 he gets up he does the same. Every town has its 
 saint. Morocco city has Sidi bel Abbas ; Mequinez 
 Sidi Ali ben Hamdouch, Sidi ben Aissa, Sidi Ab- 
 durrahman M’jdoub, and Moulai Ismail ; Faraiche 
 has a lady, Falla M’nana ; while Alcazar has a very 
 holy saint indeed, Sidi Ali bu Rhaleh, whose shrine 
 is one of the most beautiful in the country. 
 
 I was never able to see the Sultan’s Palace at Fez. 
 
124 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 The first time I was there the excuse given was that 
 his Majesty was away, therefore it was impossible ; 
 the second time, that his Majesty being then in resi- 
 dence at Fez, the palace was of course invisible. 
 Such are the Moors, they always have an excuse. 
 Instead of saying straight out, “What! defile our 
 Sultan’s Palace by allowing a dog of a Christian to 
 put his feet into it, not we, Kaffir-billah 1 ” they 
 apologize with the utmost courtesy. 
 
 The sultans who have left most impress on Fez 
 by their works are Almanzar, Moulai Ismail, and 
 Sidi Mahommed, the father of the reigning sovereign, 
 who built the new palace, and Moulai Yezid, who 
 raised or began to raise a palace which was to be 
 the biggest in the world. However, only one room 
 was anything like completed, and it never possessed 
 a roof. The remains of this chamber form one of the 
 largest squares in Fez, some two or three hundred 
 yards in length, a hundred in width, with walls nearer 
 eighty than seventy feet in height. I fancy it would 
 have puzzled the Moorish architects of his day to 
 roof in this “ banqueting-hall.” Some of the ruins 
 just outside the walls of Fez are very pretty, probably 
 the remains of some unfinished palace, in and out of 
 which flows the River Fas. 
 
 Between the districts of New and Old Fez are a 
 great many water-wheels used for raising water. 
 One especially large one which I had seen on my 
 first visit to the capital in 1887 had disappeared two 
 years later— crumbled away,- — -and it was about time 
 too, as probably it was the one mentioned by Leo 
 Africanus. 
 
 A little beyond the place of the water-wheels the 
 
Fez. 
 
 125 
 
 Sultan is engaged upon enclosing for himself as a 
 garden a large piece of open ground, traversed by 
 numbers of little streams. As his Majesty is no 
 mean landscape gardener doubless he will make a 
 very charming place of it. 
 
 It was most interesting to see the high wall that is 
 to enclose this new park being built. Tabbia, a kind 
 of poor concrete, is, as usual, the material employed. 
 On the summit of the half-built wall, already some 
 fifteen or twenty feet in height, stood a long row of 
 Moors and black slaves, with heavy mallets in their 
 hands. As they worked they sang a curious mo- 
 notonous chant, and at the repetition of some par- 
 ticular word, every minute or so, down came the 
 hundred or more mallets in perfect unison. 
 
 It is close to this spot that the royal barracks are 
 situated, and, as during my visit to Fez in January 
 and February, 1889, his Majesty’s troops were in the 
 town, I saw these barracks full. There is no house 
 at all, merely three sides of a large square enclosed 
 by walls. At the bottom of the wall is a sort of 
 rough fa9ade, divided into small square chambers, 
 into which there is just room to squeeze a man, and 
 into some a horse. 
 
 While on the subject of the Moorish army a few 
 details may be interesting. The army is divided 
 into two parts — the Askari or regulars, and the 
 Maghasni, the militia, or more properly, yeomanry. 
 
 The Askari were, and are certainly now, a wild 
 lot, but what order and regulation does exist amongst 
 them is due entirely to the energy and untiring 
 attention of a Scotchman, Kaid Maclean, who for 
 some twelve years has exiled himself from civilization 
 
125 The Lan i of an African Saltan. 
 
 and followed his imperial master and his troops 
 through every vicissitude. 
 
 In what state Kaid Maclean found the troops on 
 his arrival in Morocco one can only surmise, but 
 probably all the world over there was not a more 
 ruffianly set of robbers and thieves than the soldiers 
 of his Imperial Highness the Sultan of Morocco. 
 
 However, under Maclean’s guidance things quickly 
 changed — very quickly compared to the alteration 
 and progress of other Moorish departments — and 
 from a wild horde the troops became a comparatively 
 well-drilled set of men. Their numbers were in- 
 creased, and probably at the present moment the 
 Sultan has some thirty-five thousand regulars at his 
 disposal, and another sixty or seventy thousand 
 irregulars (very), which he could call out if occasion 
 necessitated it. 
 
 The Askari are armed for the most part with 
 Winchester repeating-riflcs. Their uniform — a most 
 inappropriate word, as anything less uniform I have 
 scarcely ever set eyes upon — consists, or is supposed 
 to consist, of red tunics with yellow braid, blue 
 baggy trousers a la Turk reaching to the knees, bare 
 legs and yellow shoes, and a crimson “tarboosh,” or 
 fez. However, this costume is much varied. Some 
 have pawned or sold their unmentionables, many 
 their tunics, shoes are few and far between, not so 
 the holes in the few the men do possess. Their pay, 
 which by-the-bye they very seldom get, is extraordi- 
 narily small, I am afraid to say how small, and on 
 this pay they have to supply their rations, &c. 
 However, I fancy they make up their want of pay by 
 pillage and robbery. Yet in spite of all this these 
 
Fez. 
 
 127 
 
 men fight well, and go through their drills with regu- 
 larity. It seems that while morally the Moors have 
 sunk to the lowest depths compared to their ancestors 
 of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, yet they 
 have succeeded in retaining some of that innate 
 courage and love of warfare that existed in those days. 
 
 Many are the stories I have heard of the pluck 
 of these men, and they have ample opportunity for 
 showing it, for every summer they are engaged in 
 active service against some revolutionary tribe, and 
 these tribesmen fight with desperation. 
 
 The last great wars in Morocco were those of a 
 few years back, when the Sultan, at the head of his 
 troops, crossed the great Atlas Mountains and devas- 
 tated the Sus Valley and its rebel inhabitants ; again, 
 in 1888, there was considerable fighting in the tribe 
 of the Btni M’Guild. 
 
 The manner of warfare practised is to march 
 through the offending country, to burn their villages, 
 to kill and to pillage, to kidnap or enslave every one 
 or everything they come across. But it must not be 
 thought that the tribes offer no resistance to the 
 uninvited presence of the Sultan’s troops ; on the 
 contrary, they fight till they are able to fight no 
 longer ; and to give an idea of their courage, f will 
 tell one anecdote of an event that happened only 
 last year (1888) in the Beni M’Guild. Twenty -seven 
 of the head-men of the tribe were taken prisoners 
 towards the end of the war, and were brought into 
 the Sultan’s camp. Chained to one another in a 
 long row, they were brought forward before the 
 whole camp. One of the Sultan’s- soldiers ap- 
 proached the poor fellows and asked : — 
 
1 28 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “ Will you acknowledge the Sultan or die ? ” 
 
 “ Die,” replied the man, and his head was hacked 
 off with a dagger. 
 
 All twenty-seven gave the same answer and were 
 similarly treated, even to the twenty-seventh, who 
 had seen the twenty-six men, some of whom were 
 his brothers, to whom he was chained, brutally killed. 
 If this is not pluck, what is ? 
 
 But enough of the horrors of war. 
 
 There is another division of the Sultan’s army that 
 needs describing, the Maghasm or “ yeomanry.” 
 For the most part they consist of well-to-do men, 
 and are all mounted. They are armed with hint- 
 locks of native manufacture, fight very little, and are 
 very picturesque. Their pay is slightly higher than 
 that of the Askari, when they get it at all, but being 
 mounted they travel about, and so have far more 
 opportunity for practising their diplomatic skill. 
 Instead of open robbery and pillage, at the very 
 mention of which they would be horrified, they 
 satisfy their consciences and their stomachs by 
 obtaining food and money under false pretences. 
 There is a sliding scale in crime, just as there is in 
 everything else, but I must say I prefer the out-and- 
 out thief. 
 
 It is one of these Maghasnieh that accompanies 
 the European traveller during his journeyings in 
 Morocco, though I confess I have on several occasions 
 put international law on one side and travelled, 
 greatly to my advantage, without one. There is 
 nothing I think in Morocco more picturesque than 
 these old soldiers with their long white flowing 
 garments, gorgeously caparisoned horses, and guns 
 
Fez. 
 
 1 29 
 
 with barrels like a hop-pole. They are one of the 
 commonest sights in the country; all along “the 
 road ” one is passing them, generally with a slave 
 riding a mule which bears the Raid’s — they all call 
 themselves Raid — luggage, amongst which one can 
 sometimes catch a glimpse of a wife, hidden away in 
 rugs and bundles. There is yet a small body of 
 men to be dealt with, not deserving of being called 
 a division of the army, yet in their own opinion of 
 the vastest importance, a not uncommon idea in 
 Morocco amongst everybody. These are the Bok- 
 hari, or black body-guard of the Sultan, all negroes, 
 mounted on black horses and dressed in long white 
 haiks and sulhams. A very fine body of men they 
 are, too, upon ornamental occasions; but I doubt, in 
 spite of Lord Wolseley’s paper in the “ Nineteenth 
 Century,” their capacities in warfare, as they ruin 
 their nerve and constitution by the enormous amount 
 of kiff — hemp — and hashish that they respectively 
 smoke and take. 
 
 A great institution at Fez are the Hummum or 
 baths, but as I shall in my chapter on Morocco City 
 give an account of a visit I paid in disguise to the 
 Dukala Hummum there, I will not touch upon the 
 subject here. 
 
 The prison of Fez is well worth a visit. There is 
 a great deal written and said about the horrors of 
 the Moorish prisons — a great deal too much in fact 
 — for I must confess I cannot in everything agree 
 with those philanthropists who desire to make the 
 prisons far more convenient and comfortable than 
 the very houses of the Moors. Of course I am well 
 aware that the prisons that one sees above ground 
 
 K 
 
130 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 are but a very small portion of the place, and that 
 below ground are the reeking dungeons where men 
 are left to rot to death or to sink and perish by 
 starvation. Now no influence brought to bear upon 
 the Moorish government will alter these subterranean 
 cells ; all that they will do will be to improve the 
 prison yard above ground, which is not necessary. 
 Certainly the treatment of the prisoners is not gentle 
 or kind ; one sees them chained to one another by 
 heavy iron chains at times, though most of them 
 are not thus made fast. A certain number of these 
 prisoners are no doubt innocent of offence, and many 
 cases of mistaken identity must occur, but most 
 have committed heinous crimes. The enclosure in 
 which they are confined is not over clean, but I have 
 seen many and many a dirtier house amongst the 
 richer Moors, while in the prisons the prisoners are 
 allowed to smoke, and are all in each other’s company, 
 and not in solitary confinement. On one occasion, 
 in Fez, I asked permission of the Bascha to visit the 
 prison. He told me to go the following Friday. 
 However, mistaking the day, I went on Thursday 
 and found them at work cleaning it up for my to- 
 morrow’s inspection. 
 
 After all, the Moors are not far removed from 
 savages. They possess very little feeling of any 
 sort ; love little but their women— whom they treat 
 as an English costermonger treats his donkey — and 
 sport, and were we to try refining punishments upon 
 them, we should altogether fail in carrying out the 
 ends we are striving after. It is the fashion, of course, 
 to be given up to philanthropy at present with 
 regard to Morocco and other like countries. It is 
 
Fez. 
 
 I 3 I 
 
 the fashion to try and raise the women from the 
 only sphere they know, to try and Christianize the 
 Moors and introduce drink, in fact by every means 
 in our power to overthrow the social system of 
 another country in which we have no other interest 
 than as an object for our philanthropy. If instead we 
 would attempt, as some are attempting, to root out 
 the seeds of evil that we Europeans have introduced 
 into the country, to do away with the indiscriminate 
 protection to low Jews by one or two powers who 
 use this protection merely for the sake of robbing 
 the Moors who have it not ; if we were to make the 
 introduction of Spanish robbers and cut-throats into 
 Tangier a question for an European conference, and 
 by checking it render the houses of the Europeans 
 less likely to be robbed, and the Europeans them- 
 selves less likely to be garotted ; if a strong check 
 were to be given to the liquor traffic, and if the 
 Christians in the country would learn that the Moors 
 are men and not beasts, then and then only we 
 might have some reason — some excuse — for expend- 
 ing philanthropy and money in Morocco. 
 
 There is but one more institution in Fez that 
 needs, I think, mentioning, and that is the Mellah — 
 or Ghetto — and its inhabitants. If one were to 
 spend a year in London in collecting all the most 
 abominable filth and piling it in a narrow street, just 
 cutting a pathway through the centre, and then 
 sprinkling over it to the thickness of about one foot 
 the drainage of ill-drained houses, the corpses of 
 cats, the heads, legs, and wings of chickens, and on 
 the summit of all this setting half a dozen scabby 
 children to play, one would have some idea of the 
 
 K 2 
 
132 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Jewish quarter in Fez. Nor morally are the Jews 
 of Morocco better than they are domestically. 
 
 Like all others who visit Morocco, at first I was 
 shocked at the treatment the Jews appeared to 
 suffer, and pitied them most sincerely ; but it soon 
 passed off, and I have come to recognize, through 
 intimate knowledge, that there is no tribe of men 
 more degraded, with less amour-propre, or more 
 ready to rob and plunder, than the Moorish Jew. 
 Of course there are exceptions, and from some of 
 the Moorish Jews I have received great kindness, 
 and learnt a great deal as to the internal history of 
 Moorish affairs. 
 
 But though I speak strongly as regards the Jews, 
 yet it is not difficult in looking back over their past 
 history to find their excuses ; they have always 
 been, especially in Spain, whence most of the 
 Morocco Jews originally came, a persecuted race, 
 and there is nothing that bemeans a people more 
 than a long period of persecution. However, in 
 writing against the Jews here, I do not go so far as 
 some, and desire to totally abolish the only safeguard 
 the Jews have from the hands of the Moorish 
 government. Every one who has watched the 
 Morocco question during the last few years, cannot 
 have missed perceiving the battle that is waging pro 
 and against “ consular protection.” 
 
 The state of the case is simply this. Protection 
 must exist until the Sultan and the Moorish govern- 
 ment can be trusted to rule in such a way as renders 
 it unnecessary. It has lately been asked in an 
 article in one of our London papers, re the scandal 
 which came to light only two years ago as to the 
 
Fez. 
 
 selling of this protection, “ How comes protection to 
 be a saleable article ? ” The answer is as simple as 
 the question. Because the obtaining of protection 
 is the only means by which Jews and Moors alike 
 can escape the rapacious plunderings of the Moorish 
 government. 
 
 Of course I do not argue that this protection has 
 not been much misused, that the sale of this pro- 
 tection by men who are representing their country 
 in Morocco is a most degrading fact, yet taking its 
 advantages with its abuses, I have no hesitation in 
 stating that the abolition of “ protection ” in Morocco 
 would at once destroy not only the safeguard of 
 property, but the safety of lives. 
 
 I do not wish, however, in this work to enter at all 
 into Moorish politics. My one object during my 
 visits to Morocco has been and always will be to 
 keep myself free from the petty squabblings and 
 party strife that exists amongst the Europeans there, 
 so that with these few words on Protection, I will 
 return once more to the Mellah at Fez, not that 
 one often returns there after having once visited it. 
 The Mellah is a walled portion of the town, with 
 several gates, which are closed at night. Certain 
 restrictions are laid upon the Jews — the unprotected 
 Jews, of course — by the Moorish government. They 
 are not allowed to ride on horseback, or to wear 
 shoes in the Moorish quarters, though this does not 
 affect them much, as most are too mean to buy 
 them. 
 
 Beyond mentioning their love of swindling, their 
 vice and drunken habits, the utter filth in which they 
 live, their bemeaning and cringing ways, I think 
 
134 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 there is little more to say about them. Amongst 
 the general Jewish community domestic morality is 
 not at a high standard. Yet, as skilled workmen, 
 the Jews far surpass the Moors. They are the 
 workers in silver and gold embroideries, tailors, and 
 minters, though none of their work can compare in 
 delicacy or design with the work of India, Persia, 
 Damascus, or Egypt. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FROM FEZ TO TANGIERS, VIA WAZAN., 
 
 No adventures happened to us during our stay at 
 Fez, though I had a quarrel with the Bascha, or 
 governor, that at one time threatened to be serious. 
 
 On our arrival in the city, I had proceeded to the 
 Governor’s official residence to deliver the letter of 
 introduction we had brought with us from Si Torres) 
 the Moorish Minister of Foreign Affairs resident at 
 Tangiers, and in compliance with the terms of this 
 letter to ask for a house during our stay in the city. 
 This house was immediately promised, but evening 
 set in without any definite abode being allotted to us- 
 I again called upon the Bascha and asked that a house 
 should be given us before nightfall ; this he promised, 
 but again no house was forthcoming, and the Bascha 
 sent word without our knowledge, that our tents were 
 to be pitched in an open space of ground, situated 
 between New and Old Fez. This was done by our 
 men, who spent the night there, Raid Maclean’s 
 brother, Captain Alan Maclean, very kindly giving us 
 shelter in his charming little house in New Fez. 
 
 First thing in the morning I again called upon the 
 Bascha, who was sitting in court surrounded by his 
 officials and soldiers. He took no notice of my 
 presence at all, and continued hearing case after case, 
 
136 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 and keeping me waiting. This was too much, and I 
 pushed my way into the court and demanded a house, 
 a demand that was refused. On hearing this refusal 
 I ordered my soldiers to take down all my camp and 
 remove tents, animals and all, without the city walls, 
 and there pitch just under the windows of the Sultan’s 
 palace. Then turning to the fat, disconcerted old 
 Mussulman, I added — 
 
 “ I shall fire guns all night, and doubtless his 
 Majesty will inquire in the morning what it was for. 
 I will then inform him of your behaviour.” 
 
 The old boy knew that this would never do, and at 
 once sent one of his soldiers to find me a house. I 
 followed the man, and was shown into the filthiest of 
 filthy stables — doubtless meant as an insult. The hot 
 weather and this combined made me lose my temper, 
 and returning to the court-house, I assailed the 
 Bascha with such choice language, as probably he 
 had never heard before. This attack brought us a 
 slightly better residence, good enough at least for our 
 men and baggage, though I myself would have 
 rather slept in the street than in that cesspool of a 
 residence. For this abode the Bascha demanded a 
 rent of a dollar a day, a rent unheard of in Fez. On 
 leaving Fez I visited him once more, and jingling the 
 dollars in my hand, demanded first a receipt. This 
 puzzled the old gentleman, as he knew perfectly well 
 that if he gave a receipt it would be handed over to 
 our Consul at Tangier, and by him to the native 
 Minister of Foreign Affairs. He therefore refused t 
 and I likewise refused to pay the money unless I ob- 
 tained a receipt in full. So the matter ended, I pro- 
 mising to pay the money into the Consulate at 
 
>37 
 
 From Fez to Tangier , via JVazan. 
 
 Tangier on my arrival there, and promising also that 
 he would receive a letter from our Minister that would 
 open his eyes. Thanks to the kindness of Sir William 
 Kirby-Green, a letter was sent, and such a letter as 
 did doubtless open his eyes. The epistle was not 
 sent to the Bascha himself, but to Si Gharnet, the 
 Minister of Foreign Affairs at Fez, nor before leaving 
 that city did we allow the opportunity to slip of 
 having the Sultan informed of how we had been 
 treated. The following day his Majesty interviewed 
 his Bascha, but what passed between them I know 
 not. 
 
 One other incident at Fez is worth mentioning, as 
 showing a trait in the character of the Moors which I 
 cannot but admire. 
 
 We were shopping one day, and passing one of the 
 little booths, Ingram saw some embroideries to which 
 he took a great fancy. On approaching to ask the 
 price, the man informed us that he regretted he could 
 not sell to Christians, as he was a Shereef, a descen- 
 dant of Mahommed’s. Ingram was much taken with 
 the man’s convictions, even proof against money, and 
 the kindly way he apologized for not being able to 
 sell, and especially by the man remarking as an after- 
 thought, “ I cannot sell to the Christians, but I can 
 drink coffee with them,” and straightway he ordered 
 a cup of coffee which Ingram drank. The following 
 morning Ingram took the man some carpentering tools 
 as a present, with which he was much pleased. Every 
 morning he wished us a hearty “ good-day,” as we 
 passed, and on our leaving the city brought us a pre- 
 sent of a basket of dates. 
 
 On the 9th of February, we bade adieu to our kind 
 
1 3 S The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 host and hostess, and left the city. I cannot find 
 words to thank Kaid and Mrs. Maclean and Captain 
 Alan Maclean for their kindness to us during our 
 whole stay. We lived with them all the time, and 
 turned their house into a sort of mixture between a 
 bear-pit and an old curiosity shop. Had it not been 
 for their presence in Fez, and with the scant civility 
 we received from the Bascha, I verily believe we 
 should have been compelled to leave the city the day 
 after our arrival. 
 
 We brought away many things from Fez, haities, 
 or wall-hangings in velvet embroidered in gold, old 
 Hispano-Moorish swords, Moorish manuscripts, some 
 beautifully illuminated ; carpets, and embroideries 
 galore, yet there is not very much to buy in Fez, or 
 rather not very much variety. As a rule we were able 
 to obtain things very cheap by bargaining. 
 
 Our mules and horses had all been re-shod, our 
 saddles and harness mended and repaired, and all 
 that remained was to organize our men once more, 
 who had fallen into lazy habits during our residence 
 in the town. 
 
 However, after a hard morning’s work we saw our 
 mules depart towards one o’clock on the 9th of 
 February, and we ourselves followed an hour or so 
 later. 
 
 A ride of an hour and a half brought us to our 
 camping-ground, where we found our tents already 
 pitched. On nearing the spot, we put our animals to 
 a gallop, with the result that Forestier’s mule — the 
 white one who wouldn’t cross the bridge the day we left 
 Tangier — commenced bucking, finally pitching the 
 great heavy saddle, and Forestier himself, of course, 
 
From Fez to Tangier , via IVazan. 139 
 
 on to the soft, clayey road. Luckily no damage was 
 done beyond a broken strap or so on the saddle. 
 
 Morocco is the country in which to study mules. As 
 a rule they do not carry out their reputation for stub- 
 bornness ; on the contrary, one generally finds them 
 simple-minded and lady-like in their behaviour. Now 
 and then, though, one comes across a brilliant excep- 
 tion, a sufficiently marked exception to prove a million 
 rules. 
 
 I once knew slightly — I never gave it the oppor- 
 tunity of a very near acquaintance — a mule who — I 
 cannot say which, it was too human in its habits — 
 would lie down in every river it forded. However, in 
 the end, like the naughty little boys in the tracts, it 
 suffered for its waywardness, for it smilingly laid 
 down in a deep river with a heavy pack on its back, 
 and was carried out to sea and died. Since this dis- 
 astrous affair there has been a marked improvement 
 in the behaviour of the Tangier mules. 
 
 To return from mules to Morocco. Forestier's 
 animal having been captured and its saddle read- 
 justed, no further adventure befell us, and we reached 
 camp in safety. 
 
 I was called away in the evening to see a poor 
 man who was very ill. The Moors have such belief 
 in the doctoring capabilities of all Europeans, that 
 one is besought at nearly every resting-place to visit 
 some sick person. In ninety-nine cases out of a 
 hundred, one could do no good, but still I never was 
 heartless enough to say so, but gave the patient a 
 harmless dose of something or other, and with a 
 “Trust in God, He is all-powerful,” or some such 
 common Moorish remark, would leave the sick person 
 
140 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 to his fate. In this village the man was lying sick 
 of dropsy. I told his relations I could do nothing, 
 but they implored me for medicine. I therefore gave 
 him a rhubarb pill, and some permanganate of potass 
 to wash his eyes with, which were inflamed and sore, 
 and with a heavy heart returned to camp. 
 
 The following day we left early, and keeping to 
 the slopes of the Zaroun Mountains, travelled for some 
 five or six hours in a north-westerly direction, finally 
 pitching our camp on a slight eminence in a little 
 village of Mekis. 
 
 How glorious the cool evenings after the heat of 
 the day were, when, dinner finished, we drank our 
 coffee and liqueurs under the light of a brilliant 
 moon ! A bonfire generally blazed before our tents, 
 sending its myriads of sparks, each like a miniature 
 fire-balloon, into the dark blue sky. What a life one 
 spends in camp ; nowhere in the world, except at sea, 
 is there anything to compare to it. The freshness, 
 the freedom, and even the comfort of a well-arranged 
 camp cannot be surpassed. One wakes in the 
 morning refreshed after sleep. There is no need to 
 get up and light the gas because of the fog ; a 
 splash in cold water, a cup of coffee and a cigarette 
 — and bliss. 
 
 We often spent our evenings in our men’s tent, 
 and amusing evenings they were, what with tea- 
 drinking and listening to the notes of the gimbri, a 
 small two-stringed instrument. A game they often 
 played, simple enough in itself, pleased us much. 
 One man would hide his eyes while the others 
 agreed on some particular object in the tent. Then 
 one would take the gimbri and strike up a few 
 monotonous notes, repeated again and again in fast 
 
From Fez to Tangier , via Wazan. 14 1 
 
 recurrence. To this accompaniment the seeker of 
 the object would say over and over again, “Ah tsim- 
 mah, ma shey tsimmah,” “ Here it is, it is not here ! ” 
 one syllable falling on each note. While repeating 
 this, the searcher would move about the tent, point- 
 ing to various objects. On nearing the object chosen, 
 the music increases in pace, and by the careful 
 omission of one note and a slight alteration of time, 
 the words no longer run smoothly, while “tsimmah, 
 tsimmah, tsimmah,” 8 fit in perfectly, and this con- 
 tinues, sometimes the latter music, when the searcher 
 is near the object, sometimes the former, when he 
 seeks in the wrong direction — until the object is dis- 
 covered. 
 
 Next morning we crossed the bridge of Mekis, 
 close to which was seated a most picturesque group 
 — a Kaid and a few soldiers, accompanied by their 
 servants on their way to the court. 
 
 They were resting for breakfast near some palm- 
 trees. The old Kaid was seated on a carpet of rich 
 colours, eating bread and dates, while the soldiers 
 were standing or sitting around. A black slave was 
 boiling water in a small brass tripod, while another 
 was polishing the brass tea-tray, and setting out the 
 little tea-glasses. The women-folk were seated apart, 
 carefully veiled, and the mules and horses were eating 
 the fresh green grass on the river banks. A lovely 
 picture they formed with the high mountains in the 
 background, the palm-trees overhead, and the fast- 
 flowing river of clean water at their feet. We 
 stopped and saluted them as we passed with a 
 “ Good morning, peace be with you,” and inquired of 
 each other our respective businesses and routes. 
 
 8 Here it is, here it is, here it is. 
 
142 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 All day, except for the last few hours, we were 
 passing along the valley to the east of the Zaroun 
 Mountains, steep wooded peaks, from out the dense 
 forests of which peeped here and there romantically 
 situated little walled towns and villages. We had 
 got well ahead of our mules and found ourselves at 
 a spot were two roads branched off. Our soldier 
 took one, though Antonio, who was keeping up with 
 us, had doubts as to its being the right one. Here a 
 man who had accompanied us from Fez left us. He 
 was a Shereef of Wazan, a cousin of the powerful 
 potentate of that name, but not being of the elder 
 branch, was delighted to accept our hospitality and 
 share food and tent with our men for a little 
 way on his road. He was a pleasant man, nearly 
 a negro in colour, but with fine features, and I was 
 quite sorry to see him leave us, and wave us 
 adieu with his scanty luggage — a Shereef’s battle-axe, 
 with a saucepan and a bunch of feathers tied to the 
 end. He was on his way to Tangier, as he spent his 
 life wandering from place to place, begging alms by 
 the way. Following our new road, we arrived at a 
 duar, where we decided to pitch our camp about 
 nightfall. Dismounting, we sat down to wait for our 
 mules. The sun went down and darkness quickly 
 set in, but no mules came. We knew they could 
 not have taken the wrong road, as we had told some 
 men we had passed on their way to Fez, which route 
 we had chosen. Things were getting serious, and 
 as the country we were in is so seldom travelled over 
 by Europeans, and its inhabitants are so fanatical, I 
 began to fear our caravan had been plundered, and to 
 blame myself for having ridden on ahead. Finally, 
 
From Fez to Tangier , via Wazan. 143 
 
 two hours of darkness having passed, I mounted my 
 horse and set out into the blackness to try and dis- 
 cover what had happened. A sharp tussle ensued 
 between my horse and myself — he being of an ex- 
 tremely nervous nature, — shivering with fright all 
 over at the idea of the dark way. In time, by means 
 of soft words and spurs, I persuaded him to proceed, 
 and away we set off at a gallop. There was much 
 mud and some few streams in the road, through 
 which we floundered, as it was quite impossible to see 
 a foot ahead, the moon and stars being hidden in 
 dense clouds. 
 
 For half an hour or so I rode on, keeping my 
 horse at a gallop, for the night was bitterly cold. At 
 last I heard something ahead, so pulling up short, I 
 cried out, “ Who comes here ? ” I was delighted to hear 
 in return a shout from the well-known voices of our 
 men, and two minutes later I had found the caravan. 
 
 The soldier had chosen the wrong road, and nine 
 of our mules had been immersed in the mud in one 
 bad mud-hole. What language they used against 
 Hadj Hamed, and no doubt he was very much to 
 blame, as had he chosen the upper road, we should 
 have reached our camping-ground without encoun- 
 tering any mud or water at all ; and they were 
 furious also with him, too, for allowing me to ride out 
 alone at night through country known to abound 
 with lawless robbers. 
 
 Finally, I led the caravan to the village, and did 
 my best to stop the curses the men hurled on the 
 ancestors of our old soldier. I told them it was not 
 curses we required, but the mules unloaded and the 
 camp pitched. 
 
144 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 We had to place our tents right amongst the 
 “ ghimas ” of the Arab villagers, on account of the 
 plundering propensities of the tribes around, and the 
 result was — smells. We were pretty well inocu- 
 lated by now with the perfumes of Araby, so did not 
 suffer much ; but the noise our guards made during 
 the night was terrible. One man, who had taken 
 refuge under the flap of my tent, spent the whole 
 night in repeating the Koran. By the rate he went 
 on I hoped that at last he would have finished the 
 whole book ; but no, or if he did, he started it off 
 again without a pause. I tried every means of 
 stopping him ; I cursed him, I begged him, 1 banged 
 against the side of the tent, finally I took up the 
 challenge and started off with “The Lady of the 
 Lake.” That made him stop for a time. At last, 
 out of breath, I ceased, and away he went again, and 
 at double speed, too, evidently to make up for lost 
 time. 
 
 There is one advantage in the noise these guards 
 make, that it keeps them awake. If. once they fell 
 asleep one could pull the whole camp down and 
 steal the animals without waking them. I believe 
 one could even put a dagger through their hearts 
 and kill them on the spot, and they wouldn’t wake. 
 The next day we had a very heavy shower soon after 
 leaving camp. The road was up and down over hills, 
 but not at all interesting, the country being bare of 
 trees and scarcely cultivated at all. 
 
 We saw more flocks of the pretty white ibises 
 (egrets) here than we had seen anywhere. All 
 through the country they are extremely common 
 and very tame. It is a charming sight to see the 
 
From Fez to Tangier , via Wazan. 145 
 
 Arab ploughman driving his heavy wooden plough, 
 while close around his footsteps hop these lovely 
 birds picking up the insects the severed earth un- 
 covers ; often, too, they settle on the backs of the 
 kine and sheep, and no doubt make a good meal 
 there, if Moorish kine resemble Moorish peasants. 
 Like the storks, the natives do them no harm, but 
 treat them with respect and almost reverence. This 
 is a curious fact, as the ibis was a sacred bird in 
 Egyptian mythology, nor is this the sole case in which 
 the present Moors and the past Egyptians resemble 
 one another, as the ape and the cat — especially the 
 former — are also respected, as though some ancient 
 tradition had been handed down from those "early 
 times. 
 
 In pouring rain we forded the Sebou, having 
 passed shortly before the conspicuous tomb of Sidi 
 Mahammed al Shleh. These white-domed marabouts 
 are found all through the country, scattered here 
 there and everywhere, adding much to the charm of 
 the scenery, especially from the fact that all vegeta- 
 tion is considered as sacred in their immediate vicinity, 
 and allowed free growth. 
 
 Morocco has been so despoiled of its trees that 
 almost the only woods remaining, except in the 
 actual mountains, are the cemeteries dedicated to 
 some saint, whose remains in most cases lie buried 
 within. 
 
 The passage of the Sebou at this spot is no easy 
 task, as the stream in winter is very strong and fast, 
 and none too shallow. However, we were lucky, and 
 got safely across without wetting our luggage, which 
 was piled up on the mules’ backs. We, however, got 
 
 L 
 
146 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 very much splashed ourselves in crossing; and even 
 when tucking up my legs well into my saddle, the 
 water was over my boots and knees. 
 
 Just across this ford is a curious pile of rocks, 
 known as the Haja-al-Ouerkof. The rocks must be 
 a hundred or more feet in height, and from a distance 
 are not unlike a church steeple. The surrounding 
 country shows very little rocky formation, which adds 
 to the extraordinary appearance of this natural pile. 
 The height is deceptive, as from a distance the rocks 
 look much lower than in reality they are. It is only 
 when one approaches close to them, and compares 
 the height to a palm-tree growing close beside them 
 that one can gather the real altitude. Soon after 
 passing this spot the rain ceased, and the sun shone 
 gloriously once more. 
 
 We passed close to, and I dismounted and 
 examined, a salt-mine. The mine is entered by a 
 cavern in the side of the hill, at the end of which is a 
 deep hole. There appears to be an immense deposit 
 of salt at this spot, and the mine showed signs of 
 recent work. 
 
 We pitched our tents at a duar, on a gentle sloping 
 plain that forms the valley of the Ouergha, a large 
 tributary of the Sebou. The view was charming. 
 Looking over the great green plain with its winding 
 river, one could see beyond, into the mountains of 
 the Beni M’Sara and other tribes, range after range, 
 while on the far horizon were visible the snow peaks 
 of the Sheshouan and other ranges. Wazan’s curious 
 double hill was plainly visible away to the north- 
 west. Our soldier had been complaining of feeling 
 ill all the road from Fez, and came this particular 
 
1 47 
 
 From Fez to Tangier, via IVazan. 
 
 evening to my tent to ask for medicine. As he 
 seemed to be suffering from headache, I lent him a 
 very strong ammonia salts bottle. He took out the 
 stopper and put the bottle close to his nose, and in- 
 haled it. The bottle dropped, and the soldier departed, 
 his eyes full of tears. I saw him a little later, and 
 he had not then recovered. However, it evidently 
 did him a world of good, as he never complained of 
 being ill or asked for medicine all the remainder of 
 the road. 
 
 The following morning we crossed the Ouergha, 
 about the banks of which we shot some fourteen brace 
 of partridges. The road was all the day pretty, and 
 the surrounding mountains varied the scene very 
 pleasantly. We saw nothing of great interest, though 
 our presence at a soko, sok al Arba, or Wednesday’s 
 market, caused a great sensation. Hundreds of the 
 mountaineers gathered there, never having seen a 
 Christian before. Though thoroughly mobbed, we 
 suffered no inconvenience from the crowd, who be- 
 haved on the whole very well. 
 
 These sokos are great institutions in the mountains. 
 They take place usually at weekly intervals, one at 
 one particular place on the Monday, for instance, 
 while some village further on have theirs the following 
 day, so as to encourage the Jews and native traders 
 to journey from place to place and exhibit their 
 wares. They are not necessarily held at villages, as 
 often spots more convenient for the tribes round are 
 chosen. So at this sok-al-Arba there were no ves- 
 tiges of a village in the immediate neighbourhood 
 though we had passed one shortly before, whose level 
 green would have been a far more suitable spot than 
 
 L 2 
 
1 48 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 the stony slopes of the mountain they had fixed 
 upon. 
 
 It is a great place to study character. The tall 
 mountaineers from the neighbouring tribes of the Beni 
 M’ Sara and others were here in large numbers, 
 picturesque as ever, with their red gun-cases wound 
 round their heads and their long guns, all ready for 
 use, in their hands. 
 
 Men from the Gharb and plains were here also, in 
 long, coarse haiks ; while amongst this medly throng 
 were the Jews, with their low, cringing ways. 
 
 Oliver Wendall Holmes tells us that “Oriental 
 manhood finds the greatest satisfaction in self-abase- 
 ment,” but compared to the Jews, the Moors of 
 Morocco, are full of self-respect. At this very soko I 
 sat on my horse and listened to a small-pox-marked 
 whining son of Israel selling his goods. 
 
 “ O, my Lords, the Mussulmans,” he cries, “ I am 
 but a poor weak little man. I cannot fire a gun like 
 you, my lords ; I cannot sit on a horse and gallop 
 about as you do. You see me, what a miserable 
 little specimen I am, unable to fight, powerless, an 
 unbeliever on whom God has expended some of his 
 wrath ; yet in spite of all this I can serve you, my 
 lords, I can do the mean work your hands forbear to 
 do, I can go down to the coast and bring up the 
 merchandise you require. Come, my lords, and see 
 the linens and calicoes I have brought from Tangier; 
 come and I will sell them to you at the same price as 
 I bought, being proud to render a service for my 
 lords, the Mussulmans.” 
 
 Can anything be imagined more degrading. This 
 self-abasement before people whom in reality the 
 
From Fez to Tangier , via IVazan. 149 
 
 vendor both hates and despises, and, above all, fears. 
 Yet he will degrade himself and his religion by 
 speaking of himself as an “ unbeliever,” and by in- 
 numerable lies swindle the Moors on everything he 
 sells them. And yet we talk about the persecution 
 of the Jews in Morocco ! 
 
 The goods are exposed for sale at the sokos, under 
 little extemporized tents pitched in parallel rows. 
 Everything from a split-pea to a mule — and often a 
 slave — can be bought. It is also the slaughter-house 
 of the district, and hanging by their hind-legs from 
 scaffoldings of poles can be seen the corpses of many 
 a sheep and goat. 
 
 We purchased some dry figs, dates, and raisins, also 
 some bread, which was very excellent, though coarse ; 
 and, after a pleasant half-hour of running questions 
 and answers as to where we were going, what our 
 clothes were made of, what was our nationality, how 
 old we were, whether we were married, if we eat pork, 
 &c., &c., I waived my adieux and galloped on. The 
 road now turned more to the north, and followed the 
 course of a small river. The valley was fertile to an 
 extreme, even the sloping sides of the mountains 
 being cultivated to some height up, though the east 
 side less than the other. This east side is the boun- 
 dary— or rather the stream is — of the lands of the 
 powerful and fanatical tribe of the Beni M’Sara, of 
 whom more anon. We had, therefore, to continue 
 on the west bank of the little river, where we were 
 perfectly secure, though to have crossed it would 
 have been a proceeding fraught with danger. 
 
 We camped at the village of Sidi Mahammed 
 Shereef, a nephew of Sidi Hadj Absalam, Shereef of 
 
i 50 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Wazan, and therefore a very sacred individual. He 
 is reported to be exceedingly rich, and he treated us 
 to his hospitality in a most courteous way. I went 
 with our soldier to call upon him immediately on my 
 arrival at his village. Passing through a gate, I 
 entered a little courtyard. In the centre was a clear, 
 deep tank, on which swam two geese. At the further 
 end of the court was a kubbah, with three arches 
 opening within. Two opened into a large room, the 
 third, closed and bolted, evidently was a prayer- 
 house or tomb. 
 
 Passing to one of the open arches, a striking scene 
 met my eyes. The Shereef had not seen nor heard 
 our approach — or pretended he had not — and was 
 busily engaged in reading. Before he looked up I 
 had ample time to take in all the details of the place. 
 
 Sidi Mahammed himself is a tall fair man, with 
 auburn beard and large blue eyes, a very contrast to 
 his uncle Sidi Hadj Absalam. He was sitting upon 
 an exquisite old prayer-rug, his back against the 
 wall. His clothes were all of white, while a large 
 turban rested on his brow, over which the soft folds 
 of his silk haik hung gracefully. The room was 
 bare of ornament, except for a rich painted ceiling, a 
 tiled floor with a few rugs scattered about, and some 
 flowers in pots. 
 
 For a minute he did not move his eyes from the 
 illuminated vellum manuscript. 
 
 Our soldier still maintained the same position, pros- 
 trate in the doorway, his forehead pressed against the 
 doorstep. I remained standing without, hat in hand. 
 Presently his Highness raised his great blue eyes 
 and smiled. 
 
From Fez to Tangier, via JVazan. 15 1 
 
 “You are welcome,” he said, “welcome to my 
 lands ; all that you require ask for, and it shall be 
 given you. All that I have is yours.” 
 
 Of course it was a welcome in the exaggerated 
 form of Eastern speech. We asked for nothing, but 
 everything was brought us later on. I thanked his 
 Highness, bowed, and left. 
 
 On the whole I was exceedingly pleased with our 
 reception by one of the most fanatical and religious 
 of Moorish potentates. 
 
 At nightfall tea was brought us : a tripod bearing 
 a kettle, a large brass tray, a tea-caddy and sugar- 
 box (both full), tiny cups and glasses, and silver 
 spoons. Two slaves brewed tea for us. 
 
 As the process of making Moorish tea is one that 
 all travellers in Morocco will probably witness at 
 some time or other, and certainly will taste the result, 
 I will give its recipe : — 
 
 Take a handful of green tea and put it in a tea- 
 pot, fill the tea-pot entirely with sugar, and pour 
 boiling water on the top. Allow the concoction to 
 stand for a minute or two, then pour out half a glass 
 (minute tumblers are more common than cups), and 
 throw it away. This is supposed to remove any 
 poison, copper, &c., which may be used in the colora- 
 tion of the tea. Then pour out another half-glass, 
 which the host or his tea-maker drinks with much 
 gusto and noise, to show one that no poison lurks 
 within. After that all is ready, and tea is poured 
 out all round. 
 
 In drinking Moorish tea there are many rules of 
 etiquette dependent upon the station of one’s host. 
 First, no matter where one is, it is a gross breach of 
 
152 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 etiquette not to drink three cups or glasses. The 
 cups are very small, but the concoction — a kind of 
 very sweet green tea syrup — proportionately strong. 
 
 That is the recipe for the brew for the first cup, the 
 second generally has a sprig of mint in it, and some- 
 times also lemon verbena (though rarely), and often 
 various other herbs ; the third brew much resembles 
 the second, only there is more tea, and more herbs, 
 used. 
 
 The result is very pleasant, and, unlike many Euro- 
 peans, I not only drink my three prescribed cups, but 
 often several more, which is not only allowed, but 
 complimentary to one’s host. 
 
 In high circles one sips one’s tea as one does liquor 
 in England ; but with the petty sheikhs, &c., one makes 
 as much noise over one’s cup as the proverbial aider- 
 man is supposed to do over ’34 port. 
 
 Besides supplying us with tea, Sidi Mahammed was 
 kind enough to send corn for our animals, and a 
 goodly feed of kooskoosoo for our men. The follow- 
 ing morning I bade him good-bye. He was again in 
 his kiosk, where he seems to spend his days, though 
 we had seen him the night before sauntering to his 
 house some little distance off, attended only by his 
 two geese, which followed him like dogs as far as his 
 door, and then, doubtless recognizing fellow kind, 
 turned and came cackling to my tent, where they eat 
 from my fingers, and nearly swallowed them once or 
 twice in their hungry endeavours to get bread. 
 
 Our ride into Wazan the following day was only of 
 a few hours’ duration. We still skirted the tribe of 
 the Beni M’Sara, by one of whom, mounted on 
 a white horse, all our movements were carefully 
 
Froi 7 i Fez to Tangier, via Wazan. 153 
 
 watched. When we were proceeding through valleys, 
 the form of the horseman could be, seen on the hill- 
 tops against the sky-line. When we were on the 
 hills, he galloped around at a mile or so’s distance, 
 never losing sight of us. His presence disturbed our 
 old wreck of a soldier, who hurried us on accordingly, 
 though I myself do not believe the man meant evil, 
 but was probably despatched by the head of the tribe 
 to keep watch on our movements, and see we had 
 no intentions of entering their country. The road 
 till we reached the mountain of Wazan was unin- 
 teresting. All the way we were in full view of this 
 two-peaked mountain ; but the town itself lies on the 
 further, or eastern, side, so was not visible till we had 
 rounded the southern corner and passed over the 
 south-eastern slopes. Here the road was very 
 rough, consisting, for the most part, of huge boulders 
 of rock, in and out and over which our animals were 
 obliged to climb. At last the furthest crest was 
 passed, and a grand view met our eyes. We had 
 been travelling through thick olive woods for the 
 last half-hour, which had concealed the gradually- 
 increasing scene till all at once it burst upon us. One 
 is apt, after visiting a place, to exaggerate its glories ; 
 but, though I had spent some days at Wazan before, 
 I was as much struck, and even more, than I had 
 been on first viewing it, at its splendid situation and 
 grand surrounding. From our vantage-ground we 
 looked down on the tiled gabled roofs of the town, 
 close below us, from amongst which rises many a 
 graceful mosque tower. Above us rose the mountain 
 crag after crag, here wooded with olive and orange 
 groves, here rugged and bare. In front range 
 
154 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 beyond range of mountains rise, one upon the other, 
 till faint in the far distance one could see the snow 
 on the Sheshouan peaks. 
 
 As a rule, in Morocco the views are not much 
 varied. Either the scenery is blocked up by moun- 
 tains or the flat plains render it monotonous. Another 
 great defect, not to be found at Wazan, is the scarcity 
 of trees. Here the country was beautifully wooded, 
 especially in the proximity of the town itself Nothing 
 could be more varied than the scene that was stretched 
 out before us. Town, plains, valleys, woods, hills, 
 mountains with crests of rock and snow, everything 
 that is typical of Morocco, and a great deal that is 
 not. Of all the towns of Morocco I infinitely prefer 
 Wazan. It is cool, well supplied with delicious 
 water, whilst Europeans who can claim friendship 
 with Moulai Mahammed are treated with the greatest 
 respect. Nowhere all through the country have I 
 been more pleasantly received by the natives than in 
 Wazan, the most fanatical town that Europeans may 
 visit. 
 
 I at once called upon Moulai Mahammed, and saw 
 his secretary, Si Ali. To my great surprise, on my 
 presence being announced to the Shereef, not only 
 would he not see me, but would not even give us a 
 place to put up in, telling us, per his secretary, to 
 camp in the soko, which meant “ Get out of the 
 place as soon as you can.” I immediately guessed 
 at the reason, which afterwards turned out to be the 
 case, that Si Ali, not wishing to have the trouble of 
 getting a house put in order for us, never informed 
 his Highness of my presence at all, merely stating 
 that unknown Christians had arrived. Moulai Ma- 
 
From Fez to Tangier , via Wazan. 155 
 
 hammed, who had lately been shamefully treated by 
 two Europeans, who not only suppressed their nation- 
 ality, but passed themselves off as officers of another 
 nation, and reported all his conversation and views> 
 drawn out of him by the trick these low spies deigned 
 to play, had closed his house, very wisely, to all 
 strangers. 
 
 We pitched our camp forthwith in the soko, but 
 it being market-day, we were much annoyed by the 
 people, most of whom, coming from the mountains 
 round, had never seen Christians before. However, 
 they were decently polite, and did not curse us more 
 than we were accustomed to, though their curiosity, 
 which finally necessitated a “cordon” being placed 
 round the camp, was objectionable. They watched 
 us eat and drink, sketch and write, as though we were 
 so many wild beasts. However, I would willingly 
 have gone through all the inconvenience to overhear, 
 as I did, the conversation of some small boys. 
 
 “ What are they ? ” said one. 
 
 “ Apes,” replied another. 
 
 “ Well,” answered a third, “ I have often seen apes 
 before performing in the soko, but never without 
 chains round their waists.” 
 
 These boys were perfectly serious, nor would they 
 have used the expression “ apes ” towards us if they 
 had not been, for all the monkey kind are held in far 
 greater respect than Christians. 
 
 As was only natural, we were much annoyed at 
 the scant civility of the Shereef, but guessing he must 
 be under some misapprehension, I despatched one of 
 our men to him with a message, which I bade him 
 deliver himself, and not through the secretary or any 
 
156 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 official. This was done, and the result was wonderful. 
 Moulai Mahammed at once sent soldiers down to take 
 me to his kubbah, while slaves and servants came to 
 remove our tents, as a house was being prepared for 
 us in the town. 
 
 I was at once ushered into his Highness’s pre- 
 sence, and numerous were his apologies at the slight 
 he had unwittingly paid us. I took the opportunity 
 of telling him how uncomfortable we had been en- 
 camped in the soko, for which he again apologized. 
 
 I spent the whole morning with him, and in the 
 afternoon brought all our party to tea. He was most 
 pleasant, and regretted that we should have to leave 
 the following day. On our bidding good-bye, he 
 again apologized, and was gracious enough to present 
 me with a handsome Smyrna rug, one of the yearly 
 gifts sent him as a direct descendant of the prophet 
 by that town. He exacted a promise from me on 
 leaving that I would come on the first opportunity, 
 and stay with him at Wazan for some time. This I 
 promised to do, and a few weeks later did. I will 
 not describe his Highness, or. his principality here, 
 as in my chapter on a visit to Wazan I shall treat'at 
 length on this most interesting subject. 
 
 I shall but tell very briefly of our return from 
 Wazan to Tangier, as the same ground will be 
 covered in the chapter I mentioned above. We 
 reached Alcazar three days later, having shot by the 
 way, and at one place, for two guns, obtained fifteen 
 brace of partridges. At Alcazar we. camped, as 
 usual, just to the east of the town, on the top of a 
 series of gigantic manure heaps. There is very little 
 of interest in the town, though during this visit we 
 
From Fez to Tangier, via Wazan. 157 
 
 were lucky enough to witness a grand fete given by 
 a Sidi Mahammed, a cousin of Moulai Mahammed’s, 
 in honour of the birth of a son. 
 
 Lab-al-baroud (powder play) on horseback and on 
 foot, were the principal items of the fete, both of 
 which were excellently performed. The mountaineers 
 were down in great numbers, and all armed, and the 
 governor of the city was fully expectant of trouble- 
 However, the day passed without any disturbance. 
 
 The Shereef was himself a splendid equestrian, and 
 his grey horse one of the finest I have seen in Mo- 
 rocco. The saddles on which the official body, which 
 turned out en masse , were mounted, were extremely 
 beautiful, in every shade of reds, mauves, and greens, 
 all richly embroidered in gold. 
 
 Rather an amusing incident happened to me in the 
 town. I had an idea that somewhere there was an 
 inn kept by a Jew, or rather that beer and refresh- 
 ments could be obtained at a certain Jew’s house. I 
 asked the whereabouts of this imaginary establish- 
 ment, and, on being pointed out a certain house, 
 entered without knocking and walked upstairs. I 
 found a Spanish man and woman at breakfast . 1 I 
 immediately demanded some beer, which was given 
 me, and which I enjoyed immensely. Then I ordered 
 breakfast to be ready in an hour’s time. I noticed 
 that the man and his wife looked surprised, but 
 nothing dawned upon me till the woman burst out 
 laughing, saying, in Spanish, “You have made a 
 mistake ; we do not keep an hotel ! ” I apologized, 
 
 1 There are some half-dozen Spanish inhabitants, for the most 
 part shopkeepers, in Alcazar. 
 
i 58 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 offered money for the beer, which they refused, then 
 fled as hard as I could. 
 
 A scene at Alcazar opened my eyes to the dis- 
 advantage of bigamy, for I saw two wives armed with 
 broomsticks beating their poor husband in a most 
 cruel way. O ladies who demand franchise, how 
 you would have enjoyed this disgusting sight! 
 
 Four days later our caravan arrived in Tangier, 
 having been absent over seven weeks in the interior. 
 The remainder of our party left in the course of a few 
 days for England, while I remained behind, to start 
 in a week or so once more for Wazan. 
 
 So ended, on the 23rd of February, our successful 
 and most pleasant trip through Northern Morocco. 
 
PART II. 
 
 A JOURNEY WITH H.BM. SPECIAL MISSION TO 
 THE COURT OF THE SULTAN AT MOROCCO CITY. 
 
Tandis que le progres est la loi de l’existence des nations Chre- 
 tiennes, l'immobilite semble etre celle des peuples mussulmans.” — 
 M. Malem. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE JOURNEY TO MOROCCO CITY. 
 
 What a noise H.M.S. Curlew made, as she steamed 
 into the quiet blue bay of Tangier on Thursday, 
 April 7th, and saluted the Moorish flag with twenty- 
 one guns ! and what a din the twenty-one Moorish 
 guns made in return, till they shook every window in 
 the white rock-bound town, and threatened to knock 
 even the houses down ! All Tangier was on the 
 qui-vive , for it is not often that her peace is disturbed 
 by the thundering of salutes from men-of-war, a 
 cargo steamer or two, or half a dozen feluccas from 
 Spain, being usually the only craft to be seen lying 
 at rest in the bay, except when the Hctssanieh, an 
 old tub — the whole Moorish fleet — comes in like a 
 great black whale, and disfigures the bay with her 
 hideous form. But there was no disfigurement from 
 the Curlew. Rather, the lovely view was enhanced 
 by the pure white vessel, with her yellow funnel and 
 scanty rigging, that lay at anchor a mile or two from 
 the shore, and filled the air with the white smoke of 
 her salutes. 
 
 M 
 
i6 2 The Land of an African Stilt an. 
 
 We were all glad to see the Curlew arrive, for 
 it meant no more waiting for us, but a speedy 
 start. But where and why were we starting ? We 
 were going, through the kindness of Sir William 
 Kirby-Green, with the British Mission to Morocco, 
 and the man-of-war had come to take us to Mazagan, 
 a port some little way down the west coast of 
 Morocco, whence the journey overland was to com- 
 mence. 
 
 Our party was a large one, and, as I shall have 
 occasion hereafter to mention certain of its members 
 by name, I shall commence by giving a list of 
 those of whom the mission consisted. Firstly, his 
 Excellency Sir William Kirby-Green, K.C.M.G.; 
 Lady, Miss, and Mr. Jack Kirby-Green, and Miss 
 Scudamore; Mr. Herbert E. White, H.M. Consul at 
 Tangier; M. de Vismes de Ponthieu, Secretary and 
 Vice-Consul ; Surgeon-Major Charlesworth, Medical 
 Attache ; Lieutenant Boulnois, Military Attache ; 
 Mr. and Mrs. Caton Woodville, Mr. and Mrs.Treeby, 
 and myself, who, with our servants and baggage for 
 a couple of months, formed no small array. The 
 day after the arrival of the Curlew being Good 
 Friday, we did not start ; for, if it is unlucky to begin 
 a voyage on any ordinary Friday, how much more 
 so would it be on this particular one ! but Saturday 
 dawned at last, and there was a rushing to and fro 
 from the first peep. of daylight, a slamming of boxes, 
 a yelling at servants, a scramble for breakfast, and 
 we were off. 
 
 It was a long procession we formed, as we trooped 
 through the crowded streets of Tangier, jostled 
 
The Journey to Morocco City. 163 
 
 by the dirty water-carriers, now and again nearly 
 knocked down by overloaded mules and bad smells, 
 while half a dozen dusky Moors carried the lighter 
 portions of our luggage in front of us, one item of 
 which, and not the least important, was Marita, 
 our monkey, joint-stock property, perched on 
 the shoulders of Mahammed Rushti, Woodville’s 
 servant, who had his work well cut out for him in 
 keeping off her small sharp teeth from his somewhat 
 bulky neck. Down to the smelling Custom House, 
 where the white-turbaned Moors sit cross-legged on 
 their raised benches, counting their beads and gazing 
 at one through their half-closed eyes as if there were 
 no work in the world to be done, and, if there were, 
 they were not the men to do it. On we trooped to 
 the crowded wooden pier, till monkey, luggage, and 
 all were bundled into a boat and rowed off to the 
 man-of-war. 
 
 Our party was the first to get on board, and we 
 had time to look round us at the admirable fittings of 
 the Curlew before a salute of seventeen guns from 
 port and starboard made us realize fully and in a 
 jumpy way that the Minister had left the shore, and 
 it was only a few minutes later that he stepped on 
 board from the man-of-war’s boat, in the stern of 
 which flew the Union Jack, accompanied by their 
 Excellencies the Italian and Spanish Ministers, who, 
 after adieux and many kind wishes for a happy and 
 successful voyage, returned on shore. Five minutes 
 later the twin propellers began to turn, and we 
 steamed gently out of Tangier Bay. Yet there was 
 one episode in our parting that was amusing. Just 
 
 M 2 
 
164 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 as we got under way, a shore-boat about two hundred 
 yards distant attracted our attention. In the stern 
 stood an elderly Jewess, in native dress, waving an 
 enormous green umbrella ; in her we recognized one 
 of the most important members of the mission — our 
 laundress, for washing of any decency would be un- 
 procurable on the road. The view was very charm- 
 ing as we sailed away ; not a ripple on the sea, not a 
 breath of wind to disturb the ship or ourselves. As 
 we passed along the coast, and Tangier was hid from 
 sight behind its rocky promontory, we skirted the 
 hill known as the Mount, from the trees of which 
 peeped many a pretty house and garden, and here 
 and there figures could be seen enthusiastically 
 waving umbrellas and handkerchiefs. Cape Spartel, 
 the north-west corner of Africa, was soon rounded, 
 the great bluff cliff, with its graceful lighthouse 
 perched high on a ledge of rock, and our course was 
 altered more to the south. Shoals of porpoises played 
 round and alongside the ship, throwing their great 
 bodies out of the water and plunging in again with a 
 splash ; while over the snow-white wake we left 
 behind us, gracefully skimmed the soft grey gulls. 
 A little later we passed Shaf-al-Akab, the scene of 
 many a boar hunt ; and we could even see Awara, 
 where the camp is always pitched. Arzeila and 
 Larache were left behind before dark, the latter too 
 far away to be distinctly seen. 
 
 Any one who knows the Curlew will recollect that 
 her accommodation is entirely insufficient for four- 
 teen persons, with baggage and servants such as we 
 had ; but Captain Kingscock was kind enough to put 
 
The Journey to Morocco City. 165 
 
 his cabin at the service of the ladies, and for us beds 
 were made up under awnings on deck. The quarter 
 deck was littered with almost innumerable packages ; 
 saddle-boxes and uniform-cases lay piled one above 
 the other, interspersed with portmanteaus of every 
 variety, over which gamboled Marita, the monkey. 
 Nothing could have been more enjoyable than our 
 afternoon on deck, especially when, at four o’clock, 
 tea, such as one seldom, if ever, gets out of England, 
 arrived. We did not dine off biscuit and salt junk, 
 as we believed one ought to do on board ship ; on 
 the contrary, we dined most excellently, and it was 
 late when we left our whiskies and sodas and turned 
 in. 
 
 Most of us slept on deck, but I preferred to rig 
 up my camp-bed in the ward-room, and was after- 
 wards glad I did so, as there was a heavy fall of rain 
 in the night. 
 
 Soon after daylight next morning, draped figures, 
 some of them remarkable for the scantiness of their 
 drapery, could be seen pacing the deck, and gazing 
 anxiously at the indistinct shore, to try and discover 
 Mazagan, our port of destination ; but tide or current 
 had delayed us, and it was not till half-past ten, after 
 twenty hours at sea, that we dropped anchor in the 
 bay. 
 
 Mazagan from the sea, in fact from anywhere, is far 
 from interesting, though one day in the dim past it 
 must have been a strongly-fortified place, for it was 
 during many years in the possession of the Portuguese, 
 who built the high walls that still remain, though in 
 a more or less dilapidated condition. The town is 
 
1 66 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 situated on a sandy, low promontory, which with the 
 coast forms the bay, and a poor harbour enough it is, 
 almost unprotected from the west, and entirely so 
 from the north-west and north. The great drawback 
 to trade with Morocco is its insufficiency, almost its 
 total want of ports, as those which offer any protec- 
 tion from the prevailing westerly winds are situated at 
 the mouths of the rivers, which form bars, over which 
 ships of any size are unable to pass. 
 
 No sooner was the anchor down than the Curlew's 
 guns again roared forth a salute of twenty-one, an- 
 swered by twenty-one from the fort on shore, as com- 
 pliments to each other’s flags ; then seventeen from 
 the Curlew, as Sir William Kirby-Green stepped over 
 the ship’s side, answered by seventeen as he landed at 
 the jetty, accompanied by Mr. Redman, the British 
 Vice-Consul, who had come off to receive him. 
 
 The town presented a brilliant spectacle as we 
 landed, every one turning out to see the arrival. On 
 the jetty we were received by the Basha, or governor 
 of the town , who was to escort us to the capital, and 
 other Moors of more or less note. On reaching the 
 end of the pier, we were met by a couple of dozen 
 soldiers; and again, as we entered the town through 
 a stone gateway, found the streets lined with regulars, 
 in scarlet and blue, who saluted as we passed, while 
 their band struck up some discordant music. 
 
 We lunched with Mr. and Mrs. Redman at the 
 Vice-Consulate, where those who enjoyed any share 
 in the ownership of the monkey were not quite at 
 their ease, as every now and then a crash from the 
 back garden made them realize that a monkey is an 
 
MAZACAN. 
 
167 
 
 The Journey io Morocco City. 
 
 awkward animal to take on calls, especially where 
 there is any attempt at horticultural decoration in 
 the way of flower-pots. Nor was our happiness in- 
 creased when, terrific shrieks being heard, we rushed 
 to the window, and found Marita apparently actively 
 engaged in devouring Mr. Redman’s youngest son. 
 However, he escaped without injury. 
 
 After a short walk in the small and uninteresting 
 town, and a stroll round the ramparts, beneath one part 
 of which is a curious native village, with its beehive- 
 shaped huts of straw nestling amidst hedges of prickly 
 pears and aloes, we visited the camp, which had been 
 awaiting us some time. In all there were some four- 
 teen large tents for our accommodation, and fifty or 
 sixty for the escort, most of whom, by the way, slept 
 in the open air. The camp was pitched on the sea- 
 shore, and looked extremely well. Our tents 
 were native ones, supplied by the Sultan for the 
 journey. These Moorish tents are very comfortable, 
 large, and high, and well adapted for hot weather, 
 though they would be improved by having a double 
 roof. Outside, they are of white canvas, with curiously- 
 shaped patterns in dark blue cloth running in lines 
 round the tents, parallel with the ground. In shape 
 they are “ bell ” tents, an enormously heavy pole in 
 the centre supporting the weighty roof ; but they are 
 lined inside in coloured cloths, on the ceiling in 
 diverging stripes, and round the walls, which are 
 some five feet in height, in the form of Moorish 
 arches. 
 
 Our respective tents were pointed out to us, and, 
 after a wash and a change, we dined to the sound ot 
 
1 68 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 the sea dashing on the steep sandy shore a few yards 
 off. Our escort’s camp was a little way from ours, so 
 that we were free from the noise of the braying 
 mules and bubbling camels. As was only reasonable, 
 we were anxious to discover with what class of riding 
 animals the Sultan had supplied us, and, first thing 
 the following morning, we went to see. Nor were 
 we disappointed, for some of the horses were really 
 very good, though not, as we had expected, slight 
 barbs, but heavily built and thick-set animals, pro- 
 bably the descendants of the dray horses that 
 George III. presented to one of the Sultans of Morocco 
 of the beginning of this century. 
 
 It was Easter Monday, and it looked so, so great 
 was the noise, so many the horses, and so varied the 
 costumes. There was much to amuse and interest 
 us : the constant flow of soldiers in and out of town ; 
 Jews hanging around to make an honest — or, if they 
 get the chance, a dishonest — penny ; half nude Moors 
 saddling mules and horses ; Spaniards losing their 
 tempers ; horses pawing the ground and fighting- 
 in fact, a veritable circus. A last visit to the town, 
 where we made a few purchases, and a bottle of beer 
 at a kind of restaurant, which bore in large letters on 
 its walls “ Royal Victoria Hotel,” completed our 
 share of the morning’s work, while his Excellency 
 and the ladies paid a final visit at the Vice-Consulate, 
 the latter afterwards visiting the harem of the Basha, 
 where they spent a mauvais quart-d' Iieure in the 
 clutches of half a dozen native ladies, who danced 
 and sang to the music of a wheezy harmonium, while 
 the guests were regaled with an oily kind of broth — 
 
169 
 
 The Journey io Morocco City. 
 
 by the way, quite uneatable — and gallons of green 
 tea. But though they did not drink the soup, they 
 were not allowed to forget it, as one of the slaves 
 cleverly succeeded in upsetting a plate of it over one 
 of the ladies’ riding-habits. 
 
 Soon after twelve o’clock we got away, and a more 
 striking scene could scarcely be imagined. Before 
 and behind us soldiers, a hundred and fifty mounted 
 and a rabble on foot ; while along the sides of the 
 dusty road were stationed foot soldiers, in scarlet 
 and blue, who saluted as we passed. In front of the 
 procession rode a standard-bearer, carrying the 
 Moorish red flag, while by Sir William’s side were 
 the Governor of the district and his brother ; and 
 the dress of these two needs description, for one 
 scarcely, if ever, sees anything so perfect in colour. 
 The Governor was mounted on a black horse, and 
 wore a white haik — not unlike the Roman toga, and 
 no doubt its descendant— of fine transparent web, and 
 silk stripes, over which was thrown a dark-blue 
 bernous or hooded cloak, while, to relieve this some- 
 what austere colouring, he rode on a huge saddle of 
 an indescribable and lovely shade of salmon silk, his 
 horse’s head-trappings and reins being of the same 
 colour, embroidered with gold. His brother was on 
 a white horse, wearing a similar haik to the Governor, 
 a pale torquoise-blue bernous, and using a crimson 
 saddle and bridle. 
 
 After having been about an hour on the march, 
 we stopped to see the troops at their Lab-el-baroud 
 or powder play. From a dozen to twenty men would 
 stand in a line on horseback at the end of an open 
 
i Jo The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 piece of ground ; at a given signal they would urge 
 their horses to a canter, salute with their long guns, 
 waving them round their turbaned heads, change from 
 a canter to a furious gallop, and crying out “ Allah, 
 Allah,” fire. Nothing could surpass the picturesque- 
 ness of the tearing horses, the riders’ flowing gar- 
 ments borne in the wind behind them, the gorgeous 
 trappings of the horses, the men’s ease and grace in 
 the saddle. Over and over again they repeated it, 
 till one’s head was almost turned with the brilliant 
 sight and the quick volleying. Now and again a 
 man falls at this dangerous amusement ; but accidents 
 are rare, owing to the peculiar shape of the Moorish 
 saddle, made with a peak before and behind, which 
 prevents one from falling. This is terribly heavy, 
 as no less than ten thick felt saddle-cloths are used 
 under the saddle, each of a different colour, while the 
 saddle itself is of gold or coloured embroidery. While 
 we were watching the Lab-el-baroud, the baggage- 
 mules and camels passed us, and we caught a glimpse 
 of Marita seated on the back of a mule, with a bland 
 smile of satisfaction at her elevated position, basking 
 in the mid-day sun. We had obtained another pet 
 that morning at Mazagan — a small kitten. We 
 thought it would do to play with the monkey ; but, 
 on the contrary, the monkey played with it, and was 
 caught gently and with the utmost skill trying to 
 remove its great yellow eyes. However, it was 
 rescued in time, and no damage was done. Our 
 other animals consist of two setters, an Irish and an 
 English, and two small Shetland ponies, part of the 
 present from the English Government to the Sultan. 
 
The Journey to Morocco City. 17 r 
 
 Soon after resuming our journey, we came to the 
 luncheon tent, which had been, as always was the 
 case, sent on in the early morning, as the heat of the 
 sun and the absence of trees rendered luncheon in 
 the open an impossibility. Soon after our meal we 
 were on our way again to the camp, pitched at a 
 place called Dar-ben-Zahra, though a better spot 
 might easily have been chosen, as the ground was 
 hilly and stony. As could only have been expected, 
 there was a good deal of confusion in camp after our 
 arrival ; but with such numbers as we were, and with 
 such a crowd of camp-followers, it could not be 
 avoided. The tents were pitched in a row, and before 
 the centre one the Union Jack was flying from a 
 flag-staff. 
 
 The next morning we were up early, not so much 
 from inclination as from the fact that the Bashador 
 — a corruption of Ambassador — as the Moors called 
 the Minister, ordered our tents to be struck at a 
 certain hour, whether we would or no, on one occa- 
 sion discovering a certain member of the mission 
 gracefully decked in a pith helmet, which he evidently 
 considered sufficient costume for the unabashed 
 Moors. The scene on leaving one's tent in the early 
 morning was a noisy one, and even if one had had 
 the chance of lying in bed, it would have been no 
 rest, so great was the row. In the midst of the camp 
 were the camels being loaded with the heavier luggage, 
 lying down at their masters’ bidding, yet groaning 
 meanwhile at their heavy loads, the mules braying to 
 one another in anything but dulcet tones, and Moors 
 quarrelling or laughing, shouting and yelling, in fact 
 
172 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 doing their very best to add to the confusion. There 
 was a babel of tongues in camp ; English, Arabic, 
 French, Spanish, Italian, and Albanian were in 
 constant use. 
 
 On leaving camp that morning we passed, as usual, 
 between lines of mounted soldiers, who fell in directly 
 behind us. The country continued flat and unin- 
 teresting, and, though well cultivated, the crops 
 looked sadly in need of rain. At all the villages we 
 passed — for the most part mere collections of mud or 
 straw huts, with perhaps one tabbia house — the 
 women would come out with red or yellow hand- 
 kerchiefs tied to sticks for flags, and utter their shrill 
 cry of welcome — a peculiar high note sounded with a 
 tremolo, made by moving their tongues quickly 
 between their lips. The Moorish countrywoman’s 
 dress, as one little known in England, is worth 
 describing. A loose kind of skirt and body in one 
 is worn hanging from the shoulders, caught there 
 with two silver brooches, joined to each other by a 
 silver chain that hangs across the chest. This gar- 
 ment is fastened at the waist with a coloured band, 
 either of silk or cotton, generally the latter, while 
 over all is worn a thick woollen haik, sometimes 
 ornamented with coloured stripes. The costume of 
 the town’s-women is much more gorgeous, their 
 garments being of silks and brocades, while they 
 hang their ears and necks with silver and gold 
 jewellery. 
 
 All the women are noticeable for their love of 
 display, and the weight of their necklaces, earrings, 
 and bracelets must be overpowering. The hair is 
 worn in two long plaits, lengthened with inter- 
 
The Journey to Morocco City. 173 
 
 woven black thread, while the eyes and cheeks are 
 smothered in paint. 
 
 We lunched again in the tents sent on in the 
 morning, and it was wonderful to see the way 
 Moorish biscuits followed pate de foie gras down our 
 hungry throats. Under the grateful shade of the tent 
 we spent an hour or two, waiting for the cool of the 
 day to ride into camp. We wandered from the tent 
 to look at the country round, and saw many curious 
 specimens of lizards in the stone walls. One of great 
 size having attracted my attention, I made a grab at 
 it, but, alas ! only succeeded in capturing its tail. 
 However, a few minutes later, an Arab brought me 
 one of the same kind, which, with two others, I had 
 hoped to have been able to bring back to England. 
 They were some eighteen inches in length, and pro- 
 portionately wide, being marked with alternate black 
 and red stripes. Two hours’ ride brought us into 
 camp, where we found everything in better order than 
 we had the night before. The site was the bottom 
 of a dry valley, no doubt once flooded with water. 
 The soldiers here mustered stronger than ever, and 
 in all must have been some six hundred strong, foot 
 and horse. On nearing the camp the greater part of 
 our force galloped to right and left up the hill, draw- 
 ing up in line on either side of the road. The move- 
 ment was an exceedingly beautiful one, as not only 
 were there greater numbers, but a much better show 
 of horses, but still not pure barbs, but the heavy- 
 necked breed we had seen all along. Every colour 
 was used in saddles and trappings, and a black horse 
 with yellow equipments and a rider in yellow bernous 
 took our fancy immensely. 
 
i 74 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Our tents were all ready for us when we arrived in 
 camp that evening. Perhaps the short description of 
 the interior of one of our tents may not be out of 
 place. The tents were, as I said before, of the shape 
 known as “ bell ” tents, about twenty feet in diameter, 
 and so allowing for more luxurious furniture than 
 most tents. The ground was covered first with 
 waterproof sheets, over which was spread native 
 matting, and over that again rugs and carpets from 
 the famous carpet-manufacturing town of Rabat, on 
 the west coast of Morocco. A folding camp-bed 
 with Moorish striped blankets, formed a most con- 
 venient lounge by day and bed by night. A square 
 table, covered with a striped Moorish cloth, contained 
 one’s looking-glass and toilet things, while a couple 
 of easy-chairs, a folding washhandstand, and a bath, 
 completed the furniture. 
 
 The spot chosen for our camp that night was at 
 Sok-el-Arba, where every Wednesday, as its name 
 implies, the Moors hold their provincial soko or 
 market. As the villages are so scattered, it is often 
 impossible to hold the market at one particular spot, 
 so a spot as near all as possible is chosen, where one 
 day in the week the soko is held. A whole district 
 often arranges its market-days succeeding one 
 another ; for instance, Monday at one village, Tuesday 
 at the next, and so on, allowing cattle-drivers, 
 pedlars, and snake-charmers to wander from one to 
 the other. 
 
 The next morning (Wednesday) while at breakfast, 
 the sound of native music — the shrill pipe and the 
 tomtom — was heard outside the tent, and we found 
 some native jugglers in the middle of a performance. 
 
The Journey to Morocco City. 175 
 
 Though far inferior to any ordinary English clown, the 
 tricks that they did with their guns were very good, 
 keeping the weapon continually spinning above their 
 heads on two fingers. 
 
 On leaving camp, our escort went through their 
 usual manoeuvre of forming into lines, through which 
 we passed. As had been promised us the night 
 before, we began the day with a hunt with falcons and 
 greyhounds. Leaving the road on our right, we 
 verged off over corn-fields. The first sight of game 
 that we had were two lesser bustard that we put up. 
 The falcons, however, were not let fly — why, I do not 
 know — but a stone curlew fell an easy prey a few 
 minutes later. It was a sight worth seeing, the 
 hawk suspended in the air on its quivering wings till 
 with a swoop like a miniature thunder-bolt, it made 
 short work of the poor bird. We next put up a hare, 
 and a couple of greyhounds being slipped, had a 
 most excellent run, killing in a fig-garden. The 
 Moors are essentially sportsmen, and this was not 
 the first coursing I had had in the country, as, 
 when at Wazan earlier in the same year, the 
 Shereef gave us an excellent day. The Moorish 
 greyhounds are not nearly as swift as our English 
 breed, or the hare, a poor animal compared with ours, 
 would never stand a chance of escaping ; as it is, 
 he often gets away. Again the falcons were let fly, 
 this time at some lesser bustard ; but, unluckily, a 
 plover was put up too, which, as being the less swift 
 bird of flight, the hawk preferred and killed. We 
 also got a few partridges. In the more southern 
 parts, falcons are employed for hunting gazelle. 
 
 The love of sport amongst the Moors has its dis- 
 
176 The Land of an African Sultan . 
 
 advantages as well as its advantages, for no sooner 
 do they see one shoulder a gun, than they appear 
 from every imaginable hole and corner and ac- 
 company one, shouting and yelling every time one 
 hits anything, and going nearly frantic at a right 
 and left. The Moors themselves with their clumsy 
 but picturesque flint-locks seldom think of shooting 
 a bird on the wing, but stalk a partridge with the 
 same care as we do a stag. However, they are, as 
 a rule, most excellent shots, considering the disad- 
 vantages they are under as to their guns, as many an 
 old tusked boar has discovered to his loss as he has 
 broken from covert, driven from his lair by the yelp- 
 ing hounds. Another method of sport in w hich they 
 are skilled is the throwing of a curiously curved 
 stick at game ; it is not unlike the boomerang, though 
 it does not possess the almost miraculous power of 
 returning to the thrower : with these sticks they 
 are able to knock down running rabbits and par- 
 tridges on the wing, so unerring are their eyes and 
 hands. 
 
 During lunch that day we had Lab-el-baroud 
 with the new soldiers, and much better done than any 
 we had seen so far. Sometimes the rows of horsemen 
 seemed as if they were charging straight at our tent, 
 and, as it was, passed within a few feet of the ropes. 
 Again and again they charged, saluted, fired, and 
 stopped short, after making the horses rear till they 
 seemed as though they must fall back with the cruel 
 Moorish bit. Every now and then it was varied by 
 a single man riding by himself and performing 
 wonderful feats on horseback, his coloured kaftan 
 only half-covered by his transparent haik, which 
 
FALCONING GAZELLE 
 
 [Page x;6. 
 
1 77 
 
 1 he Journey to Morocco City. 
 
 flew behind him in the wind, his unwound turban 
 showing his shaved shiny head, the wind blowing his 
 temple locks out like horns, enhancing his ferocious 
 appearance ; and, when his horse had reached its 
 fastest pace, he would turn gracefully in his saddle 
 and fire directly behind him. 
 
 Two hours’ ride after lunch brought us into camp 
 two hours over the wearying, dusty plain. The tents 
 were pitched at Sok-el-T’lata, a large village, near 
 which is a saint-house of some size, the burial-place of a 
 marabout — not the white-domed building common all 
 over the country, but a square stone house with a 
 green-tiled roof. 
 
 On the road that afternoon we passed half a dozen 
 lepers. Nothing more miserable than the appearance 
 of these wretched people could be imagined. There, 
 in the full glare of the sun, they sat on the scorching 
 sand, wrapped up in their ragged jelabas, begging 
 alms. They wore, as all lepers are obliged to do in 
 this country, square straw hats, and had their faces 
 bound up in linen, so that only the eyes were visible. 
 What a life of horror, to be debarred from entering 
 any village, or from holding any intercourse, almost, 
 with the outer world. So great is the dread of lepers 
 in this country, that they have a village set aside for 
 them outside the walls of Morocco city, to which they 
 are strictly confined. These poor beggars that we 
 saw held wooden bowls for one to drop the coin into, 
 for fear of contamination. 
 
 We were not off the next morning till about ten, as 
 only three hours’ march lay before us. The road 
 was as flat and dusty as ever, but we saw the limit of 
 that part of the plain in a range of low hills 
 
 N 
 
178 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 straight before us. We often saw the mirage with 
 wonderful clearness in crossing these plains. This 
 day in particular it was very clear. In front of us, 
 and apparently not far off, lay a great blue lake, 
 skirted by trees that threw their shadows on the 
 water below ; the lake looked beautifully cool in the 
 burning sun, and the shade of the trees most tempting, 
 but, alas ! as we approached we found it was all a 
 myth, and lake, trees, and shade faded from view. 
 One day, on the plains near Fez, we saw, not only the 
 lake and the trees, but the sandy shore, women wash- 
 ing their clothes, and a white-domed house amongst 
 the grove ; but all this, too, disappeared as we drew 
 nearer, and left nothing behind it but a sandy waste 
 and a few prickly pear bushes. 
 
 We lunched close to where our camp was to be 
 pitched, and rested there three hours, so as to allow 
 our tents to pass on and be all ready for us on oui 
 arrival. The site of the camp was prettier than any 
 we had had as yet, just in the opening of a small 
 valley, amongst the hills I mentioned as bordering 
 the plain. Through the valley ran — or rather ought 
 to have run, for it was dry — a small river, on the 
 ■banks of which grew clumps of stately palms. In 
 spite of the want of water, the valley was beautifully 
 green, and a great relief after the yellow plains we 
 had left behind us. 
 
 Two of us started, soon after our arrival in camp, 
 to the top of a neighbouring hill in search of game, 
 and to see the view ; and though we were disappointed 
 as to the former, the latter amply repaid the steep 
 climb, for we looked down upon the camp with its 
 white tents, amongst which moved hundreds of men 
 
1 79 
 
 The Journey to Morocco City. 
 
 and horses, and there were the camels being driven 
 out to graze by the half-naked Moors ; beyond, the 
 plain stretched away as far as the eye could reach, 
 dotted here and there by clumps of trees, or the tomb 
 of some sanctified Moor. Altogether the sport had 
 been disappointing on the road, especially as some of 
 us had got such excellent sport in other parts of the 
 country earlier in the year, only a few quail, sand 
 grouse, partridges, and lesser bustard having been 
 bagged all the route. 
 
 We were off about half-past nine the next morning 
 and continued our journey through the valley. Wc 
 passed several saint-houses and some tabbia ruins of 
 great size, but what they were I was unable to dis- 
 cover — probably the remains of some Moorish castle. 
 About noon we passed into the Dukala district, and 
 were met by a new escort, saying good-byeto our hand- 
 some old Kaid and his showy men. The new escort 
 was not nearly so gorgeous, but with our permanent 
 troop of a hundred did not make at all a bad show. 
 The reason of this falling off in appearance and 
 numbers was that we had now entered a district less 
 fertile and far less rich than that we had left, in fact, 
 after this, all the way to Morocco we saw very little 
 cultivation ; and yet another reason, not many years 
 back, during a rebellion in this part of the country, 
 the Sultan had marched through this district and 
 destroyed the villages. The march of this potentate 
 against any tribes is spoken of by the Moors as 
 “ the eating up,” and a better expression could not be 
 found, for the country had never recovered. 
 
 Three hours’ ride in the morning, a rest for lunch, 
 after which another hour’s ride, and we were in camp 
 
 N 2 
 
i So The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 again. On the road we passed a number of tholba 
 or scholars, who were begging by the roadside — a 
 sure sign that education is not far advanced in this 
 benighted country. What an excellent idea for 
 undergraduates, after a bad week at Newmarket, to 
 replenish their empty pockets by standing in the 
 streets and begging in cap and gown. Another 
 sign of the want of even the most elementary educa- 
 tion was the fact that they had evidently never heard 
 of that most excellent proverb, “ Cleanliness is next 
 to godliness;” for a dirtier dozen men I never set 
 eyes on. What little attempt at education does 
 exist is merely the drumming of half a dozen verses 
 of the Koran into little boys by means of a long 
 stick, and it is an amusing sight to stand at the 
 doors of the schools and watch the old thaleb seated 
 cross-legged, while a score of small urchins in their 
 shrill young voices shout after him verse after verse 
 from the Koran, the slightest mistake bringing down 
 upon their unlucky heads, or whatever portion of 
 their body is best within reach, a quick, smart blow 
 from his long stick. The Moors possess no idea of 
 geography beyond this, that Morocco is the largest, 
 richest, best, and most fertile country in the world, 
 and that all the others are “ in it ” at all ; but they 
 are not the only people who think this of their father- 
 land. Nor does there seem to be any likelihood of 
 an increase of education, and it is better so. A 
 Moor will say, “ My grandfather and father knew no 
 more, and they were good men, why should I bother 
 my head with learning ? ” When the day comes 
 that there are Board schools in the country, the 
 artistic life will die out, and the perfect dress of the 
 
The Journey to Morocco City. 1S1 
 
 Moor will be changed for collars, broadcloth, and top- 
 hats. Already the Jews in the coast town are wearing 
 European costume ; but one can believe anything of 
 a Morocco Jew. At present, no country can rival 
 Morocco for picturesqueness ; but in a few years, it 
 may be, trains will be tearing their hideous courses 
 through the green, smiling valleys, and the gentle 
 pipe of the shepherd-boy will be lost in the shriek of 
 the railway-whistle. “ This way for Fez, Morocco, 
 and the Atlas ! ” will cry the guard, while the pater- 
 familias is blocking up the ticket-office with his 
 numerous offspring, busily engaged in taking a 
 weekly return ticket to Timbuctoo, “ at reduced fares.” 
 Alas, alas ! 
 
 Our camp that night was again in a valley, close 
 to the remains of an old Moorish castle, surrounded 
 by orange and olive groves. We spent the latter part 
 of the afternoon in turning over stores, hunting for 
 specimens. Our bag consisted of three snakes (alive 
 in my bottle in my tent;, seven scorpions of both the 
 black and yellow varieties, and a great number of 
 lizards and slow-worms. The latter I put in with my 
 large lizards, but on hearing their great jaws scrunch- 
 ing (is there such a word ?) the poor little reptiles I 
 promptly separated them. Whether the snakes are 
 venomous or not I do not know, for every one has 
 refused my kind offer to try by letting them bite his 
 fingers — what a selfish world it is ! As a long ride 
 lay before us, we were up next day with the sun, and, 
 after breakfast, set out. The weather was delicious 
 in the early morning, but, even then, would have 
 been too hot had it not b en for a cool breeze blow- 
 ing from the snows of the Atlas mountains. About 
 
i S 2 The Land of an African Sultan . 
 
 an hour after leaving camp we obtained our first 
 glimpse of the snow peaks rearing their heads far 
 above the clouds that hovered round them. Like a 
 great wall they stand, and seem in their foreboding 
 silence to block all further way ; as in reality they 
 do, for beyond them lies the valley of the Sus, almost 
 untrodden as yet by Christian feet, and beyond the 
 Sus again, the great desert of the Sahara, over which 
 lies the route to Timbuctoo and the Soudan. 
 
 We turned aside from the road during the morning 
 to hunt gazelle, which are said to be common in that 
 part. However, luck was against us, and though two 
 of the party saw a herd of ten or twelve, the rest of 
 us did not get even a sight, and those that were seen 
 made off, after a long and tedious stalk, before a shot 
 could be fired. Some great bustard, not uncommon 
 in parts of Morocco, were also seen, but timid, as 
 usual, kept well out of range. The plain was as weary- 
 ing and uninteresting as ever, so it was a great relief, 
 after three hours and a half in the saddle, to reach 
 the luncheon-tent. Close to the village where it was 
 pitched there was a curious fountain or water-tank, a 
 long covered place, some thirty yards in length, and 
 two in breadth, the ends left open, and descended by 
 steps. This, we were told by Abu Beker, was a very 
 old and celebrated fountain, as the water-supply is 
 always good there, even in summer. After nearly 
 three hours’ rest, we rode into camp, a ride of about 
 two hours’ duration. The heat was intense, and 
 much greater than any we had hitherto felt. It was 
 curious to watch the small whirlwinds — “devils ” they 
 are proverbially called — lift the sand from the desert 
 in circles, and send it twisting and turning over the 
 
The Journey to Morocco City. 183 
 
 plain, like a great pillar. One day, one of these 
 whirlwinds caught my tent, and took out every peg 
 that held the walls down. Luckily, however, some 
 ropes held, as I was in the somewhat awkward posi- 
 tion of bathing. Half an hour before our arrival in 
 camp we were met by Carleton, who had preceded 
 us to Morocco, and had already been some five weeks 
 in the city awaiting the mission. He had ridden out 
 that morning from the town, so that we began to 
 feel that the end of our journey could not be so far 
 away. 
 
 Our camp, which was pitched at the foot of a range 
 of mountains lying not far north of Morocco, looked 
 very well as we rode in, the tents of Carleton and his 
 men adding to the effect ; and it looked better still a 
 few minutes later, when we had changed our soiled 
 and dust-stained clothes for clean flannels, and sat 
 down to tea. 
 
 Here, as usual, the natives flocked to see the 
 doctor, for surgery is at a very low ebb in Morocco, 
 amputation being a matter of a knife, a saw, and a 
 tub of boiling pitch. One man’s complaint is worth 
 mentioning. 
 
 “ What is the matter with you ? ” asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 “ I cannot eat as much as I should like to,” replied 
 the patient, with a sigh. 
 
 Poor man, he could not stow away as much koos- 
 koosoo as his companions, and came to the doctor for 
 advice. Almost the only apology for doctors in 
 Morocco are certain of the Jews, for the most part 
 old hags, whose medicines are made of all the filth 
 they can collect ; and the saints, whose curing is 
 
i S4 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “miraculous,” but hardly successful. Charms are 
 much resorted to, to avert illness and harm. By far 
 the most common of these is the distended hand, a 
 sure preventive from the effects of the evil eye. 
 There is scarcely a house in the town that has not 
 the hand painted on its doorposts or walls, so great is 
 their superstition ; while the same emblem in silver 
 or gold is worn round the neck. Salt, too, is a great 
 preservative from the djins and evil spirits, and is 
 often to be seen hanging in a small bag round the 
 horse’s, mule’s, and camel’s necks. 
 
 On Sunday, April 17th, we left our camp at eight 
 o’clock, en route for El Kantara, the bridge that 
 crosses the Tensift, the river of Morocco. Within an 
 hour’s ride of the city our road lay through a lonely 
 mountain pass, on reaching the summit of which we 
 got our first real view of the Atlas mountains, for the 
 day before we had only seen the peaks. At our feet, 
 as we stood on the summit of the pass, lay the great 
 plain of Morocco, beyond it the mountains. In the 
 centre of this plain, half hidden in groves — ay, forests 
 — of palms, lay the city, only the great minaret of the 
 Koutubia and one or two other mosques visible, just 
 peeping above the feathery palms. Nothing could 
 have been more lovely than the view in the bright 
 April sunlight, the contrast of the green plain to the 
 dark palms, and the dark palms to the white snow 
 beyond. N one of us were disappointed — no one could 
 be ; it was as if some god had taken the Alps and set 
 them down in the centre of a tropical plain. And yet 
 there is this difference between the Atlas and the 
 Alps, that the former are very little peaked, but run 
 in a continuous line like a great wall ; and still 
 
The Journey to Morocco City. 1S5 
 
 another difference, that as yet the great Atlas are not 
 overrun with tourists, and there are no railways to 
 take one up to palaces of luxury like the Rigi 
 Kulm. 
 
 We felt the heat a good deal before we reached 
 the luncheon-tent at eleven o’clock. Soon after we 
 had sat down, Raid Maclean and his brother, Captain 
 Alan Maclean, joined us, having ridden out from the 
 city for that purpose. We admired their uniform 
 very much, the mixture of Orientalism and civilization 
 being admirably arranged. The Kaid was in white 
 and gold, and his brother in soft grey, both wearing 
 the tarboosh and turban. Their jackets were cut a la 
 Zouave, and the trousers left loose to the knee, where 
 they were gathered into top boots. Their horses also 
 were very gorgeous, the Raid’s trapped in purple and 
 gold, and his brother’s in green. They lunched with 
 us, and proceeded in the afternoon with us to our 
 camp, the last before entering the city. 
 
 An hour’s ride took us to the beginning of the palm 
 groves, for which Morocco is so celebrated, and a few 
 minutes more to our camp, pitched on the banks of 
 the Tensift, amongst the palm-trees. The bridge El 
 Rantara is really a fine one for Morocco, but sadly 
 out of repair ; but bridges are almost unknown in 
 the country, fording being the sole means of 
 crossing the rivers, and this is often impossible in 
 winter. 
 
 That night we had a glorious sunset, such as one 
 seldom sees ; the sky a blaze of crimson and gold 
 behind a foreground of palms, while the snow far 
 away on the mountain tops shone like opals ; nor 
 w r as it less lovely when the sun had set, and the 
 
1 86 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 crimson changed to mauve, and the gold to a pale 
 lemon tint ; and most lovely of all, when the sky 
 became a rich torquoise blue, as the night began to 
 throw her veil over the slumbering world and soften 
 the outlines of the palm-trees to a delicate indistinct- 
 ness. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE SULTAN. 
 
 “ Mislike me not because of my complexion, 
 
 The shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun, 
 
 To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.” 
 
 A I er chant of Venice. 
 
 ON Monday, April 1 8th, his Excellency the British 
 
 Lab-el-baroud — rider standing on saddle. 
 
 Minister made his official entry into the city of 
 Morocco. 
 
 We were all up early in the morning, as our start 
 
iSS The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 had to be made at eight on account of the heat and 
 dust. At that hour we were all on horseback, looking 
 far more respectable than we had as yet, as collars and 
 white shirts were the order of the day. As each one 
 entered the breakfast-tent, he was received with such 
 cries as, “ By Jove, he’s shaved,” or “ How long have 
 you been getting into those breeches ? ” or some 
 remark equally insulting. Immediately after break- 
 fast we started with our escort of soldiers. By far 
 the most gorgeous personage in the procession was 
 Costi, Sir William’s Albanian servant, who appeared 
 in full war-paint, or, rather, an Albanian moun- 
 taineer’s costume of white cloth, embroidered all over 
 in black and gold braid, and wearing enough weapons 
 for the whole garrison of Gibraltar. The procession 
 was not long in getting into order. First, after a few 
 kaias and the standard-bearer, rode Sir William and 
 Lady Kirby-Green, followed by the ladies and the 
 official members of the mission, and finally the “un- 
 officialities.” After having been on the road about 
 ten minutes, our way led us between lines of 
 mounted soldiers, who fell in as we passed along, 
 increasing the dust, which was already terrible, for in 
 spite of the early hour the heat was intense. The 
 scene was a very grand one and thoroughly Oriental, 
 the procession headed by the vanguard, with the 
 standard-bearer in their midst carrying the Moorish 
 red flag, once the terror of European trading-ships. 
 A little further on the road was lined with infantry 
 in scarlet and blue, and here we were met by Kaid 
 Maclean, his brother, and the Basha of Morocco. As 
 we passed the band of the regiment, they struck up. 
 What they played no one could say ; in fact, I think 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 189 
 
 they did not stick to one tune, but each composed a 
 little “ morceau ” of his own for the occasion. As we 
 emerged from the palms into the open ground, the 
 sight increased in gorgeousness, as the foot as well as 
 the horsemen had fallen-in in our rear. The hot dusty 
 road, with its soldiers in scarlet and blue, armed, 
 by the way, with Winchester repeaters, the sun 
 shining on the barrels and bayonets of the rifles, our 
 own party half hidden in the clouds of yellow dust, 
 the grey-walled town, with its minarets and palms, 
 all formed a picture never to be forgotten. We 
 noticed the soldiers as we passed along ; a motley 
 throng indeed, but looking capable of good fighting. 
 They were arranged in no particular order, and their 
 variety of height and colour had a curious effect. 
 Next to a small, sallow Moor could be seen towering 
 above his companion, a great negro, his head as black 
 and shining as a block of coal. Next to him, perhaps, 
 a half-breed of a coffee-coloured tint, in fact, every 
 variety of complexion was on view. 
 
 On every available mound stood gazers, while 
 behind the lines of soldiers, boys and men ran, keep- 
 ing up with us. Under the shade of some trees Kaid 
 Maclean pointed us out his wife and family, who had 
 ridden out in Moorish costume to see the procession 
 pass. Hotter and dustier grew the road as we neared 
 the city, and we were heartily glad to pass through 
 the Bab Dukala, the remains of a once fine gateway, 
 and enter the town. But, alas ! we found no relief 
 there ; if anything it was hotter and dustier than 
 outside. Here again were people on the housetops 
 and in the doorways to look at us. Along the narrow 
 streets we rode, past the great tower of the Koutubia, 
 
ICO The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 or mosque of the booksellers, raised by the same man 
 who built the Giralda at Seville and the Beni Hassan 
 tower at Rabat. Sometimes we turned to the left, 
 sometimes to the right, the road seemed interminable. 
 
 Hotter and hotter still it grew, until, just as we 
 thought we could bear it no longer, we turned off 
 through an archway into a most beautiful garden, 
 planted with groves of oranges and lemons, pome- 
 granates, and olives ; and this garden was to be our 
 home during our stay at the capital. About it was 
 scattered the Maimounieh Palace — I say scattered 
 advisedly, for the palace did not consist of one house, 
 but of pavilions and kiosks here and there amongst 
 the trees. Looking down the principal avenue, one 
 of great size, to one of the kiosks faced with Moorish 
 arches was really a lovely sight. The contrast of the 
 cool shade and the sweet scent of the orange-blossom 
 after the heat and glare of the long dusty road can 
 scarcely be imagined. From a desert to a paradise, 
 and such a paradise ! 
 
 Altogether our entry had taken about two hours 
 and a half, and though very gorgeous, was a thing 
 only to be seen but once, at least in such a heat as 
 we experienced, Every one was pleased, from the 
 minister to the monkey, and from my live snakes in 
 a glass bottle to the little black boys who sit on the 
 backs of the mules and shout and laugh at their own 
 jokes. The gardens are full of birds, and as I sat that 
 night and wrote my diary in my tent, the nightingales 
 were singing in the trees above me, for some of us 
 were living encamped, as, in spite of being housed in 
 a palace, the accommodation was none too good. 
 
 Three days were granted us to settle down into our 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 191 
 
 palace and recover from the fatigues of our long, hot 
 ride, before any business began ; and it was not till 
 the Wednesday following our arrival at the capital 
 that we were received by the Sultan. It had been 
 announced to us immediately we reached the city 
 that it would be his Majesty’s pleasure that we should 
 appear before him on that day, so that we had had 
 the intervening Monday and Tuesday to prepare our 
 varied uniforms and polish our swords and spurs. 
 The two days passed pleasantly enough, spent for the 
 most part in the enjoyable shade of the garden, in 
 which we really lived, as not only did we pass our 
 time under the trees, but even went so far as to take 
 all our meals in the open air. But Wednesday came 
 at last, and with it stir and bustle. We were all about 
 early, as our reception was to take place at the somewhat 
 incongruous hour of eight in the morning, so that we 
 might escape the heat and glare of the mid-day sun. 
 Before leaving for the Kubbah Sueira, in which the 
 ceremony was to take place, we made a light break- 
 fast, and about a quarter before eight mounted our 
 steeds. The scene in our palace garden was a 
 brilliant one, and the cool grey-green avenue of olives 
 presented a very different scene from what it had 
 during the last two days ; as, instead of being almost 
 deserted, it was filled with gorgeously-equipped men, 
 for not only had we donned our fullest war-paint, but 
 the Moors who were there to escort us to the presence 
 of the Emperor were arrayed in soft haiks of snowy 
 whiteness, from the graceful folds of which peeped 
 the brilliant scarlets, greens, and yellows of their 
 kuftans, while the prancing, neighing horses added to 
 the effect, each led by a soldier in scarlet and blue. 
 
iQ2 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 It was nearly eight o’clock before we started. At 
 the gate of the Maimounieh we found a large escort 
 waitingfor us, as we passed through which trumpeters 
 sounded a fanfare. After a minute's halt we were 
 once more en route , our new escort having fallen-in 
 in the rear. The road to the Sultan’s palace was not 
 a long one, though it sufficed to give us a decent coat- 
 ing of dust before we reached our destination at the 
 Kubbah Sueira. Passing through two rather fine 
 archways at each of which our approach was heralded 
 by a blast of trumpets, we entered the great square of 
 the Kasbah, into which the palace looks. The square 
 we found full of troops ; on our right and in front 
 of us the infantry, on our left the cavalry, of which 
 each man was dismounted, standing at his horse’s 
 head. It seemed almost incredible to us that Morocco 
 could turn out so many soldiers, for we learned after- 
 wards from the most authentic of sources, that there 
 were no less than twenty-two thousand men present. 
 
 In the centre of these troops was left an open space, 
 where already were the mules bearing the presents 
 from the British Government, in front of which stood 
 the small Shetland ponies, one led by Sir William’s 
 Albanian servant, the other by a Moor. In the centre 
 of this open space, we, having dismounted, took up 
 our position, while various Court officials rushed 
 about arranging minor details. We were placed in 
 line, the Minister a few paces in front of us, bearing 
 his letters of credence wrapped in a gorgeous silk 
 cover. In front of us, some hundred yards’ distance 
 in the wall of the square, was the great green gate- 
 way that communicates with the palace, a fine example 
 of a Moorish arch, and boasting much finish and 
 
The Stiltan. 
 
 I 93 
 
 decoration. Between us and this gateway, with their 
 backs to us, and so facing the palace, stood a row of 
 courtiers, some forty in all. 
 
 We had ample time to look around us before the 
 ceremony of the day commenced, and this conclusion 
 we all came to : Be the Moors in other respects what 
 they may, they are unrivalled in arranging effects. 
 The great square, with its curious turreted walls and 
 fine gateways ; the thousands of troops all around us, 
 the infantry in their scarlet and blue, the cavalry in 
 white flowing haiks ; and the long-robed courtiers 
 before us — all formed a wonderful picture. And if, 
 then, we came to the conclusion that the Moors are 
 perfect “ showmen/’ how much more did we do so 
 when a blast of trumpets announced the Emperor, 
 and, the great gates being thrown open, the procession 
 began to appear. First, led by black slaves, came four 
 magnificent horses — a black, a grey, a bay, and a 
 white — following which marched the Court-Marshall 
 with a white wand, various officials, spear- bearers, and 
 others ; and, finally, the Sultan himself, mounted on 
 a splendid horse, whose trappings of green and gold 
 formed a strange contrast to the Emperor’s plain white 
 costume, which consisted of a jelab and haik, both of 
 which were drawn over his turbaned head, no doubt 
 as a protection from the sun, though this was scarcely 
 needed, as high above him waved the Imperial um- 
 brella, a marvellous structure of crimson and gold. 
 On either side of his Majesty walked men whose duty 
 it was to keep the flies off his sacred person by con- 
 tinually flapping the air with long white silk scarves. 
 Following the Sultan were more officials, and finally a 
 green and gold brougham. 
 
 O 
 
194 The Land of an A frican Sultan. 
 
 As the procession entered the square, all the troops 
 fell down, crying, “ Long live the Sultan. Victory to 
 the Sultan,” and a wonderful cry it was from twenty- 
 two thousand throats. Asthe Sultan approached the row 
 of courtiers that I mentioned above as being between 
 the palace and ourselves, they bowed themselves to 
 the ground crying out, “ It is the Sultan,” then sud- 
 denly turned round and fled in every direction, as 
 though even the sight of his august Majesty inspired 
 fear. The front portion of the procession having 
 diverged to right and left, the Emperor approached 
 and addressed Sir William, who had already been 
 announced by the State herald shouting in a stentorian 
 voice, “ The Ambassador from the Queen of England.” 
 To his Majesty’s few words of welcome, the Minister 
 made a complimentary reply, after which the Sultan 
 remarked that “ he hoped that the friendly relations 
 that had always existed between the Courts of Eng- 
 land and Morocco might long be continued.” 
 
 An amusing story is related with regard to these 
 words. At the close of the Spanish war of 1859, a 
 representative from the Spanish Government was sent 
 to the Sultan to arrange the indemnity and to demand 
 Ceuta. This representative arrived at Court and was 
 received just as we were received. Imagine his intense 
 surprise when the Sultan said, “ He hoped that the 
 peace and good-will that had always existed between 
 Spain and Morocco might long be continued,” and 
 the disastrous war scarcely over. I cannot vouch for 
 the story being true. 
 
 On the termination of his Excellency’s speech, the 
 Sultan said he hoped we had had a pleasant journey, 
 and had found everything satisfactory, whereupon he 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 195 
 
 asked that the members of the mission should be pre- 
 sented. Each of us stepped forward in turn, bowing 
 or saluting, as the case might be, while the Minister 
 presented us. Our salutations were answered by a 
 scarcely perceptible bow on the part of his Majesty, 
 who, had it not been that he asked questions as to 
 our uniforms and occupations, would have appeared 
 totally unconscious of our presence. When all in 
 turn had been presented, the ponies were brought 
 forward, and much admired, such a breed being 
 entirely unknown to the Moors, who were very 
 naturally astonished at their diminutive size. The 
 Sultan was very much interested in Costi’s Albanian 
 costume, the like of which he had never seen before, 
 and asked questions as to his nationality ; then, bid- 
 ding us adieu for the present, and the procession 
 having once more formed into order, he retired to 
 the palace. After a few minutes’ conversation with 
 some of the officials, we were joined by the ladies, 
 who had witnessed the ceremony from a distance, 
 and amidst a fanfare of trumpets retired once more 
 to the cool shade of our garden at the Maimounieh 
 Palace. And so ended our reception by the Sultan, 
 and certainly it was the most gorgeous sight I have 
 ever seen, and compensated us for having missed the 
 Jubilee, which we spent in camp the day before 
 arriving in Tangier on our return journey. But this 
 was not all we were destined to see of the Sultan that 
 day, for a message was brought to us on our arrival 
 at the Maimounieh, requesting us to appear at Court 
 again at twelve o’clock, to exhibit the remaining gifts, 
 for, as I mentioned above, the ponies were presented 
 at the same time as we were. 
 
 O 2 
 
196 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Shortly before the appointed hour, we left the 
 Maimounieh, and again forming in procession, as in 
 the early morning, rode to the palace, at the gate of 
 which we dismounted. Entering through a small 
 archway, we found ourselves in a courtyard of no 
 great size or pretensions, with a covered colonnade of 
 Moorish horse-shoe arches across one side, under the 
 shade of which some half-dozen slaves were busily 
 engaged in unpacking the presents. Here we were 
 joined by Kaid Maclean, the Instructor-General of 
 his Majesty’s forces, and the Lord Chamberlain. 
 
 Suddenly a marshal announced the Sultan, who 
 quickly entered, unattended. The Lord Chamberlain 
 fell on his knees and kissed the royal haik, while we 
 bowed or saluted. After a few words with the 
 minister, his Majesty commenced examining the pre- 
 sents, which consisted for the most part of mechanical 
 toys and firearms ; amongst the latter he was most 
 pleased with a beautiful pair of Lancaster’s four- 
 barrelled pistols, in ivory and silver-gilt, which he was 
 not satisfied in merely examining, but insisted on 
 firing, nor did he seem to care much in which direction 
 the bullets flew, as he merely aimed over the court- 
 yard wall. An ambulance waggon took his fancy very 
 much, though we afterwards heard a rumour that in- 
 stead of putting it to its proper use, it was ridden by 
 his wives when they took their afternoon turn in the 
 “ park.” Altogether his Majesty was with us some 
 time, and we had ample opportunity of noticing him. 
 He is a tall man — a head taller than any one present 
 at the time — of about forty-five years of age. In com- 
 plexion he is very dark, black blood showing itself 
 very plainly in his thick lips, though this does not 
 
The S u It an. 
 
 l 97 
 
 prevent his being an exceedingly handsome man. 
 His face is thin and looks worn. He wears a black 
 beard and moustache, and dresses entirely in white, 
 on this occasion the haik giving place to a long jelab 
 of soft, rough texture. His hands are small and well 
 shaped. His every movement is studied, and cer- 
 tainly he is most successful in appearing majestic. 
 
 Though the Minister had several audiences, we saw 
 him only once more during our stay at the capital, 
 when one morning we were summoned to bid him 
 adieu. Hurrying into our uniforms, we rode fast to 
 the palace, and were immediately shown into a richly 
 decorated room in which, seated cross-legged on a 
 Louis Quatorze sofa, was the Emperor. A minute 
 or two’s conversation, bows and salutes, and we were 
 ushered away. 
 
 That afternoon we spent in seeing the Agidal 
 Palace gardens, the great enclosed park of the Sultan. 
 We rode there, and remained on horseback nearly the 
 whole time, as the gardens are very extensive, and the 
 heat was too great to walk in. The whole place is 
 very fine, but badly kept and wild. Great avenues 
 of olive-trees run in every direction, between which 
 are wildernesses of oranges and lemons, palms, and 
 pomegranates. There is very little attempt at culti- 
 vation. In the centre of the park, but inclosed with 
 high walls, is the Agidal Palace, a new building 
 erected by this Sultan, Moulai Hassan. It is a curious 
 building from the outside, for, of course, we were not 
 permitted to enter it, and almost resembles a 
 mediaeval castle, with its square towers and pointed 
 roofs. At the foot of a grand flight of steps we dis- 
 mounted, and ascending, gazed over the clear, calm 
 
i gS The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 waters of the great tank — almost a lake — square, and 
 very deep. Round the tank runs a paved pathway 
 shaded by lovely trees, and at one end, opposite the 
 flight of steps, is a picturesque kiosk and gateway. 
 Here we found the steam-launch awaiting us, in 
 which we went for a trip, though she is far from being 
 a fast or luxurious craft ; nor was our pleasure in- 
 creased by the fact that we had to be constantly dis- 
 engaging the propeller of weeds, to prevent her stop- 
 ing altogether. Near one side of the tank there has 
 lately been erected an enormous water-wheel, which 
 is, in some — at present — incomprehensible way, to 
 manufacture cartridges. The wheel is of great size, 
 and was made to turn for our special benefit, greatly 
 to the delight and astonishment of the Moors, who 
 had never in all their lives seen such a prodigy. I 
 wish it all success. We spent some hours in the 
 garden, which, after all, from an English point of 
 view, was no finer, except in size, than ours at the 
 Maimounieh ; of this, as really belonging to the Sultan, 
 with whom and whose possessions this chapter is 
 supposed to deal, a description will not be out of 
 place. 
 
 The garden is enclosed by high walls, one of which 
 also formed the outer wall of the city, and is inter- 
 sected by avenues of olives, which here reach a greater 
 size than I have seen elsewhere, and even rival Eng- 
 lish forest-trees in their dimensions. Between these 
 avenues, as at the Agidal Palace, are groves of fruit- 
 trees, for the most part oranges and lemons, which at 
 the time we were there were not only in fruit, but also 
 in blossom. Here and there, above the heads of the 
 oranges, rises a tall cypress, a pillar of stately dark 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 199 
 
 green. The avenues are laid down with a gravel, and 
 bordered on each side by trellis-work of light cane, 
 over which grow creeping plants. 
 
 At one end of the long avenue stands one of the 
 houses that help to constitute the palace, a two-storeyed 
 building of white concrete, and devoid of any external 
 decoration. Passing by an archway under the house, 
 the road turns off to right and left, the former to a 
 private gate that connects with the country outside 
 the city walls, the latter to another portion of the 
 garden. Taking the right path, one passes on one’s 
 left the swimming-bath, a tank of some pretensions, 
 with an asphalte terrace round it, and a small bathing- 
 house. Adjoining the tank is another house, built, 
 like all really Moorish houses, round a patio, the 
 white pillars of which support the over-hanging roof. 
 The floor is tiled all over, and in the centre gurgles a 
 fountain, while in one wall there is another fountain of 
 beautiful tilework, the water falling from the small 
 pipes into a clear marble basin. Into the patio look 
 rooms, large but more or less bare, and lighted only 
 by the great doorways of brilliant-hued arabesque. 
 At the opposite end of the avenue, and exactly in the 
 centre of the garden, is a picturesque kiosk, faced 
 with a colonnade of arches and pillars. Here we 
 generally retired after dinner if the nights were chilly, 
 as they not unusually were. Beyond this kiosk a 
 fresh avenue led to the further wall of the garden, and 
 served as our rifle-range. To add to the effect of the 
 tout-ensemble, from amongst the thick orange-trees 
 peeped our Moorish tents, for most of the men of the 
 party preferred the tents to indoors, where the accom- 
 modation was none too great. 
 
200 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 From the larger of our houses a staircase led to a 
 turret, from which a lovely view of the city and its 
 environs could be obtained. Below us, all around, 
 except on the west, lay the city — in truth, a city of 
 gardens — from amongst which peeped the houses of 
 the rich, while a mass of white flat roofs, stretching as 
 far as the eye could reach, represented the poorer and 
 commercial quarters. To the south-east was the 
 Sultan’s palace, its green roofs glittering in the setting 
 sun — for it was usually in the evening that we made use 
 of this terrace — and beyond the palace, again, the 
 Agidal gardens, the plains, and the gorgeous snow- 
 capped mountains, tinged, like the diadem of some 
 Eastern Queen, by the parting rays of daylight ; and 
 even after the sun had set for us, the mountains 
 retained their glorious colouring of crimson and gold. 
 To the west lay the great plains, a forest of palm- 
 trees, purple in the after-glow. 
 
 We dined every night on a slightly raised platform, 
 leading off the principal avenue, under the shelter of 
 Moorish canvas, prettily decorated with designs in 
 dark blue ; while the walls of this dining-room were 
 formed by high trellis-work, clustered with roses of 
 all colours, that sheltered us from the cool breeze at 
 night, and from the hot sun by day. The gardens 
 were lovely at night, especially as we were lucky 
 enough to have a gorgeous moon during the greater 
 part of our stay, though it somewhat dimmed the 
 effect of the fantastic Moorish lanterns strung across 
 the avenue from tree to tree. But enough of our 
 garden. 
 
 One day we were invited by the Sultan to a feast 
 at the gardens of the M’nara, a palace situated about 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 201 
 
 half an hour’s ride from the city walls. We left the 
 city by our private gate, and rode with an escort of 
 some twenty men to the M’nara, where we were 
 received as usual with military honours. Passing 
 through the gateway, we entered the garden, which 
 was in poor repair, and, riding along a drive, we dis- 
 mounted near a kiosk, surrounded by a really pretty 
 garden, laid out in beds, almost the only one of the 
 kind we saw in the country. The kiosk itself is two 
 storeys high, the upper containing two rooms, joined 
 by a handsome doorway. The decoration of the 
 interior was very gorgeous, as also were the carpets. 
 Here we found the table laid ready for the dinner, 
 before which arrived we had ample time to look 
 around and admire. The windows of the larger of the 
 two rooms opened on to a semicircular balcony, which 
 overlooked a great tank, full of wild water-fowl. 
 
 The arrival of dinner called us within, and imme- 
 diately below the windows passed a procession of cooks, 
 — led by an enormous black chef, who carried a wand, — 
 bearing dishes of enormous dimensions, a man to each 
 dish, and seventy-seven in all. One by one they 
 ascended the stairs and arranged the dishes in order 
 for our inspection. If cooking could be judged by 
 bulk, then our feast would have been magnificent ; 
 and even as it was, it was more or less enjoyable. Of 
 course we did not try all the seventy-seven dishes, 
 but selected some fourteen or fifteen, which appeared 
 the best. I began at the commencement of dinner 
 with a determination to taste everything, as I felt it 
 my duty to know as much about Moorish cooking as 
 possible ; and also with a determination to write down 
 the menu, which I succeeded in doing for about the 
 
202 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 first half of dinner. I think it is worth rewriting, so 
 give it here : — 
 
 Stewed pigeons, with oil and olives. 
 
 Roast mutton, with sugar, capers, and vegetable marrow. 
 Stewed chickens, with almonds and raisins 
 Kooskoosoo (semolina), with boiled mutton. 
 
 Roast chickens, pigeons, and mutton. 
 
 Pigeons and chickens, with oil and truffles, &c. 
 
 The dishes were of brown earthenware, each of 
 which stood on a gaily-painted table, with legs only 
 some few inches in height, and on to which fitted a 
 beehive-shaped cover of variegated straws, to keep 
 the dishes warm, which it most successfully did, for 
 the cooking was done some miles from the M’nara, 
 where we had our feast. As I said before, some of 
 the food was quite delectable, though in every dish 
 they used the unpleasantly-strong oil that takes the 
 place of gravy. To drink, there was only water, and 
 very poor stuff at that ; not only does the Sultan not 
 partake of spirituous liqueurs himself, but possesses 
 none. The same cannot be said of all Moors of 
 position. After dinner, which was served in the 
 middle of the day, came tea and coffee, both excel- 
 lent, in charming little cups of crown Derby ; the 
 feast over, we took a walk through the shady 
 garden and had a little shooting on the tank, Carleton 
 succeeding in bagging three or four teal and a duck or 
 two. 
 
 Now, having treated of the residences and what we 
 saw of the Sultan, I will describe, as far as I am able, 
 his more private life. 
 
 To begin with, his titles are somewhat lofty, as a 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 203 
 
 man who is at one time a Sultan and an Emperor 
 deserves, — 
 
 His Imperial and Shereefian Majesty, 
 
 High and Mighty Prince, 
 
 Chosen of God, 
 
 Moulai Hassan, 
 
 Sultan, Emperor of Morocco and Fez, and the Kingdom of 
 Tafilet and the Sus, and King of the Algarves, 
 
 Is the son of Sidi Mahammed, the last Sultan, who departed 
 
 this life in a water-tank, and in hopes of something better 
 to come, in 1873. 
 
 There is another story of his death which runs 
 that one evening, as was his custom, he was 
 
 taking some half-dozen of his wives in a boat on 
 the tank, when they capsized. His shrieks for 
 
 help were heard by a couple of officers, who were 
 
 on guard in another part of the garden, who 
 
 immediately rushed to his succour and succeeded 
 in saving him, just alive and no more. In a minute 
 he recovered himself a little, and, turning to the 
 officers, said, “ Where are my wives ? ” “ Drowned, 
 
 your Majesty.” “Did you see them drowned?” 
 “ We did, your Majesty.” Whereupon he exclaimed, 
 “You know the penalty for seeing the Sultan’s wives ; 
 give me your sword,” and killed the two men. As 
 might have been expected, he died himself a day or 
 two later. 
 
 Moulai Hassan is the fourteenth Sultan of his 
 dynasty, who have held the throne some 250 years, 
 and who originally came from Tafilet. His position 
 as Sultan is not an enviable one, as some portion of 
 his kingdom is always in revolt ; though perhaps it 
 is owing to this that his throne is as safe as it is, as it 
 
204 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 detracts general attention from himself and gives his 
 subjects something to think about. 
 
 The tale of the Sultans is a bloody tale — one long 
 chapter of murder and sudden death, battles and 
 poisonings, that, had the secrets ever leaked out, 
 would fill volumes. What romances, what plots, 
 have been hatched and accomplished within the 
 painted walls of the palaces ! What love and what 
 hate ! A despot is always all-powerful ; but the 
 Sultan of Morocco is a despot of despots. A favourite 
 one day, the next a carcase eaten by dogs at the city 
 gate. A wife one day, robed in silks and jewels, the 
 next a slave washing the feet of her who only a day 
 before had waited on her. A governor, disturbed by 
 rough soldiers at his meals or his sleep, may be 
 dragged, loaded with chains, to the capital, and made 
 to pay his uttermost farthing, or die under torture. 
 And as the governors are squeezed by their rulers, 
 so do the governors squeeze the lower officials, and the 
 lower officials the people. A government and yet no 
 government, the whole official life is a mass of bribery 
 and corruption. 
 
 The nominal head of this evil government is Si 
 Mahammed ben Larbi, an enormously fat man, with 
 a senseless expression, yet not wanting in diplomatic 
 skill. In selfishness and amassing wealth he is ably 
 backed up by the other viziers. Nothing more 
 rotten than the Moorish government can be imagined. 
 The Sultan squeezes his viziers, the viziers squeeze 
 the Bascha, the Bascha the Kaid, the Kaid the 
 Calipha, and so on, till at last the peasant gains the 
 enviable position of being squeezed and being 
 able to squeeze no one in return. So doubtless has 
 it been for generations. 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 205 
 
 And yet, in spite of all this, when we cast our eyes 
 over what accounts we have of Moorish history, we 
 cannot but be struck by the great names we find 
 there, and the great monuments that have been left 
 behind. Almanzor the Victorious, the most superb 
 of the Emperors, who raised the Giralda at Seville, 
 the Beni Hassan tower at Rabat, and the Koutubia 
 at Morocco, and now lies forgotten in the cool shade 
 of oranges, olives, and roses in the little ruined mosque 
 at Shellah on the Booragrag river — one of the love- 
 liest spots in the country. But it is not only the 
 men whose names have been handed down to us by 
 the monuments they left behind them that we ought 
 to be thankful for — not only, I say, the men who 
 reared palaces like the Alhambra, the Queen of 
 Architecture, that has delighted the eyes of mankind 
 for centuries — but such men as Averroes and Aven- 
 zoar, to whom, with many of their contemporary 
 Moors, we owe not a little of our medical, scientific, 
 and astronomical knowledge. And yet throughout 
 all Moorish history there is an undercurrent of murder 
 and bloodshed. How was it Almanzor was in a posi- 
 tion to build his palaces and his towers ? By care- 
 fully removing every obstacle in his way by wholesale 
 murder and dark assassinations. 
 
 When we gaze upon the wondrous architecture of 
 the Moors, the question comes before us — Who are 
 these Moors? whence did they spring? No one 
 knows. Every one has a theory which he asserts is 
 right. I have no theory, therefore I cannot be wrong. 
 Doubtless they are the sons of a wandering tribe, who, 
 after toiling over the deserts, intermarried with the 
 half-savage natives, and gradually settled to an agri- 
 cultural life, though till the time when they reached 
 
206 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 their highest pitch of civilization and artistic merit 
 they never forgot what they had inherited from their 
 fathers of the desert— endurance and gallantry. They, 
 like all other dynasties, have risen and fallen ; and, 
 though their fall was not as the fall of Egypt, Assyria, 
 Greece, or Rome, yet it was to themselves as 
 disastrous as any ; for, though they were not exter- 
 minated, they had to fly back to their wild African 
 soil, where, year by year, they are sinking deeper into 
 ignorance and bigotry. They have lost their activity, 
 these Moors of to-day. Instead of leading his 
 soldiers into battle, their Sultan sits in splendid halls, 
 passing his life in indolence, save when, now and 
 again, on the march from one capital to another, he 
 deigns to chastise some erring tribe with fire and 
 with sword. The Moors, whose ancestors once con- 
 quered in almost every war they undertook, sit and 
 sigh, and sing quaint ballads to Granada, their 
 mountain-home in the Sierra Nevada, and weep now 
 and again over the keys of the houses that their 
 ancestors possessed in Spain. 
 
 But to return to Morocco of to-day. Though the 
 Sultan is only allowed by the Koran four legal wives, 
 no restriction is laid down as to the numbers contained 
 in his harem ; and rumour, which often speaks the 
 truth, asserts that it contains some fifteen hundred 
 ladies. Probably his Majesty is in as great a state of 
 ignorance as to his wives as the general public, for 
 not only is he constantly getting new ones, but is at 
 the same time selling off the old stock in the slave- 
 markets of Morocco, where, if she is not over-passe, 
 she may realize a “ fiver.” It is the keeping of these 
 women that renders the interiors ot the palaces in- 
 
The Stilt an. 
 
 207 
 
 visible except to the Emperor himself and the 
 eunuchs who guard the harem ; but I doubt not that 
 if one could penetrate into the palaces at Morocco, 
 Mequinez, and Fez, one would see architecture that 
 might rival the very Alhambra itself, with which 
 many of the palaces are coeval. 
 
 There is a story worth relating, though its truth 
 cannot be vouched for, with regard to the treatment 
 that the wives receive at the hands of their imperial 
 husband. 
 
 Not many years ago the French government pre- 
 sented to the Sultan a number of bicycles as an 
 official gift. Now there is a proverb and a belief 
 in Morocco which states that the Emperor can do 
 successfully all that he attempts. His Majesty therefore 
 never attempted to ride the bicycles, but used 
 them for another purpose, that of punishing his wives. 
 Whenever there was a row in the harem, the delin- 
 quents were brought forth and according to their sins 
 sentenced to ride till they had fallen a certain number 
 of times. One can imagine the Sultan addressing 
 them ; to one he says, “ You are an old offender, I 
 have told you over and over again, that if you fought 
 with the others and scratched and pulled their hair, 
 you would be seriously punished ; you shall now ride 
 the bicycle till you have fallen twenty-five times to 
 the other perhaps he remarks, “ This is your first 
 offence, ten falls will suffice for you and away 
 they go, while the Sultan sits and looks on with 
 peals of laughter. However. I cannot vouch for the 
 story. 
 
 The Sultan but a short time ago discovered that 
 one of his viziers was becoming too powerful. He 
 
2 o 8 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 summoned him therefore to tea and complimented 
 the man on his great wealth. The vizier becoming 
 vain, boasted of the number of his houses, horses, 
 wives, and slaves. Thereupon the Sultan rebuked him, 
 telling him he was too rich, and thought a great' deal 
 too much of himself. To show him exactly what 
 he was worth, his Majesty had him taken by soldiers 
 to the slave-market, where he was put up for sale, 
 some one bidding 8 d . — the only bid— for him. He 
 was then brought back before the Sultan, who re- 
 marked, “ Now you know your proper value — 8 d. 
 Go home and ponder over it.” However, when he got 
 home he found his houses had been taken, with all 
 his property, by order of the Emperor, merely one 
 small residence, one wife, one horse, and one slave 
 being left him. His Majesty is seemingly fond of a 
 small joke ! 
 
 The following anecdote illustrates the existing 
 state of ignorance and credulity amongst the couit. 
 The Sultan was engaged in conversation with a 
 European, and was discussing the Sultan of Turkey. 
 
 “ He has a wonderful executioner,” said the 
 Emperor. 
 
 “ Indeed, your Majesty, I have not heard of him. 
 
 “ I will tell you, then,” said his Majesty ; “ he is a man 
 worth having. The last executioner having died, the 
 Sultan of Turkey sent for another. Several men 
 presented themselves for the post, which was to be 
 decided by a contest. 
 
 “The victims, three in number, were brought out 
 and made to kneel down. The first candidate then 
 took a sword and at one blow cut the man’s head off, 
 the head rolling away. The second did the same 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 209 
 
 with a backhanded blow. The third was so skilful 
 that though he cut the neck through, the head re- 
 mained where it was. Then taking a pinch of snuff 
 in his fingers the executioner put it to the nose of the 
 victim, who sneezed, the exertion of which caused his 
 head to fly ofif to a spot some yards distant. A 
 ‘ malem ,’ 9 indeed, that executioner.” 
 
 And the Sultan thoroughly believed the tale he 
 was telling ! 
 
 Life at court, at least amongst the lower classes, such 
 as slaves, &c., is not altogether comfortable, to judge 
 by a remark made by a small boy, a servant of 
 Captain Alan Maclean’s, who was overheard speaking 
 to a black slave who had brought a message from the 
 palace. 
 
 “No,” said the boy, “you must not come in, we 
 don’t allow lice and dirt here ; this is not the Sultan’s 
 palace, please understand.” 
 
 Nor do the viziers’ families seem to be altogether 
 free from such objectionable belongings, as on one 
 occasion, a European lady having asked the wife of 
 a celebrated vizier what presents she would like sent 
 on her (the European’s) return to civilized countries, 
 she answered, as she fondly clasped the lady in her 
 arms, “there is only one thing I beg, small combs, 
 for our heads are full of animals,” and she com- 
 menced to take down her hair to exhibit her live 
 stock. Tableau. 
 
 The Sultan lives a very simple life. He rises early, 
 before sunrise, and prays regularly seven times a day. 
 His food is simple — there is very little variety at any 
 time in Moorish cooking — and each dish is tasted by 
 9 Malem — expert. 
 
 P 
 
2 io The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 an official taster, a post of great honour at court, as a 
 guarantee against poison. Though now and again 
 his ministers eat in the same room with him, they 
 never taste the same dish. His Majesty, like all 
 Moors, scorns knives and forks, and eats from the 
 dish direct with his fingers. Though this seems, to 
 our civilized senses, a disgusting modus operandi, it is 
 really nothing of the sort, for to so great a dexterity 
 has practice brought them, that they scarcely make 
 their fingers sticky, and the practice of washing before 
 and after meals does away with after-effects, that, 
 should it be one’s duty to shake hands with one of 
 them, would otherwise prove unpleasant. In religion 
 the Sultan is very strict, in fact the religion of 
 Morocco is far stricter than that of any Mahommedan 
 country, except, perhaps, a few of the sacred cities of 
 Arabia. For example, no Christian can enter a 
 mosque in any part of the country of Morocco, not 
 even in civilized Tangier. The Ramadan, or fast of 
 thirty days, is strictly kept by the Sultan, even when 
 on the march, when the prophet states it is allowable 
 to break it. His Majesty seldom appears in public, 
 taking his exercise in the enormous gardens of the 
 Agidal and his other palaces. When on the march, 
 no tent is allowed to be pitched before he is safely 
 ensconced in his. As the Sultan was preparing for 
 his journey from Morocco to Fez when we were at 
 the capital, we had an opportunity of seeing his tents. 
 That for his personal use is an enormous marquee, 
 crowned by brass balls, while around stand four or 
 five smaller tents for the women who accompany him, 
 the whole being surrounded by a wall of canvas ten 
 feet in height. 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 2 I I 
 
 He is said to be a good business-man, and to know 
 far more of his affairs of State than any of his 
 Ministers, in fact, much of the official work of the 
 country passes through his hands. ^ Though we can 
 gather pretty much what kind of a life he leads, it is 
 only very seldom that we can hear anything of the 
 life led by his wives, except that it must be a tragic 
 one, for the favourite, for the time being, lolls on 
 cushions of velvet and gold in dimly-lit rooms full 
 of the odours of incense and flowers, and attended by 
 slaves, any one of whom, should she find favour in the 
 sight of her lord and master, would usurp the place 
 of the Sultana, who would sink to the degradation of 
 slavery ; and no doubt this is often the case. 
 
 The succession of the Sultan is not exactly heredi- 
 tary. The monarch on his death-bed has the right of 
 naming his successor, who must be a relation, but not 
 necessarily a son, though generally the aspirant to the 
 throne who has the most money succeeds. The cus- 
 tom has its disadvantages, as there always arise many 
 pretenders who generally end their lives in prison, by 
 poison, or on the scaffold. This idea of succession is 
 general through the whole country, and gave rise to a 
 curious circumstance and a piece of skilful diplomacy 
 on the death of the father of the present head of the 
 Wazan family. The son he wished to succeed him 
 was a little boy, who had always been his favourite. “ I 
 nominate as my successor,” he said, “ my little boy, 
 whom you find playing with my walking-stick,” which 
 his Highness had given the child shortly before. A 
 slave of the ShereePs, passing his door, overheard these 
 words, and she herself having a son by him, ran to the 
 children’s apartment, and taking the stick from the 
 
 P 2 
 
210 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 an official taster, a post of great honour at court, as a 
 guarantee against poison. Though now and again 
 his ministers eat in the same room with him, they 
 never taste the same dish. His Majesty, like all 
 Moors, scorns knives and forks, and eats from the 
 dish direct with his fingers. Though this seems, to 
 our civilized senses, a disgusting modus operandi, it is 
 really nothing of the sort, for to so great a dexterity 
 has practice brought them, that they scarcely make 
 their fingers sticky, and the practice of washing before 
 and after meals does away with after-effects, that, 
 should it be one’s duty to shake hands with one of 
 them, would otherwise prove unpleasant. In religion 
 the Sultan is very strict, in fact the religion of 
 Morocco is far stricter than that of any Mahommedan 
 country, except, perhaps, a few of the sacred cities of 
 Arabia. For example, no Christian can enter a 
 mosque in any part of the country of Morocco, not 
 even in civilized Tangier. The Ramadan, or fast of 
 thirty days, is strictly kept by the Sultan, even when 
 on the march, when the prophet states it is allowable 
 to break it. His Majesty seldom appears in public, 
 taking his exercise in the enormous gardens of the 
 Agidal and his other palaces. When on the march, 
 no tent is allowed to be pitched before he is safely 
 ensconced in his. As the Sultan was preparing for 
 his journey from Morocco to Fez when we were at 
 the capital, we had an opportunity of seeing his tents. 
 That for his personal use is an enormous marquee, 
 crowned by brass balls, while around stand four or 
 five smaller tents for the women who accompany him, 
 the whole being surrounded by a wall of canvas ten 
 feet in height. 
 
The Sultan. 
 
 2 1 1 
 
 He is said to be a good business-man, and to know 
 far more of his affairs of State than any of his 
 Ministers, in fact, much of the official work of the 
 country passes through his hands. V Though we can 
 gather pretty much what kind of a life he leads, it is 
 only very seldom that we can hear anything of the 
 life led by his wives, except that it must be a tragic 
 one, for the favourite, for the time being, lolls on 
 cushions of velvet and gold in dimly-lit rooms full 
 of the odours of incense and flowers, and attended by 
 slaves, any one of whom, should she find favour in the 
 sight of her lord and master, would usurp the place 
 of the Sultana, who would sink to the degradation of 
 slavery ; and no doubt this is often the case. 
 
 The succession of the Sultan is not exactly heredi- 
 tary. The monarch on his death-bed has the right of 
 naming his successor, who must be a relation, but not 
 necessarily a son, though generally the aspirant to the 
 throne who has the most money succeeds. The cus- 
 tom has its disadvantages, as there always arise many 
 pretenders who generally end their lives in prison, by 
 poison, or on the scaffold. This idea of succession is 
 general through the whole country, and gave rise to a 
 curious circumstance and a piece of skilful diplomacy 
 on the death of the father of the present head of the 
 Wazan family. The son he wished to succeed him 
 was a little boy, who had always been his favourite. “ I 
 nominate as my successor,” he said, “ my little boy, 
 whom you find playing with my walking-stick,” which 
 his Highness had given the child shortly before. A 
 slave of the Shereefs, passing his door, overheard these 
 words, and she herself having a son by him, ran to the 
 children’s apartment, and taking the stick from the 
 
 P 2 
 
214 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 London ; and by its fall there is one the less from 
 the small number of Oriental countries that exist. 
 Perhaps it is better so. Civilization must go on, 
 though in its wild rush it does not stop to think what 
 will become of civilization when all the world is 
 civilized. But it is in this steady, half-suicidal stride 
 of civilization that Morocco must pass away, the last 
 of the independent States of northern Africa. But 
 whatever will be its future, we who have seen it now 
 have this to be thankful for, that we have seen it in 
 its old state, as it has been for centuries ; we have 
 seen it before the refining hand of the European well- 
 wisher has built his factories and his mines : we 
 have seen it before the Moors have taken to European 
 dress and are regular attendants at church, and before 
 English-speaking guides personally conduct one 
 through the palaces, where now the greatest of Ma- 
 hommedan potentates, the true descendant of the 
 Prophet, a Sultan and an Emperor, languishes 
 amongst his women, listening to the soft splash of the 
 fountain in a marble and mosaic paved court, and the 
 softer music of the musicians in the garden without ; 
 we have seen it in a time when the Sultan is all 
 powerful, and not, as is likely to be the case in the 
 future, the mere tool in the hands of some European 
 Power. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE CITY OF MOROCCO. 
 
 During a residence of some three weeks at the 
 capital, I had ample opportunity of exploring all the 
 ins and outs of the great city of Morocco. In size, 
 Morocco is estimated as equal to Paris, though, of 
 course, its population is vastly less ; nor is one able 
 to arrive at any idea as to how great it is, owing to 
 the absence of any system of registration. 
 
 In position, Morocco is one of the finest cities in 
 the country. It lies in the midst of a plain to the 
 north of the Atlas Mountains, which rise sheer from 
 the fields at their base to a height of some 13,000 or 
 more feet. To the north of the city, some fifteen 
 miles distant, runs a parallel range of mountains, 
 none of which reach an altitude of much over 4500 
 feet. This plain is drained by the Wad Tensift and 
 its tributaries, on the junction of one of which with 
 the main stream the city is situated, in the centre of 
 a palm grove of enormous extent, which adds greatly 
 to the whole picturesque effect, and which, together 
 with the numerous enclosed plantations in the city, 
 has gained for it the title of “ The City of Gardens.” 
 
 Morocco, like nearly all oriental towns, is walled 
 by high stone walls, and defended by towers errected 
 at intervals along them. Outside the city one enters 
 
216 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 directly upon the country, there being no suburbs, 
 unless the village of lepers can be called one, and a 
 gruesome place it is ! 
 
 Within the walls the houses are low and the streets 
 narrow; on every side one sees desolation and ruin, 
 very different from the more flourishing northern 
 capital of Fez ; nor, as in Fez, does one see, except 
 few and far between, little pieces of exquisite wood 
 or arabesque work in plaster. The south-westerly 
 part of the town, as in London, is the fashionable 
 quarter, and there are the palaces and gardens of the 
 Sultan, his ministers, and of most of the rich Moors ; 
 while to the north and east lies the commercial 
 quarter — a dense maze of narrow, dirty streets and 
 booths. Not far from our palace was a small sok, 
 or market-place, on to which Raid Maclean’s house 
 looked, and here we often went in the hope of picking 
 up curiosities ; but, except for a few curious pieces of 
 pottery, we got nothing there. Far finer was the 
 Sok-el-Khemis, or Friday market, held outside the 
 Bab Dukala. Here one could see every variety of 
 native, selling every variety of native manufacture. 
 In one corner would be sitting a group of fierce- 
 looking mountaineers, selling silver daggers, and long, 
 inlaid guns ; in another a group of women with a 
 gorgeous-tinted carpet, worked in some country vil- 
 lage and brought in for sale. Here straw baskets lay 
 piled one on the top of the other in great heaps, and 
 there bright kuftans were causing a little crowd of 
 admirers. Under the shade of a tent the barber was 
 bleeding a Moor, while, next to him, another was 
 having his head shaved. In the centre of the circle a 
 performing ape was going through its varied tricks, 
 
The City of Morocco. 21 7 
 
 whilst the harsh-sounding pipes bespoke the presence 
 of a snake-charmer. Everywhere something new and 
 something noisy ; for the Moors are shouting and 
 gesticulating, fighting and laughing, just as if the 
 success of the whole market depended upon the 
 noise they made, added to which was the constant 
 jingle of the water-carrier’s bell and his shrill cry of 
 “alma” (water). Near this market, and on the same 
 day, was carried on the horse and animal sale, where 
 long-robed Moors were galloping the sturdy little 
 barb horses up and down the long open space to show 
 their paces, and where the wild Berber from the 
 mountains, noticeable anywhere from his scarcity of 
 raiment, was trying to sell a couple of small Moorish 
 donkeys. Camels, mules, horses, donkeys, goats> 
 sheep, oxen — all kinds and varieties of animals — 
 could be bought there. Nor were the streets less 
 interesting than the markets, though one did not see 
 such variety all at once, as usually all the shops in one 
 street sell only one kind of merchandise, so that if one 
 wants to buy shoes one goes to the street of shoes to 
 get them, and there one has endless varieties to choose 
 from. Many shops, however, have arrived at the 
 civilized state of selling more than one article, and in 
 them one can see exposed to view many English and 
 French manufactures. In fact, the sight that most 
 surprises one on arriving in these Eastern cities is the 
 immense quantity of imports exposed for sale. Linen, 
 coloured handkerchiefs, matches, scented soaps, per- 
 fumes, looking-glass, candles, and beads, are perhaps 
 the most common, while the whole of the tea of the 
 country — and the Moors drink scarcely anything else 
 — is imported from Europe. 
 
2 1 8 The Land of an African Suit an. 
 
 The scene in the streets is always a bright and gay 
 one, and always a noisy one. I never knew such a 
 shouting people as the Moors, it is their normal con- 
 dition to be yelling at each other or oneself. We 
 used to enjoy in the cool of the evening riding 
 through the crowded thoroughfares, under the covered 
 bazaars, amongst the jostling crowd of men, women, 
 and children, mules, horses, and camels, though at 
 times these proved inconvenient. There are whole 
 streets of eating-shops, where a grave, turbaned Moor 
 sits and frizzles small scraps of liver and such-like over 
 a dull charcoal fire ; nor is the smell of the savoury 
 “ kabobs ” refreshing on a warm afternoon. Another 
 street, which we as often visited as we avoided the 
 latter, was where the workers of leather had their 
 abode ; and here we used to stop and watch the 
 skilful way in which the gorgeous coloured silks and 
 gold threads were embroidered on bags, saddles, and 
 horse-trappings. The workers of bernouses and 
 jelabas, too, were always interesting to watch, 
 especially when sewing on the brilliantly hued braid, 
 which was done by a small boy at a distance holding 
 on each of his fingers a long thread of the different 
 coloured silks, which, by moving his hands, he 
 changed in such a way that by crossing and recrossing 
 his needle the workmen could make first one colour 
 and then the other appear. The jewellers were not 
 such favourites with us, as, being Jews, they lived in 
 their quarter — the“Mellah” — which is unrivalled, I 
 think, by anything I have ever seen for dirt. They 
 are, however, skilful workers in silver and gold and 
 brass. So much has been written and said about the 
 persecution of the Jews by the Moors that a word or 
 
The City of Morocco. 2 1 9 
 
 two on the subject may not be out of place. No 
 doubt the Jews have been, and are still, to a small 
 extent persecuted ; but it is not in the least to be 
 wondered at, for they swindle, on every possible 
 opportunity, the slow, thick-headed Moors, who bor- 
 row money from them without the least understanding 
 at what interest they are repaying it, which is gene- 
 rally something like fifty per cent, per month. When 
 one arrives in the country of Morocco, just as when 
 one first sees the Jews in Russia, one is apt to pity ; 
 but experience of a few days teaches one differently, 
 and one learns that, after all, it is more their fault 
 than that of the Moors, whom they despise, and make 
 the victims of their hard-hearted usury. I do not at 
 all mean to say that all the Jews in the country are 
 the same. I am speaking now of towns like Morocco 
 and Fez, where they are in the same state of civiliza- 
 tionas the Moors themselves, onlydirtier. A distinctive 
 dress is worn by the Jews, the jelab being of dark blue 
 embroidered cloth, and a small black cap ; for none 
 are allowed to wear the red fez. In many of the 
 cities they are strictly confined to their “ mellah,” 
 though allowed to walk in the other parts of the town 
 barefooted. One sees them taking off their shoes as 
 they pass through the gate which divides the Moorish 
 quarter from their own. The Jewesses are sometimes 
 pretty, and always vain, and, when they get the 
 chance, dress in European costume, which often comes 
 from Paris. A place that was a constant and almost 
 daily resort was the “ kesseriah,” or auction-market — a 
 1 ong, wide, covered bazaar, with shops down either side. 
 Here, about four o’clock in the afternoon, Morocco 
 gathers together to do its business. The auctions are 
 
220 The Land of an African Stillan. 
 
 managed on very different plans to ours in England, 
 as the auctioneers — there are a number of them — rush 
 about amongst the people carrying the articles for 
 sale, and shouting out the latest bid. Of course this 
 gives a great opening for fictitious bids, especially 
 when Europeans are present. The scene is a purely 
 Eastern one, and equally charming. In the half 
 gloom of the bazaar are crowds of Moors, some in the 
 fine white haik, which betokens wealth and position ; 
 some in little more than the historical string of beads. 
 Here we bought many curiosities, daggers and car- 
 pets, haiks and leather work, in fact all varieties of 
 native produce. Every day or so some incongruous 
 article would be put up for sale ; one day it was a 
 small parasol of a light buff colour, and trimmed with 
 lace — almost a doll’s parasol, so small it was. It was 
 sold for about a sovereign to the fiercest-looking of 
 our warriors, who used it to shade himself all the 
 journey back to Tangier, much to our amusement, 
 though he saw no joke in it, and gave himself terrible 
 airs on its account. 
 
 The scenes in the streets would often be varied by a 
 wedding, the gay procession passing by to the music 
 of some score of tomtoms and pipes, the bride shut 
 up in a box on the back of a mule, or even a donkey. 
 Funerals, too, were constantly occurring, as I suppose 
 they are all over the world. Of the two, I preferred 
 the funerals, as the music was much softer and more 
 sweet, and one of the two death-chants they sing really 
 beautiful. As in other parts of the Oriental world, 
 the relatives of the deceased pay people to attend the 
 funerals, and mourners are hired at so much a dozen 
 — a gross at an enormous reduction. 
 
22 1 
 
 The City of Morocco. 
 
 We often visited the slave-market, which is, I think, 
 quite the most interesting sight in Morocco. We had 
 all of us read the fearful accounts, which the press of 
 Tangier is so fond of repeating, of the terrible doings 
 of slavery in Morrocco, and, I must confess, were most 
 pleasantly surprised. We went v ery often to the 
 market, but never saw such sights as children sepa- 
 rated from their parents, though we saw both sold 
 together in the “ lot.” Nor did we see many other 
 things of which we had read ; in fact, the slaves wore 
 a wonderfully contented, even cheerful, expression 
 while the sale was proceeding. We were much 
 amused at watching one young lady — who, by the 
 way, was rather handsome — alter her expression from 
 sullenness when an old Moor was looking at her, to 
 cheerfulness when a handsome young man began his 
 inspection. So there is coyness even in the wild deserts 
 from which these slaves come ; in fact, far from being 
 a painful sight — for by the accounts we have of those 
 who have seen it before, they all left “ with our eyes 
 full of tears ” — we found it rather amusing than other- 
 wise, and I do not know that we are more hard-hearted 
 than the generality of mankind. This I will say, that 
 I would far rather be a slave in Morocco than a 
 peasant. From what, too, I saw of slaves out of the 
 market, they appear not to have such a bad time of 
 it, and in many of the houses enjoy more liberty than 
 the paid servants. Of course there is truth in many 
 of the fearful stories we hear of ill-treatment ; but, 
 again, I know an old Moor on whose death all the 
 property goes by will to his slaves. It is not slavery 
 that is so bad, it is the kidnapping that slavery neces- 
 sitates, and the terrible long journey over the 
 
222 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 scorching desert ; but, of course, to put down kid- 
 napping we must aim at slavery direct. The market 
 is mostly supplied from the Soudan — not the “ Sou- 
 dan ” as we call Nubia, but the Soudan that lies south 
 of the Sahara and east of Senegambia, an enormous 
 district of sand — but it is not at all an uncommon 
 sight to see white slaves in the market — Moors and 
 Arabs. The prices average about 3/. to 5/. a head for 
 all varieties, though we saw one elderly female 
 knocked down for about 22s., much to her own 
 disgust. 
 
 Of the mosques in Morocco one can say little, as 
 they are strictly guarded against the entrance of 
 Christians, though this does not prevent one, as one 
 passes by, from gazing in at the long aisles, dimly 
 lit by strange-coloured lamps, while a blaze of sun- 
 shine falls on the centre court, with its marble and 
 coloured columns and gay tile-work, and on the 
 bubbling white fountain in the centre. A delicious 
 scent of incense pervades the mosque doors, the 
 smoke of which gives a soft grey appearance to 
 the interior that makes one long to enter and pace 
 those long corridors with their softly matted or 
 carpeted floors. But, though we saw no more than 
 this of the interior, there is no difficulty about seeing 
 the exteriors, which, as a rule, are not fine, though 
 some boast graceful minarets, the finest of which, by 
 far, is that of Koutubia, or mosque of the booksellers, 
 a minaret 250 feet in height and 50 feet square from 
 ba s e to summit. It is the sister tower to the Giralda, 
 at Seville, and the unfinished tower at Beni Hassan, 
 at Rabat, but is finer than either, as the Giralda has 
 undergone restoration and change at the hands of the 
 
223 
 
 The City of Morocco. 
 
 Spaniards, whereas the Koutubia remains in its 
 pristine glory. The minaret is of stone, richly inlaid 
 with tiles, for the most part green, many of which, 
 however, have tumbled out. The summit is domed. 
 To ascend the tower there are no stairs, but a sloping 
 way, up which one could ride — so it is said — on horse- 
 back. No doubt the origin of this was to take the 
 beasts of burden as near the working level as possible. 
 This minaret, as it raises its head far above the low- 
 lying town and the forests of palms, forms the land- 
 mark of Morocco. It was the first we saw of the 
 city on our approach ; it was the last we saw on our 
 departure. The adjoining mosque is said to contain 
 a fine library, the books of which, no doubt, are 
 mouldering away, uncared for and untouched, just as 
 the mosque itself is. The whole edifice was raised by 
 Almanzor, in the twelfth century. 
 
 Of the other buildings in Morocco there is not 
 much to say, as I have described elsewhere the 
 Maimounieh Palace, in which we were quartered, and 
 the palaces of the Sultan. 
 
 As I said before, Morocco has only one suburb — 
 the leper city. We went several times to see this 
 almost unique village— a village of lepers. The place 
 itself is not large, and is situated near the Bab Dukala, 
 immediately outside the city walls. The houses are 
 much the same as those of the poorer classes within 
 the city — one-storeyed dwellings. We saw, of course, 
 numberless lepers, who go about their business as long 
 as they are able, like other folk, and then, when the 
 disease in its steady strides renders them incapable, 
 take to begging. I was surpised to see no leper 
 children, nor have I ever seen any but one, but he was 
 
224 Lhe Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 enough to make up for a hundred. Apparently, from 
 what inquiries we could make, the leprosy does not 
 show itself till the victim is about fourteen years of 
 age. These lepers intermarry, but whether the 
 children of lepers are necessarily lepers themselves 
 I was unable to ascertain. The poor wretches are 
 obliged by law to wear a distinctive dress, and are 
 never allowed to enter the city, at the gates of which 
 they sit begging. Here one could see specimens of 
 the disease in every stage, from the man who had a 
 patch on his face or chest to the legless, armless lump 
 of humanity that crouches huddled up in a corner. 
 
 We had two feasts to go to before we left Morocco, 
 neither of which, though each in its way was good, 
 came up in magnitude to that of the Sultan, though 
 at Abu Beker’s I believe— for I was not there myself 
 — the cooking was superior. There, too, wine was 
 supplied, the only place in Morocco at which it was. 
 After dinner dancing-girls performed to the music of 
 a string-band ; the premiere danseuse balancing a tray 
 of tea-things on her head very successfully. Abu 
 Beker’s house is one of the finest in Morocco, and I 
 much regret having missed seeing it ; but some of us 
 were away in the Atlas Mountains at the time. At 
 the other feast, at Sidi Garnet’s, the Foreign Minister, 
 there was a great display of cooked meats ; but the 
 weather was terribly hot, and a band seated at the door 
 of our dining-room kept up such an infernal din, that 
 conversation was out of the question. The ladies visited 
 the harem, and reported that the wives were very stout 
 and not exactly beautiful, according to our ideas. As 
 we were at dinner, we noticed a peculiar haze over the 
 courtyard, into which our room looked, which, we dis- 
 
The City of Morocco. 225 
 
 covered was the commencement of a sandstorm. As 
 soon as we left Garnet’s house, it began to blow with 
 a vengeance, the small red sand nearly blinding us as 
 it came in great clouds down the street. We tore the 
 puggerees off our helmets and bound up our faces in 
 them, and again pushed on our way. We were on 
 horseback, and so exposed to the whole force of the 
 storm. Everything was hidden by the dust, and it 
 was only now and again that we could catch a glimpse 
 of the road ahead of us. For some two or three hours 
 it blew, and covered everything with sand. We saw 
 no one about ; every man, woman, and child had 
 sought refuge in their houses, and the city seemed 
 deserted and dead. We reached the Maimounieh in 
 safety, but nearly blinded by the force of the gale. 
 In the country districts, where there is no protection, 
 the Arabs have to imitate the example of their 
 Eastern brethren, and lie down, man and beast, till 
 the storm has passed over. 
 
 It was amusing riding through the streets to hear 
 the curses which little boys, and sometimes even 
 grown men, used to heap upon our heads. “ May 
 Allah burn your grandfather and grandmother,” they 
 used to say ; but somehow we thought that these 
 reiterated prayers to Allah for this purpose could not 
 have much effect, so we used only to laugh at them. 
 Now and then, though, a Moor got his ears well boxed 
 for it by our soldiers, and on one occasion by one of 
 us, when a strong young European might have been 
 seen seated on the prostrate body of a shereef, and 
 saying in perfect Arabic, “ You burn my parents, 
 will you?” — bang. “You’ll call me ‘haloof’” (wild 
 boar)— bang. “ I’ll teach you to speak to Christians 
 
 Q 
 
226 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 like that” — bang. I don’t think that Moor would 
 have breath enough left in him to curse again for 
 many a long day. This, however, was not in Morocco, 
 but in a town on the coast. 
 
 One class of building that forms a prominent fea- 
 ture in Morocco are the fountains, some of which 
 appertain to the mosque, while others are separate 
 buildings of themselves ; and it is in these fountains 
 that one finds almost the only beautiful remains of 
 Moorish architecture in the city of Morocco. Along 
 the bottom of the fountain runs a large basin or trough, 
 in which the Moors wash. The whole structure is in 
 the form of an archway, no doubt so that the water 
 by being shaded from the sun may keep cool and 
 fresh. Many of them possess exquisite wood-carving^ 
 and the colouring of the walls is often equally lovely. 
 Every type of design — but all pure Moorish — are 
 found on these many fountains, and as one stands 
 and gazes one can almost imagine that one is in 
 some old palace, till one turns and sees the squalor 
 and dirt of the street and the people around one. 
 
 One is much struck in Morocco city by the tame- 
 ness of all the birds and animals ; and sparrows are 
 constant visitors on the dinner-tables, whither they 
 come in search of food. They seem literally to have 
 no fear. These sparrows are not like our English 
 birds, but larger, and with blue-grey heads. We found 
 the snakes, too, as tame as the birds, though this was 
 not as pleasant. One huge snake, seven feet long, 
 once calmly swallowed a rat within a couple of yards 
 of our luncheon-table, in the open roadway of our 
 garden. It was, however, shot. One word as to 
 history. The founding of Morocco is wrapped in 
 
227 
 
 The City of Morocco. 
 
 more or less uncertainty, though probably the town 
 is not more than eight hundred years old, as it was 
 founded by Yusuf ben Tisfeen, whose date, even, is 
 doubtful. From the kasbah, of which it originally 
 consisted, it grew to be a city of great importance 
 and size, and at one time, according to Leo Africanus 
 — almost the only authority of Morocco of the Middle 
 Ages — contained upwards of a hundred thousand 
 buildings. However, it has fallen again, and now is 
 no more than a great straggling, half-ruined town. 
 
228 The Land of an African Sultan . 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE GREAT ATLAS MOUNTAINS. 
 
 It had been during the whoie trip the desire of some 
 of us to try and obtain some sport in the Atlas 
 Mountains, and great was our delight when, through 
 the kindness of Sir William Kirby-Green, a letter 
 arrived from the Sultan, couched in the following 
 terms : — 
 
 “ We give permission, by the help of God, to the 
 four Englishmen who are bearers of this letter to 
 travel in all parts of our Empire in which there is 
 no present danger. But in parts where there is 
 danger, or where the inhabitants are in rebellion, 
 they must not go, either in the plains or mountains. 
 And to those whose business it is, I give this 
 command, to the Kaids and Caliphas, that they take 
 care of them and pay all attention to their wants ; 
 that they accompany them, and supply a fitting 
 escort ; and that they point out to them the dan- 
 gerous places, and advise them not to enter them. 
 Moulai Hassan.” 
 
 Without such a letter as this it would have been 
 impossible for us to have visited the mountains, as 
 no sooner would we have arrived at their base than 
 we should have been arrested and “ returned ” to 
 Morocco for the Sultan to do what he pleased with 
 
A VILLAGE IN THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS. 
 
 [Page 228. 
 

 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 229 
 
 us, as the mountains are forbidden land to the 
 traveller. This rendered them all the more interesting 
 to us, as we knew that only a very few had been 
 before us in most places, and in some none at all. 
 
 Everything having been arranged for our mountain 
 expedition, we started early one morning (Thursday, 
 May 5th), leaving the Maimounieh between six and 
 seven o’clock. Our party consisted of four — Wood- 
 ville, Treeby, Boulnois, and myself — with an escort 
 of an interpreter, two European servants, a Kaid, 
 and four soldiers, three soldier-servants, and two 
 tent-pitchers who also were army-men. We took a 
 large tent for ourselves, a tent for the Kaid, and two 
 small tents for our men ; four horses for our own 
 use, and six mules to carry our baggage ; a mule 
 for our interpreter, and three horses for the Kaid 
 and two of the soldiers ; while the remaining part 
 of the men walked, or took it in turns to ride on our 
 baggage beasts. The sun was already hot when we 
 bade adieu to the rest of our party at the Maimounieh, 
 who were kind enough to appear to wish us “ good- 
 speed” in a diversity of toilets, and set out along 
 the narrow, dusty road toward the Babel-el- Hamar, 
 a rather fine, though modern, archway. On leaving 
 the city we struck away to the right, skirting the 
 walls of the Agidal Palace garden, the enormous 
 park of the Sultan. 
 
 The country was very dried up, and the stones 
 rendered our travelling anything but quick or 
 pleasant. We crossed a strip of desert-like ground, 
 which extended some eight or ten miles, and then 
 entered the fertile plain that lies along the base of 
 the Atlas Mountains and is watered by their 
 
230 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 numerous streams. These streams — some the merest 
 rivulets — seem to rush in every direction, and we 
 were pleasantly surprised at the general fertility, so 
 different from what we had seen on the road from 
 Mazagan to the capital, nor are the inhabitants 
 ignorant of their good-fortune in possessing this 
 constant water-supply, as everywhere are to be seen 
 little banked canals joining the small streams, and 
 used for flooding the fields. Here, too, we saw the 
 finest crops of wheat that we had ever seen, making 
 one fully realize that the Romans were no fools when 
 they made Mauritania their corn-market. At one 
 place we passed a very curious aqueduct, if such it 
 can be called, through which the water passed under 
 the road, finding its level again on the opposite 
 side. 
 
 The mountains looked very fine as we approached, 
 and what had seemed to us from Morocco mere 
 hillocks compared with the central range, began to 
 appear, as they really are, great mountains. As the 
 country changed its aspect in the way of fertility, so 
 the villages began to take another form, and instead 
 of the everlasting beehive-shaped hovels, there were 
 houses of stone and plaster, with overhanging roofs, 
 the wnole village usually enclosed with a tabbia wall 
 of some height and strength, and guarded with 
 flanking towers, as a defence in time of rebellion and 
 war. Some of these little towns are exceedingly 
 picturesque, nestling in groves of palms and olives, 
 and surrounded by the vivid green fields. 
 
 About five in the afternoon we entered a grove of 
 olives, fine large trees, under which the sward was 
 like an English lawn, while here, there, and in every 
 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 231 
 
 direction ran little brooks whose banks were glorious 
 with oleanders. For two hours our road continued 
 the same, until, in fact, we reached Ourika, our first 
 resting-place. The little town is perched on the 
 side of the steep hill high above the river of the 
 same name. We never could quite find out the name 
 of the place ; it seemed to have many, and every 
 native we asked would answer : “ This town ? Oh ! 
 Ourika, of course while his companion contradicted 
 him, and said “ Achliz so we called it “ Achliz- 
 Ourika,” and had we had any letters to write would 
 have headed them so. The river must be a grand 
 one in winter, as even in this dry season it was fairly 
 full of water. The village resembled a fort more 
 than a village, the houses being built tier above tier 
 up the precipice, and entirely devoid of windows on 
 the outside, though many of them boasted a verandah- 
 like arrangement. We had left the Moors now and 
 were in the country of the Berbers, or wild mountain 
 tribes, who speak Berebba or Shleh, a strange language 
 almost unknown to Europeans ; and the fortified 
 state of these villages clearly showed that they were 
 ready for all exigences, for in this land fighting is 
 almost as common as peace. The building par ex- 
 cellence of Achliz is a curious fort, the walls of which 
 must be some thirty feet in height, and which is 
 flanked with towers ; the whole building, being larger 
 at the base than the summit, has a strong resemblance 
 to an ancient Egyptian temple. Close to this fort 
 we found our camp awaiting us, for we had lingered 
 on the way, so as to allow the tents to be pitched 
 before our arrival, which created no small stir in the 
 neighbourhood, as Europeans are rara- avis there. 
 
232 The Land of an African Saltan. 
 
 The view from our tents, as we looked down on to 
 the valley and plains below, for we were up some 
 height, was a truly lovely one. Far below us the 
 river rushed over its stony bed, its banks covered 
 with olives and pomegranates, vines and palms ; 
 away over the plains we could see the palm-forests 
 of Morocco, and the glistening summit of the Kou- 
 tubia ; up the valley the scenery was wilder, for 
 there, though the lower parts of the mountains were 
 wooded, rocks formed the chief object, such rocks as 
 one sees in Switzerland or Norway, precipices 
 thousands of feet in height, and away beyond them 
 again the glistening snow. After a bathe we set to 
 work to cook, and really, for amateurs, managed 
 very well, though perhaps, after all, to make a decent 
 Irish stew is no great task. Almost before the moon 
 had risen over the mountain-tops we were sound 
 asleep ; but we were up again before the sun appeared, 
 and bitterly cold it was. 
 
 At sunrise the Calipha visited us, as he had done 
 the night before, but, in spite of the great deference 
 he paid our passport from the Sultan — for whenever 
 he got a sight of it he tried to kiss it — he put every 
 possible difficulty in our way to prevent us pene- 
 trating further into the mountains. However, we 
 were stern and relentless, and at eight sharp set off, 
 the wretched Calipha having to accompany us, as 
 the Sultan’s letter directed. It is always the same ; 
 one has the greatest difficulty in going one’s own 
 way and not that of the local governor or Kaid, which 
 is never the direct one. 
 
 As the Sultan’s guests, food was supplied to us 
 all along the road, which it would have been an 
 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 
 
 insult to offer to pay for ; and the very first night 
 we found our Kaid Absalom — an old thief and a 
 robber — calmly selling the presents that had come 
 for us. As these valleys in the Atlas are not con- 
 nected with one another, but run into the mountains 
 parallel with each other, it was our intention to 
 strike across the spur between Ourika and the 
 valley of Hasni, and so to reach the latter place. 
 On telling the Calipha this, he asserted it was im- 
 possible. “If there were a road,” he vehemently 
 ejaculated, on our saying there was one, and that he 
 did not wish to show it to us, “ God knows I would 
 show it you, and even come myself with you to 
 Hasni.” However, we did not believe him, and it 
 turned out we were right, though our discovery came 
 too late. “Anyhow,” we said, “ we insist on going 
 up this valley as far as possible so we all went off 
 together, leaving directions with our men to push on 
 by the foot of the mountains as near as possible to 
 Hasni. The road was very bad in some places, quite 
 impassable for baggage animals, so we found we had 
 done well in sending our mules by the longer route. 
 We followed the river-bed for some time, then, 
 crossing to the right bank, we passed under a curious 
 cone-shaped hill that stands in the centre of the 
 valley, where the oleanders were gorgeous in blossom. 
 We saw many mountain villages all built more or 
 less like forts, and mostly perched high above the 
 river. On reaching a large village, the name of which, 
 as far as we could gather, was Asneen, we found the 
 road went no further ; but the Calipha told us that 
 we could, by continuing on the river-bed, get a mile 
 or two further up the valley. However, as we had 
 
234 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 already been two hours on the way, and had been 
 unsuccessful in finding the desired track, we decided 
 to retrace our footsteps and overtake our baggage 
 animals. The people in the villages seemed well 
 disposed, and very much astonished at our presence ; 
 but one and all wished us a hearty “salaama” as we 
 passed. The people are darker and more negro- 
 looking than in Morocco city, though here and there 
 we passed fair men. Jews, too, we saw in great 
 numbers. I believe that this small corner of Morocco 
 is the only place in the world in which agricultural 
 Jews are to be found ; for here they themselves work 
 in the fields, ploughing and reaping. Two hours 
 sufficed to take us back to Achliz, and from there we 
 set off towards Tahanout, a town at the foot of the 
 mountains, en route for Hasni. We were now again 
 almost in the plains, and the road continued un- 
 interesting the whole way. After four hours and a 
 half more in the saddle; making eight and a half 
 hours since the morning, a long stretch in the hot 
 weather, we reached Tahanout, a place of some im- 
 portance on the River Hasni. The town much 
 resembled the others we had seen in the mountains, 
 but was more pretentious. Here we overtook our 
 baggage animals, which had been unsaddled for rest ; 
 ten minutes later we were on our way again up the 
 valley, finally pitching our tents in an olive grove 
 near Tassilunt, after nine hours and a half hot riding 
 on an abominable road. This valley of Hasni is 
 equally fine as that of Ourika, except that perhaps it 
 lacks a little of its grandeur. We bathed in the river, 
 and returned to the tents to dine. Here we found 
 again that Kaid Absalom was robbing us, having 
 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 235 
 
 asked the Kaid at Tahanout, whose duty it was to 
 supply us with provisions, to give him money instead, 
 which was done, so that we only got a few chickens 
 that night, and our poor beasts got nothing but a 
 very little corn. 
 
 Our road the next morning was very lovely and 
 grand, especially at one place where we passed, 
 wading our horses through the stream, between two 
 perpendicular walls of rock, the lower levels of which 
 were covered with masses of maidenhair fern. About 
 half-past twelve we reached Hasni, and called on the 
 Kaid, who had come out to the town gate to meet us, 
 a kind old man, very decrepit, but who seemed much 
 more educated than most Moors, and discussed Euro- 
 pean politics with much zest, though, from the topics 
 he spoke on, I should say he had just heard of the 
 Crimean War. Our camping-ground was charming, 
 in a shady grove of trees near the town wall, and sur- 
 rounded on three sides by a swift stream. The Kaid, 
 Calipha, and Sheikh called in the afternoon and took 
 tea with us in state, -and quite a pleasant little party 
 we had in our tent. The old man told us, greatly to 
 our disappointment, that our further passage up the 
 valley was impossible, owing to the rebellion of the 
 tribes there. We had heard so much of these rebel- 
 lions that we rather doubted it, till we found from 
 other sources that he spoke the truth, for a wonder. 
 This was a great disappointment, as it was from 
 Arround (or Arum, the Moors call it, though Hooker 
 gives us the former spelling) that Sir Joseph Hooker 
 and his party ascended the Tagherot Pass. I can- 
 not say how much we are indebted to Sir Joseph 
 Plookcr’s book on the Atlas, for we found it in- 
 
236 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 valuable in all our excursions, and the map most 
 useful. The Berbers were delighted with our firearms* 
 and we had enough of them, and their surprise at the 
 shooting we did with our Winchesters, carbines, and 
 revolvers made us almost feel heroes from Wimble- 
 don. In the evening we went for a walk round the 
 town, which we found small, dirty, but curious. The 
 houses have no windows in the exterior, but all look 
 into courtyards in the centre, into which, too, the 
 sewers seem to empty themselves. Altogether, they 
 are most uncomfortable-looking places, and are 
 built in the roughest possible way. We had a thun- 
 derstorm that evening, but by sunset it was clear 
 again. The night was lovely, and we sat outside the 
 tent and silently watched the moon rise through the 
 gently murmuring trees, till every mountain stood out 
 clearly as by daylight. Near us the town walls 
 formed a dark line against the sky. As we watched, 
 we saw the form of the muezzin on the little mosque, 
 and heard his clear voice ring out the call to prayer, 
 and the echo from the wall of rock behind took it up, 
 then another and another, till it died away in the still 
 night ; but it was loud enough to wake a nightingale 
 in the pomegranates, who began his song and kept 
 it up all night — at least, I suppose he did, for I was 
 too sleepy to sit up and listen. 
 
 We w'ere guests next day at a great hunt after 
 muflon and boar, but were not very successful. We 
 arrived about sundown at our camp, and a little later 
 paid another visit to the town, where we managed to 
 pick up some curiosities in the way of silver ornaments, 
 rings, necklaces, and charms. 
 
 The following morning we were off again, with as 
 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 237 
 
 bad and as beautiful a road before us as usual. The 
 first hour or two we spent toiling up a fearful path to 
 the summit of a higher plateau, the top of which was 
 richly cultivated. After riding for about an hour and 
 a half on the plateau, we came to a village of some 
 size, which literally overhung a precipice thousands 
 of feet in depth. All the views we saw in Morocco, 
 almost all the views I have seen in my life, were sur- 
 passed by what lay before us then. Below us lay the 
 great plain of Morocco, almost at our feet it seemed, 
 a rolling desert of stones and sand, except where some 
 river wound its course and irrigated the soil. As far 
 as the eye could reach, hillock after hillock of yellow 
 earth, varied here and there by an oasis of palms or a 
 little white village. The whole thing looked so near 
 in the clear atmosphere that it resembled a ploughed 
 field, yet every furrow represented a valley, and every 
 line of upturned earth a range of hills. At our feet, 
 seeming as though it merely wanted one step to 
 reach it, lay Agregoreh, nestling in dense groves of 
 trees, a charming little town, with a couple of mosques 
 and an old gateway or two. Far away to the north 
 a dark line in the plain represented the palm-forests 
 of Morocco ; and, yes ! there was the Koutubia 
 again. Away beyond the city, in the distance, we 
 recognized the mountains we had crossed two days 
 before reaching Morocco. 
 
 Down a zigzag path in the face of the precipice we 
 descended. It was almost the worst road I had ever 
 seen, as the ground was of smooth, slippery rock, 
 sloping down towards the edge of the precipice. We 
 passed through a village half-way down, which, like that 
 at the summit, clung to the edge of the precipice ; — 
 
23S The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Like an eagle’s nest hangs on the crest 
 Of purple — 
 
 Well, it was not “ Apennine ” this time, but purple 
 Atlas ; but that doesn’t seem to rhyme somehow. 
 
 At last we reached the bottom of the precipice, 
 where we gave ourselves and our beasts a rest under 
 a delightful pomegranate grove, in the cool shade of 
 which we were supplied with tea in crown-Derby cups 
 by the neighbouring Kaid. We had already been 
 four hours on the road, and the heat was intense, but 
 after an hour’s rest we had to push on again. We 
 passed many villages, but none of any size except 
 Largan, where there seemed to be the usual number 
 of Jews. Some of us bathed here, and bought some 
 fish from a Jew, who was most delighted with the 
 franc we gave him for a couple of dozen small fry, 
 and tried his best to go through the horrid per- 
 formance of kissing our boots, though he got kicked 
 for it. We reached Amsmiz, our resting-plaee, in 
 another three hours and a half, and pitched our tents 
 near the river of the same name. Amsmiz is a place 
 of some size and importance, and boasts a “ mellah,” 
 or Jews’ quarter, separated from the walled town, of 
 which latter the mosques and gateway are fine. 
 Altogether it is a most picturesque place, situated in 
 the opening of a large valley. We received a letter 
 sent by special courier on our arrival, stating that 
 his Excellency Sir William Kirby-Green, and the 
 “ Bashadorial ” party would arrive on the following 
 Friday, four days thence. 
 
 We spent our first morning in Amsmiz in the sok 
 or market, but found no curios. The poor Basch of 
 the town was terrified when he heard where we had 
 

 
 VIEW FROM ABOVE AGREGOREH, ATLAS MOUNTAINS, LOOKING OVER THE PLAINS. 
 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 239 
 
 gone, as he said the place was full of wild, fanatical 
 hillsmen, and not at all safe for unprotected Euro- 
 peans. In the “ mellah,” or Jews’ quarter, we suc- 
 ceeded in picking up a few more curiosities. I also 
 bought a curious camels’-hair bournous of black 
 material, a hooded cloak which is so finely woven 
 as to be impervious to water. As the negro from 
 whom I bought it looked as though he might possess 
 belongings whose acquaintance might prove of an- 
 noyance to me, on my arrival in camp I sallied down 
 to the river to wash my new purchase. Following 
 the example of the Moors, I pulled off my shoes and 
 stockings and washed with my feet. While in this 
 somewhat degrading position the Kaid of the escort 
 espied me ; fora moment he stood dumbfounded, then 
 shrieked to me to return. He could not understand 
 how anyone could do anything so degrading as to 
 wash one’s own clothes, especially any one travelling, 
 as we were, with an autograph letter of the Sultan, and 
 belonging to the “ Bashadorial ” party. On my re- 
 fusing to comply with his vociferated request, he sent 
 half a dozen soldiers down to me, so that, at all events, 
 I might have some appearance of respectability. As 
 usual, the trees round our camp were full of nightin- 
 gales; to tell the truth, nightingaleswere getting rather 
 too common, and when we heard an owl at night we 
 would sit and listen, and say, “ What a delightful 
 change ! ” 
 
 The next day we ascended a mountain near 
 Amsmiz. We rode some way up, and dismounted 
 at a spot where the mountain-side became very steep. 
 Though at no place was it difficult climbing, it was 
 rough, hot work ; yet on the summit we obtained a 
 
240 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 cooler breeze than we had experienced for a long 
 time. We were disappointed at finding no snow on 
 the peak, as we could see it on a level, and even 
 below us, on the mountains near ; however, from there 
 was a view that made up for everything. To the 
 north and west we looked over the great plains that 
 stretched away far as the eye could reach ; to the 
 south lay a dark valley narrowly winding its tortuous 
 way between enormous precipices, one of the few 
 routes into the Sous valley. Amsmiz itself is in the 
 Sous, but not the Sous known to explorers, which 
 ought properly to be designated by the term “ Sus 
 Valley.” The summit of the mountain was a veritable 
 peak, not more than fifteen feet in diameter. Our 
 barometer registered 9600 feet, though, allowing for a 
 correction, the peak was probably some 300 feet less 
 in height. We got back in camp about sundown, 
 after an enjoyable though tiring day. 
 
 Early next morning we started off up the valley, 
 keeping to the right-hand side. The path, the 
 merest track in the side of the precipice, was not a 
 good one, as it was in no place more than two feet to 
 three feet wide, and proportionately slippery. Riding 
 along such roads as these is not over-pleasant work, 
 especially when, hundreds of feet below one, rushes a 
 turbulent river, into which one would ultimately 
 alight — at least, portions of one would — should the 
 horse make one false step. However, after some two 
 hours and a half of more or less holding one’s breath, 
 we emerged into a valley running at right angles to 
 the one we were in. The scenery all along the road 
 was very grand ; far below boiled and bubbled the 
 river, its banks green, vividly green, with narrow 
 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 241 
 
 strips of corn-fields and groves of walnut-trees, while 
 a line of crimson oleanders marked out the river’s 
 edge. The valley we entered was very lovely. At 
 the end, which opens into the great valley, stands a 
 village of some size, by name Imminteli, close under 
 the walls of which runs a swift, clear, deep river, 
 whose bed is cut out in the solid rock. On each 
 side of the river is a lawn of green grass, the whole 
 shaded by g : gantic walnut-trees. We crossed the 
 river some few hundred yards up to where it 
 issues from the solid rock, a most curious spot, for 
 there is no cave, simply a pool of water at the foot of 
 the precipice — a clear, deep pool, from the centre of 
 which, far down in its transparent depths, issues the 
 stream. 
 
 There is a curious old fable relating to this place 
 which we heard from the Moors. They call it the 
 well of the Christians, for once, so the story goes, 
 how long ago no one seems to know, the Christians 
 had their great treasure-house here. (It is a neces- 
 sary qualification to state that the Moors call all the 
 former inhabitants of their country Christians.) It 
 is supposed that this treasure-house was built in such 
 a way that there were two connected doors ; when 
 that leading to the treasure-house was shut, the river 
 flowed through the other. Naturally the belief at 
 present is that whoever can shut the door of the 
 stream will open that of the treasure-house, so our 
 movements were very closely watched as we peered 
 into the pool of water. We saw many pretty rock- 
 squirrels playing about, which the Berbers consider 
 very efficacious for medicinal purposes. 
 
 That there had been former inhabitants at this 
 
 R 
 
242 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 spot one cannot for a moment doubt, as blocks of 
 stone lying in disorder by the banks of the river 
 show very clearly the signs of having been cut and 
 squared by the hand of mortal man, and that man 
 certainly not of the Berber tribe, who build, and 
 always, so far as we know, have built, with tabbia. 
 We returned to camp by the opposite side of the 
 great valley to that by which we had ascended it, 
 where we found the road far better, and not so 
 perilously dangerous as the other had been. 
 
 The next day the Minister and party arrived, and 
 we were back once more in our luxurious camp, 
 which was pitched above the little town on an open 
 piece of ground, near the sok, or market. The 
 following day we spent hunting, ascending the moun- 
 tains to the right of the valley, and returning as we 
 had done on our former trip up the gorge. Though 
 several muflon were seen, we were unsuccessful in 
 obtaining any. 
 
 The day following our hunt we left Amsmiz, and 
 proceeded once more cn our road towards the coast. 
 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 243 
 
 We continued along the foot of the Atlas mountains 
 passing through M’Jot, Mturga, and the Haha, a wild 
 district, with deep valleys full of wild olives, and with 
 here and there great castles on the hills, the homes 
 of semi-independent Kaids. 
 
 Close to Ain Tarsil we visited some curious Trog- 
 lodyte caves, which, as I believe we were the first 
 Europeans to enter, I will describe. 
 
 Though seen by Balanza and afterwards by Hooker, 
 neither seem to place much importance in the ex- 
 istence of these strange dwellings, as the former 
 merely passes over the subject with a mention that 
 they do exist in this part, and the latter, owing to 
 difficulties put in his way by his men, did not explore 
 in the few places where exploration is possible, but 
 merely mentions having seen them from below, quotes 
 the “ Periplus ” of Hanno, speculates a little as to the 
 means of entrance and exit practised by the strange 
 dead race, then turns again to botany. 
 
 The Kaid at Ain Tarsil, the village at one end of 
 the valley in which the caves are situated, did his 
 level best to prevent our visiting the spot, by mis- 
 leading us on our road. However, this was discovered 
 — a discovery that led to bad language and an imme- 
 diate return. 
 
 The scenery at Ain Tarsil undergoes a complete 
 change. Instead of the dreary plain that we had 
 been passing over for two days, the country is split 
 up into deep ravines, not unlike miniature canons of 
 California — yet not so miniature for all that — and it 
 is in one of these strange valleys that the caves are 
 situated. The gorge is a narrow one, the cliffs on 
 either side rising almost perpendicularly from the 
 
 R 2 
 
2 44 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 bottom of the deep valley to a great height, through 
 which trickles a diminutive stream, owing its existence 
 to a hole in the rock. 
 
 After progressing some little way through this 
 valley we came in sight of the first batch of caves, 
 situated in the right-hand cliff, at a great distance 
 from the ground and cut in the solid rock. They 
 are in some places in single tier, in others in two 
 or three tiers, one situated directly above the 
 others. 
 
 The entrances are small, varying from three and a 
 half to four and a half feet in height, and about three 
 feet in width. In places where the rock has fallen 
 away the entrances are faced with masonry of a neat 
 type, and in one or two cases where the natural 
 formation of the rock necessitated exceptionally large 
 entrances this masonry served also the purpose of 
 dividing the door into two parts, one of which, no 
 doubt, served as a window. 
 
 How the original inhabitants succeeded in gaining 
 entrance to these caves is a puzzler, but I doubt not 
 they made use of ropes and ladders, which would 
 serve as a protection from man and beast, as they 
 could be drawn up from above. 
 
 Only in very few cases were we able to enter the 
 caves. We found them for the most part much 
 resembling each other, though one or two were more 
 after the style of houses, and contained several rooms. 
 
 The low pitch of the roof makes one believe the 
 people were a minute race, though Hanno in the 
 “ Periplus,” speaking of Southern Morocco, does not 
 say so. He states that in the interior lived a race 
 whose homes were in the rocks, who were swift as 
 
The Great Atlas Mountains. 245 
 
 horses, with a language more resembling shrieks than 
 speaking, and that they eat snakes. I never like to 
 contradict any one, for fear I should be found out to 
 be wrong, but Hanno has been dead some years, so I 
 think no one can very well prove his statements, for 
 I think, by the careful way in which these caves are 
 excavated, that his description is a false one, and that 
 this dead race must have been far more civilized than 
 he leads one to believe. There are some hundreds of 
 caves altogether. On the road to Sheshouan, and 
 again beyond Wanan, I discovered fresh evidence of 
 Troglodyte cave cities. 
 
 We arrived at Mogador on May 24th, and two 
 days later started on our long journey up the coast 
 to Tangier, a distance of 400 miles. 
 
 I will not describe in detail this journey, but will 
 give a general description of the coast towns, and the 
 places of interest passed on the road. 
 
246 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE COAST TOWNS. 
 
 ABOUT Mogador there is not much to tell, yet it is 
 not at all an unattractive place. The name of the 
 city has arisen in a curious way, though, like most of 
 the Moorish coast towns, it is known by two names, 
 being commonly called by the Moors “ Sueira,” i.e. 
 the picture. 
 
 Buried palace and Berber village, near Mogador. 
 
 The origin of the name Mogador is as follows : — 
 In the fourteenth or fifteenth centuries, a ship was 
 wrecked on the spit of sand on which Mogador of to- 
 day is situated. At that time, however, there was 
 no city, merely the Berber village that still remains 
 standing only a few miles away existed then. 
 
 The sole survivor of this wreck was a Scotchman, 
 McDougal, who succeeded in reaching the shore, and 
 making friends with the natives, amongst whom he 
 lived for many years, teaching the tribes many useful 
 arts, such as working in metals, &c. To such an 
 extent did they come to venerate his superior know- 
 
The Coast Towns. 
 
 247 
 
 ledge, that on his death they raised a monument over 
 his tomb, known and worshipped to this day by the 
 natives, as Sidi Mogdul — a very slight change from his 
 original Scotch name of McDougal. The story is no 
 doubt true, as Mogdul is a name unknown elsewhere 
 amongst the Moors and Arabs, while the fact that he 
 is also reverenced by the Jews — a not very distin- 
 guished honour — renders more clear that his origin 
 was neither Jewish nor Moorish. From Mogdul, the 
 
 The Islands, Mogador Bay. 
 
 town has taken its name, being corrupted by the 
 Europeans into Mogador. 
 
 The town is situated on the extremity of a spit of 
 sand, jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean, which 
 seems all through the year to attract cool breezes, 
 rendering Mogador one of the healthiest spots in all 
 Morocco. In climate, it far surpasses Tangier, from 
 which it is distant about four hundred miles, though 
 the want of accommodation renders it unsuitable for 
 
248 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 invalids. The harbour is by far the best on the whole 
 of the Moorish coast, being sheltered to some extent 
 by islands. The town itself is clean, built rather on a 
 European than a Moorish plan, and several European 
 families, as well as a British Consul, reside there. 
 From Mr. Consul Payton and his wife I have always 
 received the kindest hospitality, and as he is a man 
 whose knowledge of Morocco and the Moors is very 
 wide, I have gathered much information from many 
 pleasant conversations with him. To readers of the 
 Field, he is well known, under the name of “ Sar- 
 selle,” as one of the most enthusiastic and successful 
 of sea fishermen, and our knowledge of what sea fish 
 pertain to the shores of Morocco is entirely owing to 
 his untiring exertions. 
 
 Not far from Mogador on the sea-beach are the 
 ruins of an ancient Sultan’s palace, now half buried 
 by the drifting sands which separate — almost isolate 
 — Mogador from the surrounding country. The 
 palace is a building of no great pretensions, though 
 covering a large space of ground. The whole is sur- 
 rounded by a high wall, forming an immense court- 
 yard, at each corner of which are houses, of two 
 stories, and containing very large rooms. The north- 
 west corner house is fitted up into a species of what 
 the Portuguese would call a “ Morante,” or summer- 
 house, and, with its flooring of rich tiles, its painted 
 doors and picturesque windows, is very charming. It 
 was near here we managed to enter the palace, for the 
 doors are locked, and, even if not closed, would be use- 
 less, as they are entirely buried in sand. 
 
 In the centre of the courtyard is a large building 
 one story in height, with a tall, green-tiled pointed 
 roof, terminating in a sort of gilt lightning-conductor. 
 
The Coast Towns. 
 
 249 
 
 This building is flanked by white marble columns, 
 with Corinthian capitals, forming an arcade on each 
 side, while the corners of this central palace are plain, 
 each being a room of no mean size. The centre 
 forms a huge chamber, evidently at one time an 
 audience-hall. This room we found it very difficult to 
 enter, owing to the sand having drifted up against 
 the gorgeously-painted doors, preventing them from 
 
 being moved. However, after hard work in scraping 
 away the piled-up sand, I managed to make a small 
 hole, through which I slid, and very quickly too, as I 
 had entered from the level of the top of the immense 
 doors. I fell, however, on to soft sand, and soon 
 recovered my feet. A few bats I could hear flapping 
 about, but the darkness prevented my seeing anything. 
 Striking a match, I lit a candle. 
 
250 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 High above my head rose the domed roof, richly 
 painted in designs in red and gold. Round the upper 
 part of the walls ran Arabesque in white plaster, 
 bearing in graceful designs verses from the Koran. 
 The walls were of plain, slightly-tinted plaster and 
 the floor of tiles. At the further side was an alcove, 
 evidently the seat of some former Sultan. 
 
 A difficult climb up the doors and a crawl on all 
 fours through our sand tunnel, and I was once more 
 in the open air, half-blinded with the mid-day sun, 
 after the cool darkness. The whole building is an 
 exceedingly interesting place, and well worth a visit, 
 though it is seldom the drifted sand lies thick enough 
 to allow one to climb over the high wall, and so enter 
 the court. On our return, we visited the small 
 Berber village that exists close by, thoughdt has long 
 since fallen to rack and ruin, the shells alone remain- 
 ing of a few old houses, in which the Berbers have 
 built up their huts and spread their tents. 
 
 Mogador is — with the exception of Morocco city — • 
 the best place for picking up curious objects from the 
 Soudan and the Sous, especially guns and daggers ; 
 while the J ews there are skilled workers in metals. The 
 Mellah and its inhabitants are as dirty as elsewhere ; 
 Spanish is spoken principally among the Jews of the 
 coast. 
 
 Two days’ journey north of Mogador is situated 
 Saffi. The country between the two is hilly and well 
 wooded ; for the first part of the way the Argan tree 
 grows in great luxuriance, and is a source of wealth to 
 the natives from the oil they draw therefrom. The 
 fruit is long and yellow, not unlike the mango from a 
 distance, but exceedingly bitter to the taste. I once 
 bit one in curiosity, but did not lose the acid flavour 
 
The Coast Towns. 
 
 251 
 
 for some days. The tree itself, peculiar to this part 
 of Morocco, and unknown elsewhere throughout the 
 whole world, is thick in trunk, with low, distended 
 branches. The leaves are hard and shining, of a dark 
 green colour, and the branches are covered with long 
 thorns. So thickly do these branches grow and at 
 such uniform height from the ground that it is a 
 common sight to see goats in the branches, a sight I 
 have seen nowhere else, except in the country in 
 Malta, in the few trees that exist there. Though the 
 Argan does not reach any great altitude, it is far- 
 spreading, which gives rise to many exaggerated 
 accounts of its size. On the road from Morocco city 
 to Mogador, before we had come across any specimens 
 of the Argan, I was told by one of our kaids that we 
 should see a tree capable of giving shelter to a hun- 
 dred men on horseback. In time we arrived at the 
 tree — certainly a large specimen — under which twenty 
 men, certainly not on horseback, might find shelter. 
 I told the kaid that he had exaggerated, and laughed 
 at him, but he still stuck to his statement, allowing, 
 however, that they must be “small men and small 
 horses.” Lizards mounted on rabbits might, perhaps, 
 be a fairer test to judge by. 
 
 Between Mogador and Saffi one has to ford the 
 Wad Tensift, the river that drains the elevated plains 
 of Morocco and flows close to the city of that name. 
 The ford is a wide and, in the rainy season a deep, 
 one. Near the ford stands the ruins of some ancient 
 town, though it is difficult to say to what period the 
 remains belong. They are not unlike the ruins of 
 ancient Tangier, two miles from the modern town 
 along the beach, but are of greater extent and in 
 better preservation. Saffi is approached from the 
 
252 The Land, of an African Sultan. 
 
 south by high ground, along the cliffs, one part of 
 which, known as the “Jews’ Cliff,” being a narrow 
 path cut in the precipice. Its name is derived from 
 its being the spot where a party of Moors bundled 
 some Jews, who had swindled them, over the edge on 
 to the rocks far below. The town of Safifi— or Asfi, as 
 it is called by the Moors — is situated on the side of a 
 steep hill, crowned by the ruins of the ancient palace, 
 one of the most magnificent remains in the whole 
 country, though fast falling into decay. 
 
 I have twice explored this ancient castle, and have 
 been each time more impressed with what its grandeur 
 must once have been. It was built either by Moulai 
 Ismail or Moulai Sliman, and probably by both. From 
 the outside it presents nothing more than immensely 
 high walls crowned with towers and turrets, but these 
 walls are filled with delightful little courts and bal- 
 conies. One small court, with its pointed arches, tiled 
 floor, and marble lion fountain, the rooms leading 
 into it richly tiled and with gorgeous ceilings, must in 
 its day have been almost as fine as anything in the 
 Alhambra itself, nor is it much less beautiful to-day 
 when wild roses have crept over everything, and 
 flowers, weeds, and shrubs forced their way between 
 the tiles and inlaid marble. 
 
 A court containing a miniature mosque, with its 
 green-tiled pointed roofs, its tiny arcades of pillars, 
 and rich ceilings, is in almost perfect repair ; a very 
 little expense would suffice to realize its former 
 beauties. Nor are the shady balconies, unsafe to walk 
 upon now, with balustrades of musheribeyah work, 
 that surround on two stories a small deep court, less 
 lovely, especially as the windows look far out over the 
 town, hundreds of feet below on the side of the 
 
The Coast Towns. 253 
 
 hill, away to the great blue ocean, for ever rolling its 
 breakers on the open coast. 
 
 A curious breech-loading gun of great age can be 
 seen lying rusty and half buried on one of the battle- 
 ments of the palace. However, the last half-dozen 
 Sultans have not cared for Safifi, and day by day the 
 old palace is crumbling away, tired, perhaps, of never 
 being seen, aweary of its glories worn for nought. 
 
 The place is always kept locked up, and it is 
 generally extremely difficult to obtain permission to 
 view it, though I myself had no difficulty, as on one 
 occasion I was on the “Mission” with Sir William 
 Kirby-Green, and the second time obtained entrance 
 by the fact of my former visit, and the additional help 
 that the Basha of the town personally remembered me. 
 
 The next town reached on a journey up the coast 
 is Mazagan, called by the natives Jedida — i.e. the 
 “ new ” — though it scarcely deserves that name now. 
 As I have elsewhere described all that is to be seen 
 and done in that far from interesting place, I will 
 pass on to another city — Azimour — situated only 
 three or four hours’ ride from Mazagan. This city is 
 an extremely fanatical one, nor are any Christians 
 allowed to reside there. It is situated on the south 
 bank of the river Ribeah on a high cliff. The town 
 is large and uninteresting, but very sacred on account 
 of the tomb of Sidi Moulai Bushai. On passing 
 through this place on our return from visiting the 
 Sultan, Mr. White, H.B.M. Consul at Tangier, took 
 several photographs; the natives were quite uncon- 
 scious of what was going on, so that some good 
 groups were obtained. As a rule, the Moors object 
 most strongly to being photographed, on account of 
 portraiture being contrary to the Koran, and their 
 
254 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 entire ignorance at this spot of the objects of a 
 camera was a great help to the photographers. The 
 passage of the river Ribeah is carried out in large 
 flat-bottomed barges, on which horses, men, and 
 baggage are safely — generally — conveyed across. 
 
 The next town on the coast is perhaps the most 
 important of all, Casablanca, or Dar-al-baida, both of 
 which names mean the same, “ The White House.” 
 
 It is a town of but little interest and, comparatively 
 modern ; like all the other coast towns in Morocco, it 
 is walled. Its importance is owing principally to the 
 fact that there are many Europeans there, engaged in 
 trade. There is little to see in the place, which is 
 clean, nicely laid out, and half European in appear- 
 ance. There is no harbour, as at Mazagan and 
 Saffi, the ships lying in the open roadstead. The 
 principal trade of Dar-al-baida is the exportation of 
 wool. Many small steamers and sailing-vessels call 
 here for cargo, besides the regular forward line boats 
 which visit the coast ports — up and down — about 
 once every three weeks. It is a very pleasant way of 
 spending a week or two, especially in the summer, 
 when there is every chance of fine weather, by taking 
 a passage on one of these steamers and visiting the 
 coast towns, the same boat bringing one back to 
 Tangier in about a fortnight. One usually steams at 
 night, while the days are spent ashore, one day at 
 each port, except Mogador, where two or three are 
 generally passed. 
 
 Outside Casablanca are large private gardens, 
 prettily laid out, some belonging to natives and a few 
 to Europeans. There are one or two native cafe 
 gardens there, where one can sit under the trees and 
 enjoy Moorish tea — if one can — and coffee. 
 
The Coast Ton ns. 255 
 
 About sixty miles north of Casablanca are the 
 two towns of Rabat and Sallee, situated respectively 
 on the south and north banks of the river Boo- 
 ragrag. 
 
 These two towns are by far the most interesting on 
 the whole Moorish coast, not only on account of 
 their romantic situation, but also from the historical 
 facts connected with them. 
 
 Every reader of Robinson Crusoe knows how he 
 was taken by the famous — or rather infamous — Sallee 
 rovers and carried into slavery, but everybody does 
 not know that it was only a comparatively very few 
 years ago that the British Government ceased to pay 
 a sum of money to the Sultan of Morocco against the 
 attack of these pirates on British vessels. Even to- 
 day Sallee is a most fanatical town, and within the 
 last few months there have been hostile demonstra- 
 tions against the few Europeans who reside in Rabat, 
 for in Sallee none are allowed to live. 
 
 To the north of Sallee without the walls of the 
 city is a fine aqueduct, built by Almanzor the Magni- 
 ficent, and it is a specimen of building worthy of its 
 great originator. 
 
 The road passes under the high arches of this 
 aqueduct, and reminds one very much of the road 
 from Lisbon to Cintra. Within the city there is little 
 to see. The streets are narrow, but not so dirty as in 
 many towns. When there with the British Minister, 
 the Bascha of Sallee, a venerable man of extreme age, 
 called upon us in our camp, and told us many inte- 
 resting things about the place, amongst others, that in 
 his youth he remembered having European slaves, 
 sailors kidnapped by the “ Rovers.” The river 
 between Sallee and Rabat must have formed a safe 
 
256 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 harbour of refuge for these pirates, though the surf on 
 the bar prevents boats of any size from entering, 
 otherwise the wide river would form an entirely land- 
 locked harbour. 
 
 To pass from Sallee to Rabat and back one has 
 to make use, as at Azimour and Laraiche, of great 
 flat-bottomed barges, over the high gunwales of 
 which one’s horses and mules must leap in and out. 
 
 Between Sallee and the river is a large space of 
 sand, where one can camp, though the natives do not 
 like one doing so there. 
 
 I remember once having arrived at Rabat from 
 Fez and Mequinez, not having seen a single European 
 except our own party for weeks and weeks. We 
 called upon our Vice-Consul in the afternoon, and 
 proceeded towards sundown to our camp. Seated 
 there at tea our eyes were suddenly nearly struck blind 
 by a wonderful sight. Not fifty yards from our camp 
 sauntered past an Englishman. He was dressed in 
 tall yellow leather boots, with a shine like varnish, 
 very neat breeches, a large check coat, and waistcoat 
 and collar. “ Collars ” isn’t the word for it — there is 
 no way to fully express the broad snow-white expanse 
 of linen, two or three inches high, at least, that en- 
 circled his neck. His moustache was neatly curled 
 and he was beautifully shaved. Over one arm he 
 carried a gun. 
 
 Oh, British respectability ! Our hearts sank when 
 we saw this young man dressed in fine raiment. Our 
 clothes were old and travel-worn, and I had always to 
 be sitting down for fear any one should see the hole 
 in my breeches. 
 
 He never looked at us ; he had not been intro- 
 
The Cl ast Towns. 
 
 2.57 
 
 duced. That was the first time I saw Captain S 
 
 of the Hussars. 
 
 Next day the ice was broken — we were introduced. 
 No Englishmen may ever be allowed to speak to one 
 
 another, even though hundreds of miles away from 
 everywhere, without being introduced. 
 
 Introduction led to calling, calling to friendship, 
 
 and all the way to Tangier our camp rejoiced in S 
 
 and his collars. He was travelling with a large green 
 
 s 
 
2 5 $ The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 bath, at least he said so, though to this day I believe 
 it was his collar-box. 
 
 The “side” I put on all that journey! As the 
 Moors stared at me, I returned their gaze with one 
 which clearly said, “Yes, I may be in rags, and my 
 pony is not a beauty, I acknowledge ; my boots are 
 full of holes and my saddle patched with red and 
 yellow shoe-leather, but you must not gather the 
 importance of our caravan from me. There is one 
 coming along the road soon, whom you will see anon, 
 who has a white neck as long as a stork. What mat- 
 ters it if rags go on ahead, respectability comes anon.” 
 
 Captain S had a camp-bed, the best ever in- 
 
 vented, he said. It consisted of poles of every length 
 from about an inch to a foot and a half, which had to 
 be put in such a way as to fit. No puzzle I ever saw 
 came up to that bed. As soon as we arrived in camp, 
 
 before the tents were up even, S got to work. 
 
 After an hour or so the poles were all fitted, but he 
 had forgotten to string the canvas on ; it all had to 
 come to pieces again, an operation of sayan hour and 
 
 a half. In S ’s hurry and worry he would forget to 
 
 arrange the separated poles in order on the ground, 
 with a result that having arranged the canvas he 
 could not find the right poles. Sometimes when we 
 got up in the morning he was still at work fitting up 
 his bed. One night he managed to tie it with a piece 
 of string. I waited till he was asleep, then cut the 
 
 string; down came the bed. S said — no I cannot 
 
 — rather I dare not — write what S said, but he 
 
 contented himself by sleeping on the floor. 
 
 As he dozed off he still murmured, “ It is the best 
 camp-bed ever invented.” 
 
The Coast Towns. 
 
 259 
 
 Rabat is situated on the south bank of the river, 
 and is certainly one of the most picturesque spots in 
 Morocco. The rocky promontory that forms the 
 southern bank is crowned with an old kasbah, or 
 fortress, battlements and towers rising tier above tier, 
 the whole covered with clustering creepers and 
 shrubs. 
 
 Under the shelter of this promontory lie native 
 feluccas, and perhaps a small Spanish or Portuguese 
 sailing-ship. 
 
 Within the walls of Rabat there is but little to see. 
 The street of the dyers forms, perhaps, the most 
 picturesque spot of all. It is a steep slope ; on each 
 side are the dyeing-houses, from in and out the doors 
 of which fly pigeons, while hung on long jutting 
 pieces of wood, almost crossing the street, are skein 
 upon skein of bright wools, reds, greens, yellows, every 
 colour is represented. Here, there, and everywhere 
 can be seen the dyers themselves, swarthy Moors, 
 with their bare arms stained with colour. In the 
 Kasbah there is a fine old gate, though the centre 
 arch has been built in, and it is now used as a prison. 
 The streets are covered from the sun by matting 
 which gives the place a cool look, though by forming 
 an impediment to ventilation, doubtless it adds much 
 to fever, for which Rabat is so well known. 
 
 Above the town the river widens out, and on a 
 high steep cliff at this spot is situated the famous 
 Beni-Hassan tower, and the ruins of the ancient 
 mosque that Almanzor intended to be the largest in 
 the world. This tower forms one of the famous three, 
 the Giralda at Seville, the Koutubia at Morocco city, 
 being the other two. The Beni-Hassan, however, 
 
 S 2 
 
260 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 was never completed, owing to the death of Almanzor, 
 and his successor never cared to carry on the work, 
 doubtless preferring to raise palaces and mosques of 
 his own. 
 
 This tower, like that at Morocco, is fifty feet square. 
 It originally possessed a door, but the Moors have 
 built it up, so that the only means of ingress is by a 
 narrow window some thirty feet from the ground, to 
 which one has to climb. I did so once, but will never 
 attempt it again, as there is only an inch or two for 
 foot and hand to hold on by, and the descent is even 
 worse than the ascent. At one place one has to pass 
 along a ledge of window-frame merely hanging by 
 one’s hands, with no place to put one’s feet, and so 
 crawl on hand over hand. Within the tower is not 
 ascended by steps, but by a sloping way, as in the 
 Mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople, no doubt 
 originally intended as a means of bringing masonry 
 to the summit on the backs of pack animals. 
 
 Close to the tower stand a great number of pillars, 
 surrounded by orchards and thick brushwood, and 
 covered with vines. These pillars are of great size, 
 though it is difficult to judge the elevation at which 
 they would eventually have supported the roof, as 
 they are sunk to some extent in the ground. Sur- 
 rounding them are the remains of an ancient wall 
 and the foundations of the mosque. 
 
 The view from this spot is charming, as the valley 
 widens out here, and one can see the river turning 
 and twisting in serpentine coils far away to the east, 
 while to the west are Rabat, Sallee, and the ocean. 
 The banks of the river are low and marshy, and 
 swarming with water-fowl, which are very difficult to 
 
The Coast Towns. 
 
 261 
 
 approach, as the marsh is too deep to walk in, and 
 the rushes too thick to allow the passage of a boat. 
 
 To the north-east one can see the hill-lands of the 
 fanatical Zimmouri tribes, whose territory stretches 
 from here almost to Mequinez, consisting of the range 
 of hills that skirts the southern edge of the Beni 
 Hassan plain. 
 
 On one occasion, coming from Mequinez to Rabat 
 with Mr. and Mrs. T., we let our soldier lag behind 
 and rode on, knowing we were only some few hours’ 
 ride from the latter town. 
 
 We, however, missed the road, and before we knew 
 where we were, found ourselves assailed in a thick 
 wood by three fierce-looking natives, who pointed 
 their long guns at us. It was no good trying to ride 
 for it, as if one had been wounded the other two 
 would have been obliged to return. Curiously enough, 
 as we were that day going to enter a town, none of 
 us were wearing revolvers — a lucky coincidence, I 
 think. There was nothing to do but to face the 
 men, and T. quietly rode up to them, Mrs. T. and I 
 following. 
 
 People often talk in a silly way of women losing 
 their heads and that sort of bosh. If anybody could 
 have seen the calmness with which the lady who was 
 with us faced the danger, for no doubt we were in 
 great danger, they would never speak in that way 
 again. 
 
 The men still held their guns pointed at us ; then 
 spoke a few words amongst themselves, and asked us 
 where we were going. At that time I spoke only 
 a very few words of their language, but could just 
 explain we were on our way to Rabat. From that 
 
262 
 
 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 moment all our fears died away, and the very men 
 who had seemed a minute or two before desirous of 
 shooting us, themselves took us to our right road. 
 
 I fancy they must have been outposts of the Zim- 
 mouris, in whose country we were, and who at that 
 time were at war with the Beni-Hassanis. Had we 
 ridden on I feel sure they would have fired, as they 
 would have suspected that we wished to enter the 
 country, closed entirely to Europeans. 
 
 Elowever, all’s well that ends well, and we said 
 good-bye to our now smiling assailants on the Rabat 
 road an hour or so later, and galloped on to the town, 
 distant some three or four hours. 
 
 A few miles up the river from Rabat stand the in- 
 teresting remains of Shellah, ruins both Roman and 
 Moorish. Though the former from their antiquity are 
 perhaps the most interesting, yet it is the Moorish 
 remains that render Shellah one of the most lovely 
 spots in the country. The thickly-wooded hills slope 
 down to the river’s edge, completely concealing the 
 ancient town in the dense foliage. Passing through 
 some orange-groves, one comes suddenly upon the 
 ruins, for the most part delicate mosques and tombs 
 scattered about amongst the trees. Some of the 
 stone arabesque work is exceedingly beautiful, and 
 the highly-coloured and polished tiles on the mina- 
 rets add a charm to the scene peculiar to Morocco. 
 
 Within a little mosque lies the marble tomb of the 
 great Almanzor, covered with writing telling of his 
 prowess and magnificence. Many other sultans, too, 
 are buried here, but the graves are allowed to lie 
 untended, the roofs of the mosques have fallen in, the 
 towers are crumbling away, in fact Shellah is a decay- 
 ing ruin ; yet how much more beautiful in its ruined 
 
A PEEP IN SHELLAH, 
 
 [Page 262. 
 

 
The Coast Towns. 263 
 
 state than it must have been in the days of its magni- 
 ficence. The Roman remains are nearly invisible 
 owing to the earth having by time been piled above 
 them, though some baths can be made out ; of course 
 the Moorish officials allow of no excavation. 
 
 The walls are covered with maiden-hair fern, while 
 tiny fountains splash on every side. 
 
 Above is a large open space, walled in, many acres 
 in extent, the site of the ancient town, of which not one 
 vestige now remains. At the southern side of the wall 
 is a fine buttressed gate, which gives the appearance 
 of having been designed, if not erected, by Portuguese 
 architects. 
 
 The delightful shade and the romantic situation 
 and history of Shellah render it a charming spot, and 
 several times have I been rowed up the Booragrag 
 River and picnicked under the walls of the little 
 mosque that contains the deserted remains of the 
 greatest of Moorish sultans. 
 
 Farther up the river are two islands, and again a 
 few miles beyond them some troglodyte caves in the 
 face of the steep cliffs. 
 
 The road to Rabat from Mequinez is not an in- 
 teresting one, as it passes nearly the whole way over 
 flat plains, the scene varied only by the circular tent 
 villages of Beni-Hassan Arabs. 
 
 From Rabat to Laraiche is a journey of two and 
 a half or three days. The whole way, with but little 
 exception, one passes by marshy lakes visited by great 
 quantities of water-fowl. 
 
 Some hours to the north of Rabat, and situated on 
 the road to Laraiche, is Mehedia, a small walled town 
 on the banks of the River Sebou, the river of Fez. 
 There is little within the walls of Mehedia, the im- 
 
264 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 mense solidity of which gives a look of importance to 
 the miserable collection of mud-huts and brown tents 
 far from being deserved. 
 
 The river is very wide at this spot and is crossed 
 by a feiry, the same species of rickety old barge 
 being used as at Azimour and Rabat. Were it not 
 for the shallow bar at the mouth of the river, Mehedia 
 might have become a harbour of importance. 
 
 I will not again describe Laraiche or Arzeila. 
 They have both appeared already in “A Journey 
 through Northern Morocco.” 
 
 A few words on the coast in general. Travellers 
 camping through the country I advise to keep away 
 from the coast as much as possible, as, except for 
 Rabat and Saffi, there is very little of interest, and 
 the roads between the various towns are dreary and 
 dull. However, there are spots where one must travel 
 by the coast as the interior is unsafe. 
 
 To the south of Magador little is known of the 
 country with the exception of the road to Agadir, a 
 curious, almost deserted town, situated on the summit 
 of a high hill, slightly to the north of the mouth of 
 the River Sous. Beyond the Sous is the Wad Nun, 
 a district as yet almost unexplored, and beyond that 
 again the great desert of the Sahara, which an enter- 
 prising Scotchman wishes to turn into a sea, though 
 he has discovered that the British public do not yet 
 recognize in him a new creator. 
 
 On my various travels on the Moorish coast I have 
 met with nothing but kindness from the European 
 inhabitants, who do everything in their power to 
 render one’s stay in the towns cheery and pleasant, 
 and in this they thoroughly succeed. 
 
PART III. 
 
 A VISIT TO WAZAN-MY RIDE TO SHESHOUAN. 
 
“ I have been in countries,” said an Irishman, “ where the hand of 
 man never yet set foot.” 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 A VISIT TO WAZAN. 
 
 Bad weather prevented my starting on my promised 
 visit to Moulai Mahommed at Wazan, till ten days 
 after my return to Tangier from our journey through 
 Northern Morocco. 
 
 At last, in desperation, I decided to start — rain or 
 no rain — and accordingly on a Saturday early in 
 March set off. 
 
 I had with me but a small caravan, for being the 
 sole European I was able to arrange myself and my 
 affairs exactly according to my own tastes, and 
 rough it accordingly. By roughing it I do not mean 
 to say that I attempted to commit suicide by not 
 taking a sufficient quantity of things ; au contraire, I 
 was well supplied ; but with my former experience 
 knew exactly what was useful and necessary, and 
 what was not. The result was that I found two 
 mules ample for my baggage, while my black steed 
 bore me. Selim, of course, accompanied me, and I 
 took also Gil Ali, the best hand at putting up tents 
 that I ever saw, and a strong, good natured fellow 
 withal, though inclined to be lazy, and Abdurrahman, 
 the sweet-tempered, classical-looking youth, quiet, but 
 with a decided vein of humour when he did speak, 
 and in every way a gentleman. 
 
 Although Morocco is ruled by one of the most 
 
2 6S The Land of an African Sufian. 
 
 despotic and all-powerful of Sultans, yet the country 
 is a democracy by nature. Caste and hereditary 
 position have but little power, except in cases of the 
 Sultans themselves, and such mighty shereefs as those 
 of Wazan and Tedla. My servant Abdurrahman 
 held property at Tangier of great value, which had 
 belonged to his family from generation to generation, 
 yet it was no disgrace for him to come and work for 
 me and earn a franc a day. 
 
 Quite the contrary this to the caste-degree in India, 
 where one caste performs only a special kind of 
 work. Another example of this democracy is the 
 fact that sons of slaves are eligible for all appoint- 
 ments in the state ; and again another, the sons 
 of Sidi Torres, Minister of Foreign Affairs at 
 Tangier, one of the most powerful and important of 
 the viziers, keep respectively a boot and shoe, and a 
 sweet shop in Tetuan. 
 
 One more man completed my party, a strange, 
 uncouth fellow from the Gharb, by name, Larbi. Two 
 tents were sufficient, one for my men and the kitchen, 
 the other for myself. Selim worked as cook, and 
 turned out to be first-rate at it, as he is at most things, 
 some of his savoury dishes of “ kabobs,” &c., being 
 worthy of a London dinner-table. 
 
 The rain came down in torrents as my mules left 
 my diggings at Tangier and passed along the sea- 
 beach. Here, however, we suffered no trouble, as the 
 sand quickly dried ; but as soon as we had emerged 
 into the crooked lanes that intersect the gardens that 
 skirt the beach, we found mud. You, who call the 
 slight covering of damp dust in the London streets, 
 mud, have no idea of Morocco in a rainy season ! 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 269 
 
 Every step the mules took they sank knee-deep in 
 the soft clay, and were it not that we were continually 
 urging them on, I doubt not our caravan would be 
 fossilizing there still. Four hours and a half through 
 rain and mud, but the men and mules worked well, 
 so that on reaching the village of Ain Dallieh 
 Sorehr, I determined to pitch my camp there, as I saw 
 both were thoroughly tired out. 
 
 It was not long before the tents were up and Selim 
 presiding over his fire, while Abdurrahman had gone 
 off to the well for water and Gil Ali to buy provisions 
 and corn. 
 
 The charcoal fire soon warmed the tent within, and 
 half an hour or so later we all sat merrily drinking 
 our Moorish green tea from little glass tumblers. The 
 sheikh of the village, an old friend, called upon me, 
 and as night came on Selim brought forth his gimbri, 
 and merry music and songs might have been heard 
 within the walls of our little tent, to the accompani- 
 ment of pouring rain beating on the canvas. 
 
 The following day being as wet as ever, I did not 
 strike camp, as I heard that the rivers were so swollen 
 as to render it impossible to proceed. The day in camp 
 passed pleasantly enough, though a gloom was cast 
 over the village by the unexpected appearance of a 
 soldier from the Bascha of Tangier demanding ten 
 men to be sent immediately to the Anjera coast to 
 prevent the rumoured laying of a second cable from 
 Gibraltar to Tangier, and again demanding money to 
 pay for the “ mona,” or provisions, to be supplied to the 
 French and Portuguese Ministers on their approach- 
 ing visits to the court at Fez. 
 
 That and the breaking loose of one of our pack 
 
270 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 mules were the only events of the day. The mule 
 galloped away, delighted to be free, and we all set 
 off in pursuit. Nothing, however, we could do allowed 
 us to get near enough to catch him, till at last Larbi, 
 whose duty it was to look after the animals, lost his 
 temper, and after calling her every name under the 
 sun, ended up by a string of oaths. “ May the 
 Almighty burn your parents and your grandparents 
 . . . unbeliever of a mule, dog of a Christian.” I 
 then lost my temper, and turning to Larbi enlightened 
 his dull mind a bit about using epithets which were 
 uncomplimentary to me, and showed him clearly, 
 with Selim and Gil Ali’s aid, that even though a 
 Christian might be (to him) a dog, yet he was superior 
 to a dirty native from the Gharb, and meant to be 
 master, at all events in my camp. I never had reason 
 after this to fall out with Larbi. 
 
 A bright morning on Monday cheered us up, and 
 soon after eight our caravan was once more en route. 
 We ascended the hill at the back of Ain Dallieh, and 
 passing down the other side entered a morass. An 
 hour or more it took us to pass through some few 
 hundred yards of it. The river we crossed tolerably 
 easily, nothing getting wet, and once on the ascent of 
 the Akbah-al-hamra matters improved, for here the 
 muddy soil changed to rock and sand. On descend- 
 ing again on the farther side we found too much water 
 in the river to allow us to ford it, so pitched our camp 
 at N’sala-Akbah-al-hamra-Ain-Dallieh, a sufficiently 
 long name for a few mud and thatch huts. 
 
 I soon made the acquaintance of the sheikh, whom 
 I found to be a most charming man. He spent the 
 evening in our tents amidst great tea-drinkings and 
 music. 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 271 
 
 A village donkey caused us much amusement by 
 eating our corn. On trying to drive him away he 
 stood his ground well, and merely let fly with his 
 heels. However, the owner of the donkey was sent 
 for, and in return for the amount of corn the donkey 
 had devoured supplied us with milk. Exchange is 
 no robbery, though on this occasion the donkey-man 
 got the best of it. 
 
 Another fine day lowered the water in the river, 
 and after some trouble and anxiety we passed across, 
 and wading through a mile of mud entered the 
 sandy slopes of the Gharbia. The recent rains had 
 improved the look of the country very much here, the 
 more so in our eyes as it looked dry, the sandy soil 
 having absorbed the water very quickly. Everything 
 was beautifully green, and it was easy to see spring 
 had set in in earnest. Gorgeous beds of purple irises 
 covered the slopes of the hills, while a dwarf variety of 
 the same flower grewall over the roads, the “blue’' daisy 
 was in full bloom, and on all sides were the hoopoes ) 
 goldfinches, and storks, basking and flying around in 
 the bright sunlight. We skirted the hill of N’sala 
 Boreian, leaving the large village on the right. Near 
 the sacred grove of the tomb of Sidi Mahommed Ben 
 Ali were gathered all the world and his wife, hundreds 
 and thousands of Moors, men and women. Some had 
 ridden in, most had walked, all the country round had 
 collected there. It was the anniversary of the birth 
 or death (no one seemed to know which) of the 
 saint, and they were keeping his Amara, or saint’s 
 day. 
 
 Rich and poor were collected in an extraordinary 
 medley; guns were being fired, tea brewed, music 
 played and sung ; and as evening came on, I was told 
 
2 72 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 by my men, the revels became an orgy, and the dark 
 shade of the wood the scene of riot and debauch. 
 
 We camped at a small tent-duar, by name Ghareefa, 
 where we found the people very pleasant. This day’s 
 journey had taken us some eight and a half hours to 
 accomplish, though in fine weather, or rather over dry 
 roads, one could easily do it in six hours. 
 
 The following day another eight hours’ journey 
 brought us to Alcazar. We were obliged to deviate 
 from the road several times in order to cross a river, 
 the Wad Waroor, which we did some miles from the 
 ordinary ford. 
 
 Alcazar. 
 
 Alcazar looked very picturesque as we approached 
 it from the north. The town lies in the centre of a 
 flat plain, and is surrounded by dense groves of trees, 
 above which rise the mosque towers and the palms, 
 the latter enhancing the scene very much. But the 
 town within the walls is filthy. There is no other 
 town in Morocco that can compare to it for dirt. 
 Through the soko runs, or rather crawls, a small, dank, 
 green river, covered with bubbles and full of drainage. 
 The soko itself is a small sea of mud ; yet in spite of 
 these drawbacks it is not unoicturesque, the gate lead* 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 273 
 
 ing into the dimly lit bazaars being a good specimen 
 of Arabesque, while the dull red tiles on the houses, 
 crowned with storks’ nests, give a curious effect. Little 
 extemporized tents can be seen about, under which 
 sit the dusky Moors selling oranges, fish, and vege- 
 tables, while the water-carriers are in full force, rush- 
 ing everywhere with their cry of “ Elma, elma.” The 
 sight, par excellence, of Alcazar is the tomb of Sidi 
 Ali-bu-Rhaleh, a most decorative building, half-tomb, 
 half-mosque, with emerald-green tiles, and shady 
 colonnades, surrounded by horse-shoe arches. Of 
 course no Christian is allowed to enter the sacred pre- 
 cincts, but one can gain a very satisfactory view of 
 the place from without. It stands outside the city 
 walls to the north of the town, surrounded by groves 
 of trees. 
 
 “ Ah Sidi Ali-bu-Rhaleh, Assalama Sidi Ali-bu- 
 Rhaleh, salaam alikum,” cried our men as we passed 
 the tomb. I took in a few provisions at Alcazar, re- 
 newed our stock of charcoal, had one mule re-shod, 
 and left the next day fora small village on the con- 
 fines of the Shereef’s country, only some two hours’ 
 ride from the town. Before leaving I sent a messenger 
 on to Wazan, announcing my intended arrival to 
 his Highness the Shereef. 
 
 Soon after leaving the town we forded the Koos, a 
 large river, with steep, muddy banks. The Koos ford 
 is quite one of the sights of Morocco, as there is 
 always a crowd of camels, mules, donkeys, men, women, 
 and children pushing their way through the wide, 
 fast-flowing stream. I have seen many a comic ac- 
 cident there ; once it was a bucking mule that kicked 
 its comfortable, fat, and well-dressed rider into the 
 
 T 
 
274 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 water ; another time a whole line of women were 
 crossing, holding each others’ hands for safety, when 
 the middle one fell down, dragging all the others 
 after her. As the water generally reaches the waists 
 and often the shoulders of the men and women, I 
 doubt not serious accidents are common. We, happily, 
 got across safely, and without getting the baggage 
 wet. The road after the ford proceeds over the plain 
 for some way, crossing a bridge over a marshy stream, 
 where I have shot duck. Then turning to the left 
 near some orange-groves the path to Wazan branches 
 off from the main Fez road, which I had been follow- 
 ing since leaving Tangier. Ascending some hills, I 
 pitched my camp at a village of the Shereef’s, and as 
 the day was yet young, spent the afternoon in shoot- 
 ing, and bagged five and a half brace to my own gun. 
 
 We were off early the following morning, as a long 
 ride lay before us to Wazan. 
 
 I had taken the precaution of writing on to Moulai 
 Mahommed, as I was travelling without a soldier, and 
 I knew he would send to meet me before I entered 
 the mountain tribes amongst which Wazan is situated ; 
 nor was I disappointed, for not long after leaving 
 camp half a dozen guards armed with European rifles 
 rode up and saluted me. I had dressed with great 
 care that morning, donning a pair of clean white rid- 
 ing-breeches, my yellow boots all polish and shine, 
 and a grey felt hat with clean white puggaree ; but, 
 vanity of vanities, we had not progressed far before 
 one of our mules fell in the mud. In a second I was 
 off my horse and together with the men knee-deep in 
 black clay, unloading the struggling beast. All my 
 hopes of making an impression by cleanliness failed, 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 275 
 
 so I had to fall back upon Moorish customs and ideas, 
 and remain dirty. 
 
 We passed through the lovely mountain-gorge of 
 Abdullah Malek, in the tribe of M 5 mzoda, with its 
 steep rocky crags on either side high above my head, 
 each peak crowned with a little group of mountaineers, 
 who gazed on the Christian passing through their 
 lands, though they did nothing more than gaze. 
 
 A little stream runs through the gorge, finally 
 tumbling over the rocks, clustered with maiden-hair 
 fern, in a lovely cascade. Here meet the women to 
 draw water, and, unless they do not resemble all the 
 womenkind I have ever met with, to talk scandal and 
 the latest Alcazar fashions. In the centre of the 
 valley is a clearing in the dense wood where stands a 
 small village, built as if on terraces, one house being 
 raised above another on the side of the steep hill. 
 On account of the romantic scenery and the dense 
 woods, this, to me, is one of the most delightful spots 
 in Morocco, though it is not renowned for the good 
 name of its inhabitants, who are wild, lawless hunts- 
 men, and a little given at times to plunder and 
 violence. Having ascended the gorge the road con- 
 tinues along the top of the mountains for some little 
 way, till suddenly turning a corner, the plains below 
 and the mountain-range opposite, on the crest of a 
 ridge of which one can see the outskirts of Wazan, 
 come into view. Two hours and a half across the 
 plains brought us to the commencement of the town, 
 here more a ruin than aught else. Winding lanes 
 with high hedges of pricky pear, aloe, and bamboo 
 hid the view often from sight, but still the peeps of 
 the surrounding woodland were very beautiful. One 
 
 T 2 
 
276 The Land of an African Stilt an. 
 
 emerges quite suddenly from these lanes into a wide 
 open street, in a part of the town without the walls, 
 which leads one into the soko. At the upper corner 
 of this soko one passes through the gate and enters 
 the town. Here I was met by Si Ali, the Shereef’s 
 secretary, and several officials, who welcomed me 
 with all the accustomed show of pleasure, and probably 
 with a certain amount of indifference. However, they 
 concealed it very well, and from their many words 
 of welcome one was almost inclined to think them 
 genuine. This superficial show, however, was only on 
 the part of the officials of the Shereef, as with his High- 
 ness himself I have a sincere friendship, of which he 
 takes every opportunity to show me, not only in words, 
 but in inconveniencing himself to please me, and in 
 giving me handsome presents of rugs, &c. 
 
 I was escorted to the house put at my service by his 
 Highness, the same kubbah as we had occupied a few 
 weeks before, on our return journey from Fez, though 
 on this occasion the house boasted some furniture, 
 divans having been erected along the walls, and rugs 
 being scattered about in profusion. I immediately 
 changed, and after having rested for half an hour or 
 so, was summoned to appear before the Shereef. 
 
 Passing out of my garden I entered the street near 
 the mosque, then turning sharp to the right descended 
 a narrow precipitous path, a cid de sac. At the lower 
 end of this alley-way is a small open space surrounded 
 by high walls, in one of which is a small wooden 
 gate, and before it were seated half a dozen soldiers 
 and slaves. They rose on my approach and opened 
 the door ; I passed in. Within there is a chamber 
 with seats all round it, a sort of rough waiting-room 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 2 77 
 
 for those seeking audience with his Highness. Passing 
 through this room we left it by a second gate, and 
 descending a few steps entered a small walled garden, 
 full of exquisite flowers and curious trees. The walls 
 of the garden are very high ; here and there decorated 
 with designs in paint and stucco, and covered with 
 roses and other creepers. At one end is a small tank, 
 into which tumbles a fountain. The whole garden 
 is laid out in oblong beds, the paths between being 
 narrow and covered with sand. At the end of the 
 garden, facing one as one enters, is the kubbah or 
 day-house of Moulai Mahommed. It is a building 
 of no great size, but exceedingly pretty, faced with a 
 fafade of lovely arches of varied design. The flooring 
 of the fafade is marble and tiles. The whole exterior 
 is painted white, and nothing can be imagined more 
 Eastern than the brilliant one-storied building with 
 its arches half-covered with blooming roses, a fore- 
 ground of flowers, and the blue sky above. 
 
 Large double-folding doors of cedar-wood and brass 
 fittings give entrance into the rooms within. 
 
 At this door I was met by several black slaves, 
 dressed in white, who bowing conducted me within. 
 
 One enters a long room — sixty or seventy feet in 
 length, by about twelve or fifteen wide, — running at 
 right angles left and right of the door. On entering 
 it gives the appearance of a room each side of one, as 
 curtains and portieres divide it into various lengths. 
 The centre part is tiled, and possesses a fountain, a 
 curious structure of wood and brass, which forms 
 candlesticks as well. When the fountain is playing 
 the effect is charming, as each jet of water falls 
 amongst dozens of lighted candles, and yet touches 
 
2/8 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 none. Round the walls run divans, mattresses 
 covered with silk and velvet, while on the floor lie ex- 
 quisite carpets from all parts of the East. 
 
 Exactly opposite the door is an archway leading 
 on to a large raised divan, around the whole of which 
 runs a passage, opening into the divan by arches. 
 These arches are covered with portieres, while the 
 whole divan floor is strewn with rugs, and surrounded 
 with mattresses and soft pillows. 
 
 It is a charming spot, as seated here and drawing 
 aside the portieres of the arches one can see in every 
 direction. In front is the gate into the garden, and 
 the effect of sitting in the cool dark room and gazing 
 into the gorgeous garden with its myriads of flowers 
 and brilliant sunlight is charming ; while if one turns 
 the other way one can see through the windows of the 
 passage the ranges of mountains, range beyond range, 
 stretching far away into the East. Here I found 
 Moulai Mahommed, reclining on pillows of dark-blue 
 and white cloth. 
 
 He is a man of some thirty years of age, of dark 
 complexion, fine features, and with a black beard and 
 moustache. His face is sensual, but not sufficiently 
 so to detract from his good looks. Black blood 
 shows itself in the slightly heavy lips. His eyes are 
 dark ; the lids slightly overhanging give him a curious 
 look of lassitude. 
 
 He was wearing as usual soft woollen and silk 
 clothes, a bernous of very fine woven wool covering his 
 silk haik, which was only visible over his head. I kicked 
 my slippers off and ascended the divan. Elis Highness 
 smiled very pleasantly, rose, and shook hands with me, 
 bidding me welcome and asking many questions as to 
 my health, and thanking me for returning so soon. 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 279 
 
 I, of course, paid him all the Moorish compliments I 
 could think of, and then tea arrived, brought on a 
 silver tray. Si Ali, the secretary, turned up at tea-time, 
 and approaching his Highness bowed and kissed the 
 hem of his garment, then seating himself on the edge 
 of the divan made tea for us. Conversation went on 
 swimmingly, now and then interrupted by some mem- 
 ber of his Highness’s household, who would enter, and 
 bowing down kiss the hem of his garment, as Si Ali 
 had done, and perhaps delivering a message or note. 
 
 We discussed all manner of European affairs — with 
 which Moulai Mahommed is well acquainted — nor 
 did Moorish politics escape discussion, and in my 
 various conversations during my fortnight’s stay at 
 Wazan I learnt much from his lips as to the state of 
 Morocco, its Sultan, &c. He spoke always without 
 reserve, though he was careful to regulate his 
 expressions so as not to offend either myself as an 
 Englishman, or to speak anything but praise about his 
 Sultan, with whom he is on terms of great friendship. 
 
 At nightfall the kubbah was illuminated, the 
 Shercef being particularly (and justly) proud of his 
 new fountain-candelabra, which he told me had been 
 made from his own design. Large brass candlesticks, 
 three or four feet in height, were stood about the 
 place, some bearing one light, some half a dozen or 
 more. The effect was very beautiful, and what with the 
 tea and a delicious pervading scent of incense it did not 
 require much to make one believe oneself to be in the 
 land of the Arabian Nights. About seven I rose and 
 made adieu to my host for the night. He was most 
 friendly, and again thanked me for coming to see him. 
 
 On my return to my kubbah, to which I was 
 escorted by slaves bearing lanterns, I found dinner 
 
2 So The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 awaiting me, sent up already cooked from his High- 
 ness’s kitchen. He had apologized during my visit that 
 afternoon for his cooks, telling me he had no cook 
 who understood European cooking. However, 
 dinner was very excellent, especially some devilled 
 fowl, with a hot sauce. Tea succeeded dinner, the 
 tray, tea-things, etcetera, being sent direct from the 
 palace. Slaves brought me in each dish, and, wait- 
 ing till it was finished, or I had eaten enough, carried 
 it away again. Dinner finished, a large bouquet of 
 lovely flowers, Neapolitan violets and orange blos- 
 soms, was brought me in a vase, and placed beside 
 my divan, set in a slightly raised archway at one end 
 of the kubbah. 
 
 I then asked the slaves to enter, and some half- 
 dozen turned up, bringing gimbris with them ; a 
 second brew of tea was quickly made, more candles 
 lit, and we passed a very pleasant musical evening. 
 From the slaves I learned many interesting facts 
 about the tribes near Wazan and about the life of 
 the Shereef himself. 
 
 The following morning I again spent two or three 
 hours with the Shereef, and he was kind enough to 
 tell me that he was organizing a hunt for me for the 
 following day, at which he himself promised to be 
 present ; so early next morning we were off a-hunting, 
 It was a glorious day, and the long file of hunters, 
 guards, soldiers, and courtiers, formed a striking 
 picture. We “met” in the soko, and it was only then 
 that I heard that the Shereef himself was too ill to 
 accompany me. He had been suffering from cold, 
 which had increased during the night. However, the 
 whole of his household and several of his relations, 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 281 
 
 gorgeously equipped and mounted, came out. We 
 passed through the valley below the town, and soon 
 emerged into the open country. Here the grey- 
 hounds and other dogs of all degree were let go, and 
 the beaters — some two hundred — spread out in line. 
 Two or three good runs after hares were succeeded 
 by a magnificent galop after a jackal, during which 
 I got a nasty fall into a nullah, which I had not seen, 
 as the thick brushwood completely concealed it. At 
 first I was very much stunned, as the horse in his 
 struggles had kicked me on the head and arm. There 
 was general consternation amongst the huntsmen, 
 and a Shereef, the leader of the hunt, a cousin of 
 Moulai Mahommed’s, was quickly on the spot. I was 
 still lying on the ground, dizzy, when he arrived. 
 He dismounted, and seizing my hand, said, “ You are 
 not killed ? you are not badly hurt ?” I just found 
 breath enough to answer, “ What, in the holy city 
 of Wazan — impossible ! ” This made a great im- 
 pression on the crowd around me. I was quickly 
 mounted once more, and at my express wish the 
 hunt was continued. We soon entered the tribe-lands 
 of the Beni M’Sara, and after leaving Wizan about 
 four hours reached Ain Zorah, a large village of that 
 tribe. Near the village are some ruins, probably the 
 remains of an ancient Shereef’s palace. At this spot, 
 too, there is a stream of beautiful clear water,’ rising 
 from a spring, which flows through and irrigates 
 some very fine gardens, the property of the house of 
 Wazan. Our sport was very good all the time, and 
 even close to the village we obtained several hares, 
 and a run or two after jackal. Turning more to the 
 north, we passed out of the Beni M’Sara tribe and 
 
282 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 entered Zoua, a small unimportant tribe, and passing 
 over a corner of their lands, entered Ghruneh, where 
 we had tea at a large village, situated at the summit 
 of some strange volcanic hills. The sheikh and 
 people were very kind, and told me that I was the 
 first European who had visited this stronghold of 
 theirs. This led me to ask the reason why Christians 
 — or rather Europeans — are not allowed to visit their 
 country. They told me that it was not because of 
 the difference of religion, as is generally believed, but 
 because they feared that every Christian who entered 
 the country would return some day with an army at 
 his back. 
 
 Four hours’ ride brought us to Wazan about night- 
 fall. I was at once ushered in before the Shereef, 
 who told me he had spent a miserable morning, as 
 he had heard by messenger of my accident. However, 
 I again said that I was scarcely hurt at all, and that 
 any dangerous effects would be warded off by the 
 sanctity of the holy ground I was on. My head had 
 a lump like a turnip on one side, and was extremely 
 sore ; however, with cold-water bandages, &c., I 
 managed to reduce the swelling and so lessen the 
 pain. My left arm too was rather cut and bruised, 
 but a few days later I was quite recovered. 
 
 I spent the following morning with his Highness, 
 who had summoned two sheikhs from the Beni M’Sara, 
 to meet me. I never saw such a look of surprise 
 as these men gave when on my entrance Moulai 
 Mahommed rose and shook hands with me. They 
 expected, I think, to see me go down on my knees, 
 as the Moors themselves do, and kiss the hem of his 
 garment. We then talked over my proposed, visit to 
 
A Visit to Wazcin. 
 
 283 
 
 the Beni M’Sara, and these two sheikhs of the tribe 
 promised to protect me with their lives. This trip 
 came off a few days later, and I visited many villages 
 in their country ; but, as I saw nothing of great 
 interest, I do not think it worth while to give a 
 detailed account of it. 
 
 A few words, however, on the tribe itself. 
 
 The Beni M’Sara are tall men, for the most part 
 very fair, blue eyes and yellow beards being the 
 general rule. They have a pleasant way of speaking, 
 and in all my dealings with them I found them most 
 kind and hospitable, infinitely preferable to the town 
 or plain Moors. In stature, too, they far surpass any 
 of the lowland tribes, being perfectly built and of 
 wonderful presence. I have seen ideal Lohengrins 
 amongst the wild hillsmen. In habits they are much 
 cleaner than their brethren of the towns, bathing in 
 the rivers, and most particular about their dress, 
 which is very picturesque. It consists of a brown 
 jelaba, or cloak, richly embroidered in coloured silk, 
 while an embroidered leather strap covered with 
 silk tassels is slung over one shoulder, supporting a 
 carved wooden or painted leather powder-flask, or 
 a brass powder-horn, as well as a dagger: In their 
 hands they carry long-barrelled, flint-lock guns, 
 while round their closely-clipped heads they wind 
 their scarlet and gold, or blue and gold cloth gun- 
 cases. By profession they are robbers, not the class 
 that shoot from behind hedges, but who organize 
 bands and steal the cattle and women of the neigh- 
 bouring tribes. 
 
 This women-stealing often leads to pitched battles 
 between the tribes. All the mountaineers live more 
 
284 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 or less debauched lives, and, not paying taxes, are 
 richer, and therefore work less than most of the 
 Moors. The result is that they have more time to 
 waste and spend with their women. They seldom 
 marry, as robber-bands are continually stealing 
 women from the tribes round, who are put up for sale 
 and bought by the highest bidder. They are then 
 trained to dance, and wonderful nautches are per- 
 formed of an evening in the long rooms of the moun- 
 taineers’ houses. I have on several occasions been 
 present at these festivities, nor are they in any way 
 unwholesome. The women are dressed in gorgeous 
 clothing, principally noticeable for gold embroidery, 
 while strings of beads hang round their necks, and 
 bracelets and anklets bedeck their wrists and feet 
 respectively. Their hair is worn in long plaits, and 
 bound over the forehead with silk scarves and chains 
 of coins. Were the dance a little more graceful, 
 nothing could be imagined more charming than these 
 mountain ballets. The women keep their faces un- 
 veiled before the assembled men, nor when I was 
 present was any attempt made to conceal their beauty 
 from my eyes. They are far better treated than the 
 wives of the town Moors, and though never married 
 to the men, they continue to live with one man only, 
 who zealously guards them from all evil. They never 
 seem to regret being kidnapped from their native 
 haunts, and no doubt they are far better looked after 
 amongst the new tribe, where, instead of drudgery, 
 they spend their time idly, and under no great re- 
 straint, having the best of everything. The great 
 sign that clearly shows that this system is not one 
 that materially degrades or injures the tribe is the 
 
A Visit to IV azan. 285 
 
 fact that of all the Moors they are the most trust- 
 worthy, the most hospitable to friends, the bravest in 
 battle, the finest built, and most healthy. Nor does 
 their moral nature seem to have suffered, for in con- 
 versation they are discreet, and the usual topics might 
 be freely spoken in an English drawing-room, which 
 cannot be said of the town Moors. 
 
 I did not return to Wazan till after nightfall, but 
 I was in time to witness a curious ceremony only 
 practised, I believe, now in very remote parts of the 
 country. 
 
 Moulai Larbi, a brother of Moulai Mahommed, 
 was lying seriously ill in his house at Wazan. The 
 people therefore gathered together about ten o’clock 
 with lanterns and music, and forming into procession 
 at the top of the town proceeded to his house. All 
 the road they kept forming into circles, in which they 
 would remain some minutes, all crying out, “ Allah, 
 Allah, Allah.” 1 Then the circle would be broken up, 
 and once more they would make a move towards the 
 house. On reaching the garden they took up their 
 stand there, and all night long cried in this way to 
 God to preserve their great saint. An unpleasant 
 and noisy cure. 
 
 The following day I spent in exploring the town. 
 There is not a great deal to see, though the gate and 
 tower of the mosque are fine. There are, of course, 
 no Europeans in Wazan, but a certain amount of 
 Jews reside there, amongst whom there reigns supreme 
 their deity “dirt.” 
 
 The bazaars are of no great extent, though the 
 jelabs and haiks manufactured on the looms of 
 1 “ God, God, God.” 
 
286 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Wazan are renowned for softness and fineness through- 
 out the whole country. 
 
 I often visited these looms, and was struck by 
 their resemblance to the hand-looms of North Ire- 
 land ; in fact, they are almost identical. In the 
 bazaars I managed to pick up some curios. Articles 
 of mountaineers’ dress, daggers, and a beautiful 
 Hispano-Moorish sword, with a blade by Andrea 
 Farara. This I purchased for three dollars (12^.). 
 
 I have spoken already of the surroundings of 
 Wazan, so that I need only mention here that with 
 the exception of Sheshouan I have seen no town in 
 all Morocco more romantically situated. 
 
 An amusing incident happened at court that after- 
 noon. A man was being received in audience by his 
 Highness, but as the Shereef was engaged in talking 
 to me the man had to stand waiting for an hour or 
 more. At last the Shereef spoke to him, and kept 
 him in conversation some time. All the while the 
 man seemed to be in a desperate hurry to be gone. 
 At last Moulai Mahommed noticed this, and asked 
 him the reason. 
 
 “ Ah, my lord,” said the man, falling on his knees, 
 “ before I left my home I put my supper on the fire 
 to cook, and now, alas ! I have been over an hour, 
 and it will be all burnt up.” 
 
 The Shereef laughed heartily at the man’s distress, 
 but at the same time commanded a dinner to be sent 
 him from the palace kitchens. 
 
 A hunt had been ordered for the following day, 
 but the huntsmen arrived too late to make a start. 
 I was with Moulai Mahommed when at length they 
 turned up. 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 287 
 
 “You are late,” he said. 
 
 “ Sidi ,” 2 commenced the spokesman ; but Moulai 
 Mahommed interrupted him. Turning to his slaves 
 he said, — • 
 
 “ We will hunt to-morrow instead. Put the hunts- 
 men and hounds in prison. We will thus make sure 
 of their being in time.” 
 
 His order was immediately carried out. 
 
 I visited the market the following morning, with 
 an escort of the Shereef’s men, not for fear of danger, 
 but as his guest I was surrounded with stringent 
 rules of etiquette. Though the Soko was not five 
 minutes’ walk from my house I was told to ride, as 
 it would be infra dig. to appear on foot. 
 
 I made a few purchases in the soko, but there was 
 not much worth buying. I was treated with the 
 greatest respect by the hordes of mountaineers, to 
 whom a European was a novelty. This respect, 
 however, was but reflected glory, as it was only on 
 account of my being a guest of their great saint that 
 the usual curses — or, perhaps, rougher treatment — 
 were not showered upon me. 
 
 To such an extent did my friendship with Moulai 
 Mahommed increase that this very morning he took 
 me to see his wife’s garden — strictly private, and not 
 even visited by any of the court. 
 
 The garden is small, enclosed by high walls, but 
 beautifully laid out. On every side are water-tanks, 
 while roses bloom in great luxuriance. 
 
 At the end of this garden is his house, a curious 
 irregular building of some size. So afraid was he that 
 I might catch a glimpse of his wife, that heavy rugs 
 2 “ My Lord.” 
 
283 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 were hung over all the windows on the outside, 
 though I saw one gently pushed aside, so as to leave 
 a chink large enough to peep through. Though, of 
 course, I did not see the lady, yet I doubt not she 
 saw me. 
 
 O Eastern exaggeration ! At a meeting of the 
 court one day a travelled Moor — he had served on 
 a Spanish man-of-war to learn navigation — was 
 telling stories of his travels. He had been to the 
 West Indies, and had there visited three islands— 
 Ceylon, Herat, and Smyrna ! He had also ascended 
 the rock of Gibraltar, and gazing through the tele- 
 scope there had distinguished — he acknowledged in 
 the far distance — Paris, Tangier, and America. 
 Being Friday there was a large assemblage at the 
 court, all the functionaries being present. I arrived 
 early, and was told to sit next to the Shereef on the 
 blue and white cushions at the end of the divan. 
 About ten o’clock the levee began ; the various mem- 
 bers of his household, &c., on entering, bowed to 
 his Highness, then, approaching with lowered head, 
 dropped on th knees, and kissed his cloak. He 
 took no notice atever of the people, continuing 
 his conversation with me, or with others, as though 
 no new arrival was doing him homage. Some twenty 
 Moors having assembled, they seated themselves 
 on the various divans, and conversation became 
 general. 
 
 Black slaves, all dressed in white, then entered, 
 some bearing the tea-tray, cups, &c., while one 
 carried a covered silver brazier of fine workmanship, 
 in which burned incense. This was handed round, 
 each in his turn holding out his flowing robes over 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 289 
 
 the sweet-scented fumes. The incense burned in 
 Morocco is exceedingly nice ; it is called by the 
 Moors “ oud,” and is not a manufactured article, but 
 the fragrant wood of some tree, though no doubt it 
 passes through some process before being ready for 
 burning. 
 
 After the incense long-necked silver bottles were 
 brought round, from which scent was squirted all 
 over us, rose and orange water, according to desire. 
 The next item in the programme was tea. 
 
 I was the principal topic of conversation, and his 
 Highness, on introducing me to the various Moors, 
 was most flattering. Court lasted for two hours or 
 so, and then broke up. In the afternoon I visited 
 the garden of Sidi Hadj Absalam, the father of 
 Moulai Mahommed, containing a beautiful tank, full 
 of clear water, which swarms with gold-fish. When 
 I had visited this spot two years before there had 
 been a fountain of marble and tiles in the centre of 
 the pond. This I noticed hafl now disappeared. I 
 asked the reason of one of the guards who accom- 
 panied me, and he told me that on Sidi Hadj 
 Absalam’s visit a year before 1. nad brought a 
 clockwork model steamboat, which had damaged 
 itself by knocking up against the fountain, whereupon 
 his Highness had ordered it to be removed. At one 
 end of the tank is a pretty bathing-house, flanked 
 with Moorish horseshoe arches, with tiled floor and 
 painted doors. In another part of the garden grew 
 the most wonderful violets of all varieties, collected 
 by the Shereefa, the English wife of Sidi Hadj 
 Absalam, from various countries. Never have I seen 
 such a wonderful display of blossom in violets, for 
 
 U 
 
290 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 the cool shade and plentiful supply of water rendered 
 the spot a most suitable one for their luxuriant 
 growth. The garden is of great extent, or rather the 
 park adjoining it is, and beautifully wooded with 
 olives and orange-trees. 
 
 Having by this time been at Wazan ten days, I 
 proposed to the Shereef that I ought to be leaving. 
 He would not hear of it, and laughingly ordered 
 his soldiers to imprison me if I attempted to go. On 
 his pressing me, I decided to stay a few days longer. 
 
 The day I left he gave a great hunt. We started 
 from Wazan before sunrise, and after two or three 
 hours’ ride, through groves of trees and over moun- 
 tains, we breakfasted on the summit of a high hill 
 overlooking Ajin, a town of Ghruneh. The ride out 
 was delightful. The trees were not sufficiently far 
 apart to allow our party to keep together, with the 
 result that whichever way one looked the glades were 
 filled with men on horse and on foot, some leading 
 greyhounds, some armed with guns. 
 
 I rode with the Shereef, surrounded by his foot 
 body-guard, armed with a diversity of European rifles. 
 His Highness, not yet having quite recovered his 
 health, was mounted on a mule, while his horse was 
 led behind him, in case he desired to change. The 
 harness of the mule, as is customary all through 
 Morocco, was simple in the extreme ; but the horse 
 was bedecked with gold and crimson, the heavily 
 embroidered breastplate being fastened to the saddle 
 by a buckle of beautiful workmanship, studded with 
 emeralds. The trappings of their horses are almost 
 the only show the Moors allow, as any personal 
 decoration is considered unorthodox. 
 
siiekeef’s bath, wazan. 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 291 
 
 After breakfast, which had been cooked on the 
 spot by men sent on for the purpose, we visited the 
 town of Ajin, killing a dozen or so hares en route. 
 Ajin is the town at which all the Jews who die in 
 Wazan are buried, as their unholy bodies are not 
 allowed to pollute such sacred ground. 
 
 The whole town turned out to welcome his High- 
 ness, and we visited the Shereef’s gardens, groves of 
 oranges, in which our camp was pitched. In the 
 afternoon hunting was continued, and we had one or 
 two grand gallops after jackal. On our return I dis- 
 mounted and shot, killing several hares, and a few 
 brace of partridges. His Highness’s professional 
 shot was out, a handsome young mountaineer, who, 
 with a gun, the barrel alone of which was five feet 
 two inches in length, scarcely missed a partridge, 
 bringing down the driven birds in beautiful style. 
 Altogether the hunt was a great success, as indeed 
 it ought to have been, as we had some 300 beaters, 
 as well as several hundred men on horseback. What 
 the bag was I do not know, but twenty-seven hares 
 were brought into camp, and I think as many again 
 must have been killed, which were either torn to 
 pieces by the hounds, or concealed by the Moors. 
 
 His Highness gave me an opportunity of witness- 
 ing his splendid shooting with a small-bore rifle. 
 As we were resting for lunch, under the shade of the 
 tent, he ordered a man to stand up at about thirty 
 paces, and to hold up flat, round, Moorish loaves of 
 bread — about six inches in diameter. This the man 
 did, and his Highness, without a trace of nervous- 
 ness, at the risk of hitting the man’s hand, put bullet 
 after bullet through the bread. Nor did the man 
 
 U 2 
 
292 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 who held the bread appear nervous, probably he had 
 often done it before, and knew the certainty of the 
 Shereef's aim. 
 
 That evening I parted from his Highness. I rode 
 towards YVazan with him for half an hour or so on 
 his road, then, as the sun was setting, and I was some 
 way from my camp, which I had forwarded on, I 
 dismounted, and, giving my horse to a slave, walked 
 towards the Shereef. He was most kind and friendly, 
 holding my hand, and begging me to come back again 
 whenever I could. 
 
 “You will be always welcome,” he said. “ Let me 
 know when you are coming, and I will have every- 
 thing prepared for you. Good-bye, and may the 
 peace of God be with you ! ” 
 
 I thanked him as best I could, and stood while he 
 rode on. Ten yards away he turned to and called 
 out, — 
 
 “ Good-bye, and remember when you are in far- 
 away lands you have a friend in Wazan.” 
 
 He then turned his mule’s head towards his home. 
 For some minutes I stood watching him with feelings 
 of regret at parting from a Moor so different to the 
 usual specimens one comes across, and who had been 
 so kind to me, not only in his hospitality, but in the 
 handsome rugs he had insisted on my accepting. 
 
 I mounted my horse and galloped to my camp 
 with an escort of ten soldiers, who were told off to see 
 me safely to my tents. 
 
 On arriving at the village in which they were 
 pitched, I was met by the Makaddan of the place, 
 who welcomed me, bringing me food for myself, my 
 men and beasts. 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 293 
 
 The Shereefs of Wazan are probably by far the 
 most direct descendants of the Prophet Mahommed 
 in the world, tracing their genealogy, without one 
 hitch, from father to son as far as Idrees, who was 
 the grandson of Mahommed. The power that these 
 potentates possess, not only in Morocco, but in Oran, 
 Algiers, and even Tunis and Tripoli, in the Great 
 Sahara as far as Timbuctoo, and amongst the wild 
 Berber tribes of the mountains of North Africa, is 
 immense. In fact, in the neighbourhood of Wazan, 
 and amongst all the mountaineers, their power is far 
 greater than that of the Sultan himself. The Beni 
 M’Sara, amongst whom the Shereefs word is law, 
 never acknowledge the Sultan at all, all their devotion 
 being centred in the princely house of Wazan. 
 
 As is the case with the Sultans of Morocco, no 
 authentic history remains of the House of Wazan, 
 though one name stands pre-eminently before all 
 others, that of Moulai Abdullah Shereef, who beauti- 
 fied, almost founded, the city of Wazan, and whose 
 holy and charitable life renders him the patron saint 
 of that place; so much so, in fact, that a Wazani 
 never does anything without mentioning his name. 
 If one knows the name Moulai Abdullah Shereef, it 
 is almost all the Arabic one requires in Wazan. The 
 town contains his shrine, which of course I have not 
 seen, though I was hard pressed by one of my men 
 to visit it in disguise, as it is one of the most magnifi- 
 cently decorated shrines in Morocco. However, I 
 would not do so, as, possessing such a kind friend in 
 Moulai Mahommed, I would do nothing that would 
 wound his feelings, as such a visit doubtless would do 
 were rumours of it brought to his ears. 
 
294 The Land of an African Sid tan. 
 
 The later history of the house of Wazan, and of its 
 present head, Sidi Hadj Absalam, father of Moulai 
 Mahommed, is a strange one. H is H ighness fell in 1 ove 
 with and married an English lady. There can be no 
 doubt that the act on the part of the lady in question 
 was a rash one, but I believe most fully that she was 
 in love with him at the time. He must then, though 
 of very dark complexion, have been an exceedingly 
 handsome man, and, allowing for the romance of the 
 affair, and the influential position of the Shereef, I can 
 quite understand the lady marrying him. The cere- 
 mony was performed at the British Legation by the 
 then Minister, Sir John Drummond-Hay. Many 
 severe criticisms have been passed upon the lady 
 since that day, and I think her marriage was strange 
 enough to justify criticism, but her life since she allied 
 herself with the Prince has been one of hard work, of 
 unselfishness, of patience, and latterly, I regret to say, 
 of sorrow. Far be it from me to enter into private 
 details, but it is just possible that a few words may 
 render more clear the whole case, and do away with 
 prejudices and misunderstandings that have been 
 circulated by some of our newspapers. 
 
 That Miss Keene loved her husband there can be 
 no doubt, and the first few years of her married life 
 passed happily. Everything seemed to be going 
 smoothly ; two sons were born to her, but in some 
 way Sidi Hadj Absalam came under bad influence, 
 and ever since then has been on the downward road. 
 He separated from his wife and took to drink. He 
 became low and degraded in his tastes, but it is only 
 lately that affairs came to a climax, when, in spite of 
 deeds signed to the contrary, he publicly married a 
 
A Visit to Wazan. 
 
 295 
 
 native girl of low position. How the Shereefa bore 
 these years of hardship, no pen of mine can describe. 
 While receiving ill-treatment from her husband, her 
 every act watched by spies, fearing even poison in her 
 food, she was visiting the sick, nursing patients with 
 small-pox, and vaccinating members of households 
 where inmates were already dying of the disease. 
 Nor did she confine her good works to Tangier. 
 Wazan knows and loves her. In the impenetrable 
 regions of the Riff her name is reverenced, and in 
 Oran and Tlemcen the natives are her staunch friends. 
 Her two step-sons, Moulai Larbi and Moulai Ma- 
 hommed, at Wazan, are on the most friendly terms 
 with her, and her conduct in not attempting to in- 
 fluence her husband toward her own sons in preference 
 to her step-sons, is clearly shown by the fondness they 
 bear her. 
 
 Her position in Tangier of late can be imagined, 
 especially when the Shereef publicly, with great re- 
 joicing, took to himself another wife. Her funds were 
 stopped by her husband, and, with a body worn out 
 with anxiety and sorrow, she left Tangier, to take up 
 her abode in Oran, where the Moors take her part 
 against that of her husband, and where her noble 
 and self-sacrificing life is better appreciated than in 
 Tangier. 
 
 Should these words meet the eye of Madame de 
 Wazan, I am sure she will forgive my writing them, 
 when I tell her I do so out of regard for her. and in 
 justification of a noble woman who has been sadly 
 misunderstood and maligned. That her sons will 
 inherit her character and moral strength is one of the 
 few hopes that exist for a future for Morocco. 
 
296 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 There is no character better known, or more despised, 
 amongst the Europeans at Tangier than Sidi Hadj 
 Absalam, whose excesses have reached such a pitch 
 as to render his presence, except in his official position, 
 impossible at the various Legations. Very different 
 he is from his religious and kindly son, Moulai Ma- 
 hommed, whom I number among my best friends in 
 Morocco. 
 
 The day after leaving Wazan I went only a short 
 march, as my horse was tired with the previous day’s 
 hunting, I therefore pitched my camp just beyond 
 the mountain gorge of M’Mzoda, in an olive grove 
 near the house of Kaid Abdul Malek. The woods 
 were full of mountaineers, Beni M’Sara and Gruneh 
 men, who were paying an official visit to the Kaid. 
 The presence of these fine fellows gave the place a 
 still more picturesque look, and in the evening we all 
 sat round a great bonfire, strumming the gimbri and 
 telling tales. They asked me about railways, never 
 of course having seen such a thing ; and when I ex- 
 plained that they might accomplish the journey from 
 Fez to Tangier (160 miles) in four hours, instead of 
 as many or more days, one said, — 
 
 “Yes, but that is by telegraph, not by train.” 
 
 I did not start early the next day, as I wished to 
 see the last of my mountaineer friends, so made 
 another short march, camping at a village about two 
 hours the Wazan side of Alcazar, where I shot, ob- 
 taining several brace of partridges. The following 
 day I passed through Alcazar, then, instead of keep- 
 ing to the main road, turned to the left and made my 
 way to Tangier via Gibel Habib. Nothing, however, of 
 interest happened during my journey back to that 
 
A Visit to W azan. 
 
 297 
 
 town, which I accomplished in three days’ good 
 travelling over now dry roads from the first village I 
 stopped at after Alcazar, where I had heard the start- 
 ling news of a British naval demonstration in Tan- 
 gier bay. One Arab advised mfe to return to Wazan. 
 “You are safe there,” he said, “with the Shereef, but 
 in Tangier you will be killed ; for the Moors of Aud- 
 jera have swum out in the night, with their guns in 
 their mouths, and captured eleven of your -men-of-war 
 and killed the admiral.” However, I doubted tire 
 news, and continued my journey. I had spent a most 
 pleasant four weeks in my tour, and shall ever look 
 back with pleasure to my visit to Moulai Mahommed 
 at Wazan, a visit I mean to repeat upon the first 
 available opportunity. 
 
298 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MY RIDE TO SHESHOUAN . 1 
 
 I DO not know whether it was merely from love of 
 adventure, or from curiosity to see a place that, as 
 
 Sheshouan. 
 
 far as is known, has been only once before looked 
 upon by Christian eyes, that I made up my mind to 
 
 1 A considerable part of this chapter is republished from 
 Blackwood's Magazine through the kindness of Mr. William 
 Blackwood. 
 
My Ride to SJieshouan. 299 
 
 attempt to reach Sheshouan, a fanatical Berber city 
 situated in the mountainous district of Northern 
 Morocco, between the large tribe-lands of Beni- 
 Hassan and the Riff. But whatever was my first 
 impulse, this helped to bring me to a decision, the 
 very fact that there existed within thirty hours’ ride 
 of Tangier a city into which it was considered an 
 utter impossibility for a Christian to enter. That 
 such a place can exist, seems almost incredible to 
 those whose sole experience of Morocco is based on 
 the luxurious Tangier hotels, and the more than 
 semi-civilization of that town. 
 
 My mind once made up, it did not take long to 
 prepare myself for my journey ; and on a Friday of 
 July in last year (1888) I might have been seen pur- 
 chasing in the native Tangier shops the articles of 
 clothing that were needed for my disguise, for any 
 attempt to proceed thither in European dress must 
 prove unsuccessful. The costume that I chose con- 
 sisted of the white long shirt and baggy trousers of 
 the Moors, a small crimson silk sleeveless jacket, the 
 tarboosh or fez, and a jelaba or white-hooded cloak 
 that envelops one from one’s knees to one’s head. 
 Having successfully purchased these articles, my next 
 business was to send for a boy, by name Selim, who 
 lived in Tangier, but who was a native of Sheshouan 
 and had previously been my servant. An hour later 
 he came, looking very thin and down on his luck ; I 
 told him of my idea, and found him, much to my sur- 
 prise, ready for a comparatively small sum of money 
 to accompany me, and act as guide. I forthwith sent 
 him into town, where he hired two mules with burdas 
 or Moorish pack-saddles, which were to be at my 
 
300 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 hotel at two o’clock the following morning. I then 
 packed my luggage, a not very tedious proceeding, as 
 it consisted merely of a small red leather native bag, 
 which I wore slung over my shoulder, containing a 
 toothbrush, a revolver, twenty-five rounds of cartridges, 
 a few sheets of writing-paper, a pencil, and fifty 
 cigarettes. Beyond this I only took a blanket, which 
 was spread over the rough pack-saddle. 
 
 About three the next morning we left, and arrived 
 at Tetuan, our first stage, distant from Tangier some 
 forty-five miles, in about ten hours. 
 
 The journey from Tangier to Tetuan cannot be 
 called one of extreme interest, though the latter part 
 of the way, where the road leads one between the 
 great mountains, swathed in forest and torn by 
 torrents, is very fine. In fact all through Morocco, 
 except the road I pursued the following day, and the 
 valley of the Atlas mountains, there is not much that 
 can surpass the Tetuan valley in grandeur of scenery. 
 For the first half of the way the road is dull and un- 
 interesting, passing over low, undulating hills, destitute 
 of trees, nor is it until one reaches the slopes of the 
 hill on the summit of which is situated the well-known 
 Fondak, which forms the half-way resting-place for 
 caravans, that things improve. The view from this 
 spot is fine. 
 
 Here one always makes a halt for luncheon if one 
 is making the through journey in one day, and for 
 the night, if one is spreading it out over two. I have 
 often pitched my tents at this romantic spot, and a 
 fine camping-ground it made too, as there was abun- 
 dance of wood for a camp fire, and the wild cries of 
 the jackal at night added to the romance of the scene, 
 
My Ride to Sheshouan. 301 
 
 making me, as I lay in my tent, almost think that I 
 was back on the Ghauts of India again. The path 
 after leaving the Fondak proceeds along the pass, 
 and finally descends steeply to the level of the river 
 below. 1 his descent usually takes an hour more to 
 accomplish, and rough work it is, as on all sides the 
 path is blocked by great boulders of rock and stone. 
 
 Descended to the level of the river, the road im- 
 proves, and, until one reaches Tetuan, is in good con- 
 dition. In summer, and even in spring, nothing is 
 more beautiful than the view here, the river with its 
 banks crimson with gay oleanders, the cool shaded 
 mountains, and the white town of Tetuan itself, half 
 blocking one end of the valley, and beyond that the 
 blue Mediterranean. 
 
 My first journey to Tetuan I shall never forget. 
 We left Tangier about mid-day on the 1st of January, 
 1887. Our party consisted of Mr. and Mrs. T. Ingram, 
 Jack Green and myself. We had sent our camp on 
 ahead the day before, under orders to pitch at the 
 Fondak, distant from Tangier only some five hours’ 
 ride. 
 
 It was a blazing hot day and accordingly we were 
 all arrayed in the lightest of costumes. 
 
 We had not proceeded very far when T. discovered 
 that his spaniel was missing, and rode back to fetch 
 it, saying he would overtake us anon. Shortly before 
 dark, between five and six, we began the ascent of the 
 Fondak hill, all rather tired with the exertion of pack- 
 ing our camp off the day before, and the usual worry 
 of a departure, besides which we had been shooting 
 along the road, a tiring process under the hot sun. 
 The idea of reaching the camp in a few minutes was 
 
302 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 most cheering, but when we arrived at the level 
 ground no tents were to be seen. Meanwhile dark- 
 ness set in. 
 
 VVe proceeded to the Fondak, and inquired of the 
 Arabs if they had seen our camp. “Yes,” they said, 
 “it has gone on to Tetuan.” 
 
 Here we were in pitch darkness in the wild moun- 
 tain pass, half starved, and to add to our discomfiture, 
 the thermometer fell suddenly and a frost set in. T. 
 was nowhere to be seen, evidently he had lost his way. 
 We took a few moments to consider matters, and came 
 to the conclusion that at all costs we must push on. 
 
 Luckily there was a moon, but even with its aid the 
 path down the boulder-strewn mountain side was 
 anything but pleasant. 
 
 For hours we toiled on. The moon had set, we 
 had no lights, and the cold was so intense that we 
 were obliged to walk and lead our horses to keep any 
 warmth in our bodies. About half-past ten, after ten 
 and a half hours in broiling sun and frost, we came 
 upon our camp, not in Tetuan certainly, but still no 
 great distance from it. We found dinner ready, and 
 our men in a state of terror, as it is not at all safe to 
 travel over the Tetuan road by night. 
 
 Still T. did not turn up. We hoped that he had 
 remained in Tangier, but though we spoke lightly of 
 it, we were all very anxious. 
 
 About four in the morning he arrived, having been 
 all the time on the road. He had lost his way, but 
 finally found a guide, who led him across the country 
 to the Fondak, in pitch darkness, and brought him 
 safely into camp, with his horse dead lame. Our men 
 caught it well for their disobedience in pitching our 
 
303 
 
 My Ride to Sheshouan. 
 
 camp in the wrong place, and a few days later we 
 parted with Larbi, the headman, who was to blame 
 for this and many other misdemeanours, and gave the 
 charge of the whole camp into Antonio’s hands, a 
 decided improvement. Nor had we any trouble for 
 the rest of the journey, which lasted two months. 
 Tetuan itself is a picturesque town, though, like most 
 
 Scene at Tetuan. 
 
 Moorish cities, there is not much to be seen therein. 
 Probably its inhabitants number some twenty-five to 
 th.i ty thousand. In this city are found the finest houses 
 in Morocco, as it was here that many of the Moors 
 driven from Andalusia took up their residence, 
 building themselves palaces according to their own 
 hearts. 
 
 These houses are built round a square patio, and are 
 
304 The Land of an African Sultan . 
 
 generally two storeys in height, the upper storey pos- 
 sessing a balcony, on to which the rooms open. The 
 patios are paved in marbles and tiles, and possess 
 beautiful fountains, from which water is ever gushing. 
 Palm and orange trees grow within, rendering the 
 whole more a garden than a courtyard. 
 
 The city was taken by the Spaniards under 
 Marshal O’Donnell in 1859, after a severe struggle 
 with the brave natives, who, badly armed as they were, 
 held it and the surrounding country against the 
 invading foes for some months. 
 
 However, it fell at last, and Ceuta was added to 
 Spain, while an indemnity of four millions of pounds 
 was paid them. This indemnity has probably been 
 one of the best strokes of luck the Sultan ever had, 
 as the Spaniards, knowing that otherwise it would 
 probably never be paid, seized the custom-houses, 
 levying a ten per cent, ad valorem duty on exports 
 and imports. This succeeded well, and a few years 
 ago the four millions were realized. The Sultan, how- 
 ever, keeps on the duty, himself drawing the ten per 
 cent, now, and so enriching himself to the extent of 
 some hundreds of thousands a year. 
 
 To return to “ my ride to Sheshouan,” on my ar- 
 rival in Tetuan I put up at a small native fondak, or 
 caravanserai, full of mules, camels and vermin, where 
 I spent the night in my disguise. 
 
 The following morning we were up before dawn, 
 and, fording the river near Tetuan, proceeded on our 
 way. As soon as it was daylight, we began to pass 
 Moors coming into town with vegetables and wood, 
 laden on donkeys ; and I was pleased to find that my 
 disguise was sufficiently satisfactory as to lead them to 
 
305 
 
 My Ride to Shcshouan. 
 
 assume that I was an Arab, and to salute me with 
 the salutation, never offered to a Christian — “Salaam 
 ’alikum.” After about two hours on the road, we 
 passed through the village of Zenat, perched high on 
 the mountain side, a pretty, picturesque little place, 
 half hidden in its groves of olives and oleanders, with 
 tiny streams and miniature waterfalls in every direc- 
 tion, and rocks clustered with maidenhair fern. When 
 we had left the village behind, the road led us along 
 the mountain-side at a great distance above the valley 
 beneath, till, an hour later, we descended by a wind- 
 ing path, forded the river, and proceeded up the valley 
 on the left-hand bank. Up to this point the country 
 had been fertile and well cultivated, and the fields full 
 of men and women gathering in the harvest ; but now 
 we had entered the country of the wild Beni-Hassan 
 tribe, and the aspect entirely changed ; instead of 
 fields, nothing but steep mountains, covered with ar- 
 butus and other stunted growth, being visible, except 
 ahead of us, where the great bare rocky peaks of the 
 Sheshouan mountains stood out boldly against the 
 morning sky. 
 
 The next object that we passed was a ruined fondak, 
 or caravanserai, not unlike that which exists halfway 
 between Tangier and Tetuan, but entirely deserted 
 and out of repair. It was near this fondak that my 
 first adventure befell me. We had been overtaken 
 by two Beni-Hassan tribesmen, who, I had noticed, 
 had scanned me very closely — far more closely than 
 I appreciated ; and I was not particularly pleased to 
 
 2 This building is used as a fondak, though really it is the 
 tomb of Sidi Hadj Mahommed, whose head is buried at Tan- 
 gier and body here, 
 
 X 
 
306 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 suddenly discover these two, and a third, who was 
 holding achcsnut horse, stationary about two hundred 
 yards in front of me, engaged in conversation, and 
 now and again turning in my direction. There was 
 no other course than to proceed, which I did. On 
 nearing them, the owner of the horse placed it across 
 the road, completely blocking my way, while his two 
 companions took up their position on either side. 
 On my reaching them, one, seizing my bridle, told 
 me I must go no further, while a second pulled me 
 from my mule by my jelaba or cloak. I knew that 
 if I uttered a sound my chance of reaching Sheshouan 
 was at an end, so, grasping my revolver firmly under 
 my cloak, for the double reason of having it ready in 
 case of necessity and keeping it from the sight of my 
 assailants, I remained dumb. My Arab boy proved 
 himself on this occasion — as he did on several after- 
 wards — to be quite worthy of the confidence I had 
 placed in him, for, lying in a calm and collected 
 manner, he asserted that I was a Moor from Fez. 
 
 “ Why does he not speak ? ” asked one of the 
 men. 
 
 “ Is it likely a Moorish gentleman would speak to 
 robbers who attack him on the road, and insult him 
 by pulling him off his mule?” responded Selim; 
 “ but he will be revenged, for when the Sultan comes ” 
 (referring to the approaching visit of the Sultan to 
 Tetuan), “ he will come here and lay your country 
 waste.” 
 
 Thereupon the men, with a still incredulous look, 
 relinquished their hold of me, and mounting once 
 more, I proceeded on my way. An elevation having 
 rendered us invisible to the tribesmen, we thought it 
 
3 C 7 
 
 My Ride to Sheshouan. 
 
 as well to place a more satisfactory distance between 
 ourselves and them, so whipped the mules into a 
 gallop, and were soon some way ahead. 
 
 Turning a corner, we suddenly came upon a band 
 of some twenty or thirty Beni-Hassani working by 
 the roadside. These we passed without any difficulty, 
 though the minute or two that we took to pass 
 through them was scarcely a pleasant time, as I 
 expected every moment to hear our first assailants 
 shouting to them to arrest my progress. Then we 
 again proceeded at a gallop over terribly open 
 country ; I say “ terribly open ” — for I felt sure that 
 before many minutes were over I should need some 
 place of concealment. We were crossing the high 
 table-land that exists between the Zenat and She- 
 shouan valleys — an elevation that is entirely ignored 
 on most of the maps of the country — and the only 
 spot that would offer any cover was a stream, the 
 banks of which were overgrown with oleanders. For 
 this we at once made, and, entering the bed of the 
 stream, I dismounted and hid myself amongst the 
 shrubs, while Selim led the mules to a spot some 
 little way further up the river. 
 
 By this time the three men who had first stopped 
 me had reached the band we had seen at work, and 
 informed them of their belief in the presence of a 
 Christian ; and as I had expected, a few minutes 
 later some dozen Arabs appeared in sight, running 
 along the path we had just travelled over. In five 
 minutes they had found our mules, and were question- 
 ing Selim as to my whereabouts. From my hiding- 
 place I could overhear sufficient of the conversation 
 that passed between them. 
 
 X 2 
 
308 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “ Where is the Christian ? ” they asked. 
 
 “ What Christian ? ” said Selim. 
 
 “ The Christian who was with you.” 
 
 “ There was no Christian with me.” 
 
 “ Who was with you ? ” 
 
 “A Moor ; the son of Abdul Malek from Fez, who 
 is going to Sheshouan to see some of his mother’s 
 people.” 
 
 “ Bring him here.” 
 
 “ I don’t know where he is.” 
 
 Then for a minute or two the talking was carried 
 on in whispers, and I saw my boy and an elderly 
 mountaineer leave the group and wander off engaged 
 in conversation. A few minutes later I was dis- 
 covered and marched forth from the river-bed to a 
 large tree growing near by on the plain, where I 
 found myself alone with a dozen or so wild-looking 
 fellows. I knew that to deny I was a Christian was 
 useless now, so I informed them at once that I was 
 one, and that I was on my way to Sheshouan, hand- 
 ing them meanwhile (much to my grief) some of my 
 cigarettes. They seemed very much surprised at the 
 calm way in which I took matters, and not a little 
 amused ; and five minutes later, conversation was 
 being carried on in an animated but amicable man- 
 ner. Suddenly my boy appeared on the scene, and 
 never in my life have I seen a face of greater sur- 
 prise than he wore then, on finding me seated in the 
 group of mountaineers, who a minute or two before 
 had been telling him to bring me out from my hiding- 
 place, presumably to kill me — and not only seated 
 there, but apparently on the best of terms. 
 
 On my rising a few minutes later to proceed on 
 
309 
 
 My Ride to Sheshouan. 
 
 my journey, they begged me to go no further, assuring 
 me that if I were discovered I would for certain lose 
 my life, and that even their own people would kill 
 me if they detected that I was a Christian. I told 
 them that I had made up my mind to reach She- 
 shouan at any risk, and bade them adieu, shaking 
 hands with all of them, but closing my ears to their 
 ill-omened warnings. 
 
 We had soon left the watershed, and once more 
 the path led us along the steep mountain-side, the 
 new valley running almost due south, while that we 
 had left ran in the opposite direction. From where 
 we were now we obtained a glorious view, rivalling 
 any scenery I have seen in Morocco, with the ex- 
 ception of some of the valleys of the Atlas mountains, 
 which it much resembled. Thousands of feet into 
 the now sunset sky the great mountain of Sheshouan 
 reared its rocky crags ; while far below, purple in 
 the evening shadow, lay the wooded and cultivated 
 valley, with its rapid river turning and twisting here, 
 there, and everywhere like a thread of silver. 
 
 We were now at no great distance from Sheshouan, 
 so, concealing ourselves in the bushes, we awaited 
 the setting of the sun. As soon as he was down we 
 resumed our journey, and an hour later, in bright 
 moonlight, crossing the sharp ridge of a hill, came 
 suddenly upon Sheshouan, and found ourselves in 
 the soko, or market-place, situated outside the walls 
 of the town. Crossing the soko at a brisk trot, we 
 entered the town by the Bab-el-Sok, and, proceeding 
 through several streets, passed under a dark archway. 
 Here dismounting, we knocked at a door, which, 
 being opened, we entered the house of my guide’s 
 
310 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 parents. In the dark they did not recognize me as 
 a Christian, in fact it was not till some minutes later, 
 when we had secured the mules in the patio of the 
 house, and ourselves in a large bare room, that my 
 boy confided in them. They were not at all pleased 
 to see me, but they knew as well as I did— and 
 therein lay my safety — that my detection meant 
 death to their son for bringing me, as well as to 
 myself. Half an hour later, having partaken of some 
 food, and rested a little, for we had been sixteen 
 hours en route from Tetuan, I left the house, and 
 with Selim’s father walked through the town. 
 
 Sheshouan, which is a large town covering more 
 acreage than Tangier, and possessing seven mosques 
 and five gates, is magnificently situated on the slope 
 of the mountain, which rises from the town almost 
 perpendicularly to a great height. The houses are 
 different from those of any other city in the country, 
 as they do not possess the general flat roof, but are 
 gabled and tiled with red tiles, which gives the place 
 more the appearance of a Spanish than a Moorish 
 town. But what to the natives is the great attraction 
 of Sheshouan is the abundance of water ; for issuing 
 from caves far above in the mountain-side are three 
 waterfalls, whose water is so cold that the natives 
 use the expression that “ it knocks one’s teeth out to 
 drink it.” I tasted it, and found it too cold to be 
 pleasant drinking. From the pool at the bottom of 
 these three falls aqueducts carry the water to the 
 numerous mills which are clustered there, after turn- 
 ing the wheels of which it continues its course to the 
 many fruit-gardens for which Sheshouan is famous. 
 After about two hours’ walk in the town, we returned 
 
My Ride to Sheshouan. 3 1 1 
 
 once more to the house, where I was only too glad 
 to roll myself in my blanket and surrender my weary 
 body to sleep. All next day I lay in hiding. During 
 the afternoon we decided that my safest means ot 
 leaving would be after dark in the disguise of a 
 woman, as that would render me almost entirely 
 hidden from sight under the enormous haik that 
 completely envelops womankind in Morocco. 
 
 About sunset my boy returned from purchasing 
 some fowls and eggs for supper, looking very much 
 upset and in tears. I was sorry to see this, for up 
 till now he had behaved splendidly, though his 
 mother had been in one long fit of hysterical crying 
 ever since I had arrived — a circumstance which was 
 not warranted to improve any one’s spirits. Lven 
 when I saw Selim in this state, I never suspected 
 anything was wrong, except that his spirits had 
 given way under the strain, and it was quite casually 
 that I asked him what was the cause of his 
 trouble. 
 
 “Oh, sir,” he cried, “it is all up. Those Beni- 
 Hassan men have told that they have seen a Chris- 
 tian on his way to Sheshouan, and all the town is on 
 the alert to catch you.” 
 
 I went at once to the tiny window and looked into 
 the street. It was full of men hurrying to and fro. 
 Twice I heard the question asked, “ Have you seen 
 the Christian ? ” My prospects certainly did not 
 look golden ; but nothing could be done for an hour 
 or so, till it was dark ; and on an empty stomach 
 one can do very little, so I set to work and cooked 
 and ate my supper. I had not much appetite, but I 
 made a point of eating half a roast fowl and drinking 
 
3 i 2 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 a large jugful of milk, meanwhile carefully consider- 
 ing my plans in my mind. First, I determined to 
 abandon the woman’s disguise, as being of a suspicious 
 nature, and instead borrowed a torn and ragged 
 mountaineer’s brown cloak. 
 
 Supper was over, and in half an hour more it 
 
 The Author in disguise. 
 
 would be sufficiently dark for me to leave. What a 
 wretched half-hour that was ! Selim was in tears, his 
 mother in hysterics, his father sulky ; in fact, the 
 only persons who kept up any show of spirits were 
 myself — and I confess that it was nothing more than 
 a mere “show” of spirits— and a man whose help 
 had been sought, a native of a mountain village some 
 
3 T 3 
 
 My Ride to Skeskouan. 
 
 hours distant, and who all through never lost his 
 cheerfulness, though the risk of losing his own life, a 
 risk that he was voluntarily running, was very 
 great. 
 
 At last the half-hour was over, and all our plans com- 
 pleted. Mahommed, my new-found friend (and verily 
 3 friend in need), was to accompany me out of the 
 town by the principal gate, thus hoping to excite less 
 suspicion than if we attempted to escape by one of 
 the less important and more obscure exits, while 
 Selim was to proceed by another way and meet us 
 outside the soko. The mules we left for the 
 present, arranging for Selim’s father to bring them 
 early in the morning to our next hiding-place, the 
 cottage of Mahommed, situated in a village some four 
 hours distant. 
 
 My disguise was light and airy, far too light and airy 
 for such a cold night, consisting as it did merely of a 
 brown jelaba and a pair of slippers. Creeping 
 quietly through the door, we left the house, and 
 walked through the now crowded streets to the gate. 
 Every now and again I felt an uncomfortable, creepy 
 sensation, as I heard the hurrying natives saying to 
 one another — and saying it once or twice even to my 
 companion and myself, “Where is the Christian?” 
 “ Have you seen the dog of a Christian ?” At the 
 gate was a guard placed to stop me ; but in my 
 disguise I passed them successfully and entered the 
 soko, where men were passing to and fro on the 
 look-out for me. Here, to avoid suspicion, we seated 
 ourselves cross-legged on the ground, and remained 
 sitting for several minutes, it seemed like an hour. 
 While in this position a native came and seated him- 
 
314 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 self next to me, and carried on a short conversation 
 with tny companion. Every moment I expected 
 detection — it seemed an impossibility that I could 
 escape. Then we rose and were once more en route. 
 
 Soon we had reached the spot where Selim was to 
 have met us, but there were no signs of him. We sat 
 down on some rocks and waited, but he did not 
 come. Then Mahommed left me to search for him, 
 and I was alone, but completely hidden among the 
 ferns and stones. While he was away, a man passed 
 me so closely that his jelaba touched my knees ; 
 but he went on without perceiving me. A few 
 minutes later Mahommed and Selim appeared, the 
 latter having mistaken the trysting-place. 
 
 We at once set off at a brisk walk across country 
 to Mahommed’s cottage. For four hours and a half 
 we walked in the cold night, over the most terrible 
 ground. We had not been on our way half an hour, 
 when I slipped in crossing a stream, and got my 
 shoes soaked with water, which rendered them 
 impossible to walk in. From that moment, till we 
 arrived at the cottage, I walked bare-legged and 
 bare-footed, pushing my ankles, already raw from 
 sunburning, through the sharp thorny bushes, till the 
 blood was trickling down over my feet. At last we 
 reached the village, and creeping from tree to tree, 
 Mahommed reconnoitring ahead, we entered the 
 cottage. I was at once taken to my hiding-place, a 
 kind of cellar, but very clean, where, half an hour 
 later, when 1 had bound up my legs in some strips 
 of sacking, we ate a supper of native bread and 
 goat’s milk, and very good it was too. My kind 
 friends then left me, and were soon slumbering in 
 
My Ride to Sheshouan. 3 1 5 
 
 another part of the cottage — their snore reaching me 
 even in my cellar. I felt better ; though far from 
 safe, yet I was out of Sheshouan. .1 opened my red- 
 leather bag, and drew out some cigarettes ; then 
 rolling myself in my blanket, I lay and watched the 
 blue smoke curl up and up till it was lost in the 
 darkness. Never did I enjoy a cigarette so much as 
 then, and were I a poet, I would have written an ode 
 to that benefactor of mankind, Nestor Gianaclis. It 
 was not long, however, before I fell asleep, worn out 
 with the excitement of the day, and the long night 
 walk ; nor did I wake till late the next morning. 
 My breakfast — bread and eggs and milk — was 
 brought me at once, and I received the welcome 
 news of the arrival of my mules. 
 
 Luck, however, was against me, for one of the very 
 Beni-Hassan men who had accosted me on the road 
 turned up in the village by some evil chance and 
 recognized my beasts. However, Mahommed denied 
 that they belonged to Christians ; but the suspicion 
 of the villagers was aroused, and again I was in great 
 danger. 
 
 It had been our intention to proceed on our way 
 when the sun set, but towards evening we discovered 
 that the villagers were on the look-out for me, and 
 that it would be unsafe to leave before the moon 
 went down, about midnight. 
 
 That day and evening seemed very long, but 
 Mahommed never lost his cheerful mien, and kept 
 me interested by telling me stories of himself — how 
 he was the head of a robber-band, and only a few 
 months before had shot two rich Moors, whom he 
 had robbed, and whose mules he had stolen. Never 
 
3 1 6 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 for a moment did I mistrust him, as I knew that, 
 whatever he might be, his ideas of hospitality — the 
 greatest virtue the Arabs possess — would render 
 impossible any treachery. The only reason I can 
 think of why he should have rendered me such 
 services was his love of adventure, for he positively 
 seemed to enjoy the risk he was himself running in 
 saving me. There was no monetary reason in his 
 acts ; for on my parting from him the next day, he 
 absolutely refused to take what I offered him, and it 
 was with great difficulty that I persuaded him even 
 to accept payment for the food, &c., I had partaken 
 of in his house. 
 
 At last the moon went down, and accompanied 
 by Mahommed I set out, again creeping from tree to 
 tree and hedge to hedge, once even taking refuge in 
 an empty stable, till the village and the guard around 
 it were safely passed. Then Mahommed hid me in a 
 clump of trees while he returned to the village, and, 
 with Selim, brought out my mules. The cold was 
 intense, in spite of its being July, and I felt cramped 
 and sore indeed as I crouched down, not daring to 
 move a muscle. So an hour passed, then my eyes 
 were gladdened with the welcome sight of the men 
 and mules. Selim and I at once mounted the 
 beasts, while Mahommed walked ahead to show us 
 the path. When dawn appeared we were well on 
 our way, and an hour or two after sunrise had left 
 almost all danger behind us. At the ruined fondak, 
 which we reached after about eight hours’ ride, 
 Mahommed left us and turned back. Never did I 
 grasp a hand to say good-bye with more kindly 
 feelings than I did that of this stalwart, handsome 
 
My Ride to Skeskouan. 3 1 7 
 
 mountaineer, who had risked his own life and had 
 saved mine. I tried to thank him in fitting words, 
 but he stopped me, and said, “ It is nothing. It is 
 nothing.” Four hours later the white walls of 
 Tetuan were in sight ; and thirteen hours after 
 leaving the village, tired and hungry, with blood- 
 stained legs and torn clothes, I passed through the 
 gates with a sigh of relief such as I have seldom 
 sighed, and felt myself — at last ! — safe from all 
 dangers. 
 
 The following evening I arrived at Tangier, to 
 receive the hearty congratulations of my friends, and 
 a severe blowing up for risking my life in such an 
 unwarrantable way. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
PART IV. 
 
 ABOUT THE MOORS. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 ABOUT TIIE MOORS. 
 
 I CAN think of no better 
 way of ending my book in 
 a manner to fill up the gaps 
 that I have left through fear 
 of diverging too far from the 
 path of my various travels in 
 Morocco than by a chapter 
 on the inhabitants of this 
 land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Let us take the life of one 
 individual of each sex and 
 briefly trace its existence. 
 
 Thechildisborn,andis more 
 or less fondly and carefully 
 nursed by its mother. The 
 children are never, except in 
 the case of the death of the 
 mother, sent out to nurse, as 
 any but the maternal supply 
 of “victuals” is considered 
 harmful. Motherless babies 
 are, however, sometimes fed 
 by goats and sheep. 
 
 The little boy — we will 
 take it he is so — on reach- 
 
 Y 
 
322 The Land of an African Sultan . 
 
 ing his third, fourth, or fifth year, is taken to the 
 mosque with great rejoicings, where he is circumcised 
 by the priest. These circumcisions are often made the 
 objects of great fetes, and I have seen in Fez gorgeous 
 processions passing through the street, the hero of the 
 hour being the small youth, seated before his father 
 on a mule or horse. 
 
 The boy’s education, such as it is, begins now, and 
 consists in his attending a school, where a thaleb, or 
 schoolmaster, succeeds in beating into him a certain 
 number of the verses of the Koran ; sometimes, if he 
 is a youth of superior degree, he is taught to read 
 and write. 
 
 These schools are supported (?) by Government, or 
 rather are supposed to receive some minute sum 
 annually, but what support they really get is from 
 small sums of money and presents in kind brought by 
 the scholars. 
 
 The education over, the boy sets about thinking of 
 getting married, which usually take places when he 
 reaches an age of between twelve and sixteen. 
 Though the bridegroom elect is not supposed to see 
 his bride before the wedding, he generally manages 
 to do so, usually by hiding in a room when the bride 
 elect calls upon his mother. 
 
 The young man wishing to marry despatches a 
 friend to the father of the girl, who announces that 
 so-and-so wishes to marry his daughter so-and-so. 
 The father then asks the mother, who in turn asks 
 the girl, and she very seldom refuses, nor if she did, 
 would it probably prove effective. 
 
 The father then asks the ambassador how much his 
 friend will give, which depends very much upon the 
 
About the Moors. 
 
 circumstances of the parties, some men paying a 
 dollar or less, and some fifty or sixty pounds. This 
 money is supposed to pay the expenses of the trous- 
 seau, and of the marriage festivities, and also to soften 
 a little the grief of the parents at parting from their 
 daughter. 
 
 These preliminaries arranged, a month or so elapses 
 before the marriage takes place. Seven days before 
 the. wedding-day the two principal characters in the 
 coming ceremony begin to entertain, the bridegroom 
 inviting all his male friends to partake of tea and 
 listen to music in his house, while the bride’s mother 
 entertains all the ladies of her acquaintance in her 
 residence. Day and night tea-drinking and music are 
 carried on, till the seventh day arrives. Then the 
 bride, decked in fine raiment, is placed on the back of 
 a mule or donkey, herself completely covered by a 
 box, or frame, draped with rich silks and embroideries. 
 In this she is conveyed with music and lanterns to the 
 house of her husband. Here the procession breaks 
 up, the girl entering with her women friends and 
 relations. She then proceeds to a room where her 
 clothes are carefully arranged for her after her tire- 
 some ride in the box, and she is seated on a divan. 
 Tea is then served, after which the ladies retire, leav- 
 ing the wife alone. Solitary she sits for some hours 
 till midnight, when her husband, after being escorted 
 round the town on a horse, also with music and 
 lanterns, arrives. 
 
 The girl is seated closely veiled, but on her hus- 
 band’s entering, unveils herself. It would make a fine 
 subject for a picture, the girl throwing her veil back and 
 exposing a beautiful face to her lover’s dazzled gaze. 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 Each time a man marries, this ceremony is gone 
 through, though it is usually on a much finer scale for 
 the first marriage. A man is allowed by the Koran 
 four wives, but the number of slaves is not stated, and 
 some of the richer Moors keep enormous harems. 
 The rule, however, amongst the lower and middle 
 classes is one wife and no slaves ; in fact, except in the 
 case of rich men, it is the exception to find more than 
 one woman in the household. 
 
 In time the man dies ; he is wrapped in white linen 
 and laid upon a bier and borne by his friends and paid 
 mourners with sounds of soft music to the cemetery, 
 where he is buried. No coffins are used, which is no 
 doubt a healthy custom in a climate like that of 
 Morocco. The graves are very shallow, the body 
 being seldom more than two or three feet below the 
 ground. 
 
 The girl’s life is easily sketched. She lives with her 
 mother in the harem till she is of an age to marry. 
 She has no education except in embroidery and 
 making sweetmeats, though if she be a village girl she 
 has to work hard in drawing water from the wells or 
 grinding corn in the handmills. It is needless to 
 describe her part in the marriage festivities, as I have 
 already done so in sketching the man’s life. After 
 marriage she is shut up in a harem, and if her husband 
 be a man of means, she never stirs outside ; though if 
 he be a villager, she has her work cut out for her. 
 
 In a house I stayed in once in Mequinez, at one end 
 of a large high room was a balcony communicating 
 with nowhere except the room below, whence it was 
 reached by a ladder. The reason for this balcony was 
 easily divined. When the owner of the house went 
 
About the Moors. 
 
 3 2 5 
 
 out he bundled his women up the ladder, then, taking 
 the steps away, left them prisoners until his return. 
 
 Much has been said about the cruelty of this con- 
 finement, but it must be remembered that their women 
 are, thank goodness, different to ours, and literally 
 cannot be trusted for one moment away from their 
 husband’s eyes. The wife of one of the highest native 
 officials of Tangier not many years back used to take 
 advantage of her husband’s leniency in allowing her 
 to visit the Hummum, or baths, every Friday, to meet 
 her various and many lovers. At last her plot was 
 discovered, and she was publicly disgraced and di- 
 vorced. I have seen numbers of cases amongst even 
 my own men, in which, if their women are for a 
 moment left by their husbands, they prove unfaithful, 
 that is to say if they get the chance. 
 
 There is one tie that holds husband and wife to- 
 gether, the constant dread of one administering 
 poison to the other. This habit of poisoning is 
 terribly rife in Morocco, in fact is a thing of every- 
 day occurrence, and as there is no medical knowledge 
 of any sort, and no attempt at an inquest, it is never 
 discovered. 
 
 In this way, too, the Sultan is said to remove his 
 enemies. He invites (commands is more expressive 
 of his invitations) his victims to tea with him. After 
 receiving the poor fellow with all kinds of compli- 
 ments, a cup of poisoned tea is handed him, and the 
 victim dies in a few minutes or hours, according to the 
 dose. The man knows perfectly well that he is to be 
 poisoned, yet so great is his superstitious veneration 
 towards his lord and master, that he does not think 
 of disobeying his commands for one moment. 
 
326 The Land of an Af rican Sultan. 
 
 This extraordinary superstition crops up every- 
 where amongst the Moors. Though democratic to a 
 great extent, they almost worship their Shereefs and 
 Saints. What an amount of holiness is supposed to 
 surround the family of Wazan cannot be imagined 
 till one has seen how great and low crawl up to kiss 
 the clothes of the Shereefs of that ilk. How every 
 word they utter is listened to with breathless atten- 
 tion, and every opinion becomes a moral law. Reli- 
 gion and superstition are so mixed in the country that 
 no Moor knows which is one and which is the other, 
 and it is only by a careful study of the Koran that one 
 can sift them. Were the pages of the Koran strictly 
 kept to, the power of most of these Shereefs would 
 disappear. Superstition is most apparent in the 
 sacrifices which are still carried out by the Moors 
 upon occasions ; and again the awful rites of the 
 Hamdouchis and the Aissouis more resemble Fetish 
 than Mahommedan customs. 
 
 It is this love of the supernatural that instils into 
 the minds of the people their fear of djins and all 
 kinds of evil spirits. Every old ruin, every river, 
 every cave, almost every mountain is haunted by some 
 devil, whose intentions are bad. 
 
 I once asked a small boy far away in the interior if 
 he had ever seen a djin. He said, “ Yes, but only one. 
 He was tall, about forty feet in height, with black 
 horns and red hair, and the tail and legs of a goat.” 
 
 Nor does superstition attain only to the super- 
 natural, but there are many strange beliefs connected 
 with animals. I remember once passing a drove of 
 donkeys on the road. The Arab who was driving 
 them made no attempt to keep out of my way. The 
 
About the Moors. 
 
 3 2 7 
 
 donkeys were loaded with stones in paniers, and I got 
 my shins severely barked. Having passed the 
 donkeys I accosted the driver. 
 
 “ Why,” I yelled at him, “ did you not drive your 
 donkeys aside ? ” 
 
 “I tried to,” he answered, “but they knew you 
 were a Christian, so wouldn’t move.” 
 
 I let him know I wasn’t a Mahommedan before I 
 left him. I think he would take care that his donkeys 
 made way for the next European they met ; and I 
 could not get my hunting-crop mended till I got back 
 to Tangier. 
 
 The Cadis (bishops) lay down the spiritual law and 
 arrange divorce, while all civil cases come under the 
 Kaids and their Caliphas. 
 
 Two laws of the Cadis are worth mentioning as 
 being superstitions for which no reason can be 
 gathered. First, that it is haram, i.e. sinful to whistle ; 
 and, secondly, that if one breathes on one’s food to 
 cool or blow the flies away, it is necessary to remove 
 all the part touched by one’s breath. 
 
 As I have said elsewhere, medicine is at a very low 
 ebb. A few charms, principally papers scrawled over 
 with meaningless characters, or bags of salt and alum, 
 or more commonly still the distended hand, are the 
 sole means of preventing and curing sickness. Yet 
 it must not be for a moment supposed that when 
 medical aid is within reach of the Moors they do not 
 take advantage of it, though it is very seldom that it 
 is so within reach. The English Shereefa of Wazan 
 has vaccinated some hundreds of men, women and 
 children ; nor did the Moors prove ignorant of the 
 results gained thereby, as it was soon apparent what 
 
328 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 good effect the English lady’s treatment had in pre- 
 serving against the terrible small-pox that sometimes 
 rages in the country. 
 
 All sorts of incantations are used, one, almost 
 obsolete now, is worth mentioning. It is a cure for 
 unfaithfulness on the part of a husband. The wife 
 prepares him a dish of kooskoosoo, which, before being 
 eaten by the husband, has to be stirred at night with 
 the hand of an exhumed corpse laid over the lady’s 
 knee while certain words are sung. Amongst the 
 Jews all sorts of filthy concoctions are used a's cures, 
 probably with exactly the opposite results to what are 
 intended, except that the Jews are so used to filth 
 externally that a dose internally is ineffective alto- 
 gether. 
 
 A disease that is common in Morocco is leprosy. 
 This ghastly complaint is still rife in the south, where 
 a whole city is put aside for the lepers. No cure is 
 attempted, and, of course, no attempt atone would be 
 successful. The victims do not seem to suffer much 
 pain with the complaint. The leper city contains 
 some thousands of inhabitants who can be seen in 
 every stage of the disease, from its first appearance 
 on their hands, feet or face, to limbless lumps of de- 
 caying flesh, which are by day laid out in the sun by 
 those less afflicted, and carried in again in the evenings 
 to shelter. The lepers are not allowed to enter the 
 city of Morocco, or to hold any contact with healthy 
 people, except in asking alms, which they receive in 
 long wooden spoons. They marry, and as far as I 
 could discover, the children are lepers, though the 
 disease does not usually show itself until they reach 
 an age varying from twelve to sixteen, by which time 
 
A bcntt the Moors. 
 
 3 2 9 
 
 they too are married. But to return to a pleasanter 
 side of Moorish life and change the subject from 
 disease and foul charms to a more lively topic. 
 
 In architecture there has never been a nation to 
 
 surpass the Moors. Not that any of their buildings 
 show great power and force of conception, except 
 from the exterior, rather the delicate tracery and ex- 
 quisite colouring is typical of effeminacy and luxu- 
 riance. Yet where in the world can be seen a more 
 
330 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 lovely specimen of architecture than the Alhambra. 
 Nor is the Alhambra the sole example that remains ; 
 the Giralda at Seville and more so its sister tower, 
 the Koutubia at Morocco City, untouched by restora- 
 tion, are marvellous specimens of handicraft, while 
 the old palace at Saffi, on the Moorish coast, is still 
 very beautilul, even in its ruined state. The great 
 gates at Mequinez, too, are splendid specimens of the 
 finest style of Moorish architecture, and I doubt not 
 that the interiors of the palaces at Morocco, Mequinez, 
 and Fez are full of wonderful courts and arcades. The 
 exquisite arabesque in plaister, with its delicate tracery 
 and interwoven geometric designs, the carved painted 
 and bedombed wooden ceilings, show what an eye 
 for beauty existed and still exists to some extent 
 amongst the Moors. This love of art, however, is 
 fast dying away, the painting has become coarser and 
 less skilful in design, and crudeness is setting its 
 stamp on all modern Moorish work. There is no 
 better example to be found than in Rabat, the carpet 
 manufactory of Morocco. Formerly carpets almost 
 as beautiful as those of Persia and the East were 
 manufactured there, but to-day the Moor prefers 
 strips of green Brussels to the exquisite blending of 
 colours displayed in their own country’s rugs, to the 
 detriment of the trade. The carpets manufactured 
 now are tawdry, full of aniline dyes, amongst which 
 magenta predominates, and of coarse texture. Though 
 the old rugs can from time to time be procured, yet 
 they are very scarce. 
 
 The same can be said of the embroideries, though 
 in Rabat, Fez and Mequinez one can to this day find 
 exquisite pieces, yet the modern stuff which now floods 
 
Aboitt the Moors. 
 
 33i 
 
 the Tangier market is of very inferior quality, and 
 made simply to supply the bazaars and the oily Jews 
 who keep them. The old gold embroidery on velvet 
 is fast dying out, and it is exceedingly difficult to 
 procure good specimens on which the gold will never 
 tarnish, though on the modern imitations it will be 
 black in a very short time. The best specimens of 
 these kinds of embroidery is to be found on the 
 “ Haities,” wall coverings of panels of velvet several 
 feet high arranged in the form of Moorish arches and 
 thickly encrusted with gold. These Haities can be 
 but rarely picked up, and arc generally very dear, 
 though sometimes one has the luck of getting one for 
 next to nothing. I brought a fine specimen away 
 from Fez in February this year, for which I did not 
 give half the value of the weight of the silver-gilt 
 thread with which it is thickly embroidered, while the 
 ground-work is the most perfect silk velvet. In all it 
 has nine panels of velvet and silk, the three centre 
 ones of which are covered in embroidery. 
 
 The old Fez brocades, long since ceased to be manu- 
 factured, are both beautiful and rare, though we pro- 
 cured a considerable quantity of it at reasonable prices 
 during the same visit to Fez. The silver work of 
 Morocco is not to be compared with that of the East. 
 It is crude and rough and the silver itself impure. The 
 best specimens are found on swords and daggers. A 
 sword which his Majesty the Sultan was gracious 
 enough to present to me is rich in colour and silver 
 work, but on close examination the embossing of the 
 silver is rough, as also is the damasceening of the blade. 
 The great silver and silk tassels that belong to the 
 sword-belt are perhaps the finest part, though decidedly 
 
332 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 barbaric. In the Atlas mountains, in fact amongst all 
 the Kabyles of North Africa, enamel is inlaid into the 
 silver, though the workmanship is in this case also 
 very rough. Large earrings set with precious stones 
 or glass big enough to be used as bangles in England 
 are common, while anklets of massive silver can here 
 and there be seen. The most common articles of 
 jewellery noticed by the traveller are necklaces of 
 coral, coins, amber-coloured beads and charms, and 
 clasps that fasten the women’s dress, one worn over 
 each breast, the two joined by a chain. The fasten- 
 ings of these brooches is with a ring and pin, and in 
 form exactly resembles the Celtic brooches in the 
 British Museum and elsewhere. The wives of some 
 of the richer Moors wear crowns of gold and jewels, 
 but these are usually manufactured in Europe. The 
 Sultan’s wives possess magnificent jewellery, diamonds 
 and emeralds in profusion, much of which has come 
 from Paris and Bond Street. The silver daggers of 
 the Moors are quite one of the characteristic sights of 
 the country, though individually they are seldom of 
 great beauty. However, collectors such as Kaid 
 Maclean and Mr. White, our Consul at Tangier, 
 possess many very fine ones, collected during a long 
 residence in the country. The native guns can be 
 arranged in three classes. The Sous guns are the 
 most beautiful of all, with ivory stocks inlaid with 
 coral and silver and behung with coins and charms, 
 the barrels also cased in silver. The Riff guns are of 
 dark wood generally undecorated, though sometimes 
 designs in silver wire and coral are found. The butts 
 of these Riff weapons are unlike the first class, the 
 Sous, or the third, the Tetuan guns. The butt 
 
About the Moors. 
 
 narrows down, while a thick piece of boxwood runs 
 at right angles to the gun, and is pressed against the 
 shoulder, giving the whole the appearance of a 
 hammer. The Tetuan guns are more simple, though 
 often inlaid. Tetuan is by far the largest gun manu- 
 factory in the country. All three varieties are flint- 
 locks. The Moors are clever at basket-work, and the 
 size of their straw hats, worn by women in Tetuan, is 
 unequalled ; more like they are to carriage umbrellas 
 than hats ; so wide in fact are the brims that they 
 have to be supported to the crown by cords of wool 
 or silk. 
 
 The Moors possess no agricultural instruments 
 beyond the pick, the spade and the plough. The 
 latter is of wood, and drawn by oxen, though I have 
 seen a plough with a woman and a donkey harnessed 
 side by side. There is nothing prettier in all Mo- 
 rocco than to watch the ploughman guiding say a 
 camel and an ox, harnessed together in the plough, 
 over the heavy soil. Behind and around him strut 
 the egrets, picking up the insects and worms. 
 
 Morocco, it has been said, could grow enough corn 
 to supply their own country and half England as well. 
 I consider this a slight exaggeration, though, doubtless, 
 with proper care, Morocco could become, as it once 
 was, one of the largest wheat-producing countries of 
 the world. Grain at present is not allowed to be 
 exported, as it is repugnant to the strict religious 
 views of the Emperor that the corn of the righteous 
 should be devoured by unbelievers. 
 
 In minerals Morocco must be very rich, but here, 
 again, native stupidity is to the fore, and no mines 
 are allowed to be worked. Gold is brought in small 
 
334 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 quantities from the Sous, where it is found in the 
 river-beds. Copper is known to exist, as also are 
 many other metals. Land is held on a system of 
 military tenure, which is a source of great gain to the 
 Government, as, on the death of the holder, ground 
 that but a short time before was waste land, comes 
 back, into the hands of the Sultan in a state more or 
 less fit for agriculture. Not only does the land revert 
 to the authorities, but also any buildings the tenant 
 may have raised, and all his personal property. 
 There are, of course, also landholders by hereditary 
 rights, and by purchase. 
 
 Fruit is grown in considerable quantities through- 
 out the country, but owing to the difficulties of 
 transport, is not utilized as an export, nor would it 
 probably pay to do so in any case, as no competition 
 could succeed against the large fruit-growing districts 
 of Southern Spain. 
 
 Morocco can be scarcely spoken of as possessing 
 any literature. Perhaps, stored away in the old 
 libraries at Fez and Morocco, are books and manu- 
 scripts of great value, who can tell ? But the only 
 works which can be spoken of as being in circulation 
 are illuminated and other religious books, — for the 
 most part commentaries on the Koran. But though 
 written literature is almost unknown, songs and poems 
 have been handed down from generation to genera- 
 tion. The earlier these poems date from, the less 
 crude they appear to be. 
 
 It would be an interesting study to trace the origin 
 of Moorish poetry, to follow its changes and its 
 intricacies, to be able to put a date to the various 
 epochs at which radical changes have been introduced, 
 
About the Moors. 
 
 335 
 
 or taken place, in its formation ; but such a study 
 would be the work of a lifetime, — the lifetime of one 
 whose knowledge of the different dialects would have 
 to be perfect, in whose power it must lie to travel in 
 out-of-the-way tribes, and there to live the lives of the 
 natives themselves — nor would such a sacrifice on 
 the part of a man ever gain repayment by the dis- 
 covery and translations of the poems. 
 
 There is much poetry in Morocco, from which the 
 rhyme has long since disappeared, but in which the 
 rhythm still remains. 
 
 The subtle turning of a few words gives to some of 
 their poems an undercurrent of passion and love — 
 only half expressed but fully meant — which is 
 possible in no other language ; not that it must 
 for a moment be supposed that there ever existed 
 in Morocco verse of the structural purity of that of 
 “ Saadi,” known now to all men by Sir Edwin Arnold’s 
 beautiful translations, or the “ Omar Khayam,” nor 
 can any of the Moorish work be compared to the 
 “ Sakuntala,” or other early Hindu plays and poems. 
 
 In the small space I can spare here for Moorish 
 literature, I can find no better way of illustrating my 
 purpose than by translating one short poem — if such it 
 can be called, for it is half in verse, and half in prose. 
 
 “ I know a garden so fair, so fair, 
 
 Full of oranges, red and gold, 
 
 And the murmuring streams that are flowing there 
 Tell of love as yet untold. 
 
 “At the gates of Tetuan sat a girl in the hot sun selling 
 oranges, and such were the words she sung. Presently there 
 passed by a youth who perceived how beautiful she was, and 
 oranges he bought from her, and as she counted them out, she 
 
336 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 “ ‘ I know a garden so fair, so fair,’ &c., &c. 
 
 “ Then the youth’s heart beat fast with love, and lifting her in 
 his arms, he cried, 1 Fly with me,’ and she said, ‘ Whither shall 
 we fly? ’ and he sang, — 
 
 “ ‘ To a garden I know, so fair, so fair,’ &c., &c. 
 
 “ So they two fled away, and for days they journeyed till they 
 reached a valley in the Beni M’Sara, ar.d there they found, 
 
 “ A beautiful garden so fair, so fair, 
 
 Full of oranges red and gold, 
 
 And the murmuring streams that are flowing there 
 Saw their love, no more untold.” 
 
 One word as to climate. Morocco is not a suitable 
 country for invalids in the winter. Tangier is the 
 only town in which they can reside, and the absence 
 of roads, and therefore of wheeled vehicles, the heavy 
 rainfall and chilly winds, the bad crossing from 
 Gibraltar on the small steamers that ply from port to 
 port, render Tangier at present anything but a health- 
 resort to confirmed invalids. To any one, however, 
 whose health is sufficiently strong to allow of riding, 
 going out into society or sport, &c., Tangier offers a 
 splendid winter home. The spring is the best time 
 of year to travel in Morocco, and to any one intending 
 to make a journey through the country I should 
 recommend a start to be made in early March, or 
 even later, as the rains are generally over, or nearly 
 over, by that time, and the rivers passable. The 
 summer in Tangier is delightful, seldom is the heat 
 extreme, and the temperature is always several degrees 
 lower than that of Gibraltar, while a cool wind 
 prevails on most days. 
 
 There is little more for me to say on Morocco. I 
 have told my story — for this is not supposed to be a 
 
A bout the Moors. 
 
 337 
 
 book on Morocco, but an account of my travels, 
 extending over many happy months spent in that 
 country. 
 
 I have purposely left out all statistics, I have 
 touched but in the lightest way on the trade and 
 government of the country, nor have I entered into 
 any serious discussion of European politics in the 
 country. 
 
 I have striven only to give to my book as much 
 reality as I can ; I have tried to tell to the best 
 of my ability what I consider most characteristic of 
 the country by sketching out every-day life there. 
 Nor does this book purpose to be a book of explora- 
 tion. My travels in Morocco have always been 
 undertaken merely for pleasure and sport, and for 
 no other reason, and the pleasure I have sought I 
 have also found there. However, to my remark on 
 exploration I make one or two exceptions. My ride 
 to Sheshouan was considered sufficiently of an explor- 
 ing trip to allow of its publication in the “ Proceedings 
 of the Royal Geographical Society,” 1 while my tour 
 in the hill tribes is being honoured with the same 
 distinction . 2 
 
 How to conclude my book I scarcely know. All 
 the time I have been writing it I have been thinking 
 of the moment when I shall lay down my pen, more 
 in sorrow than relief, light a cigarette, and gaze in 
 pride over a pile of manuscript, and now the moment 
 has come. Yet, as far as peroration goes, I could 
 not write one to save my life. Yet there is one duty 
 I must perform, a pleasure rather than a duty, to 
 
 2 August, 1889. 
 
 z 
 
 January, 1889. 
 
338 The Land of an African Sultan. 
 
 offer my heartiest and sincerest thanks to one to 
 whom most of my travels in Morocco are due, to one 
 who has on every occasion in his power helped me 
 by his kind advice, and who put himself to great 
 inconvenience in taking me with him on his official 
 visit to the Sultan of Morocco. Nor is it to him 
 alone that I owe thanks, but also to his wife, whose 
 kindness to me has been boundless, whose home in 
 Morocco has been like a home to me ; ay, I even 
 forgive her the day she made me wear a mustard 
 plaster, with not a single fold of a handkerchief 
 between it and my chest. 
 
 I cannot express in words to how great an extent 
 I am indebted to our Minister to the Court of Morocco, 
 Sir William Kirby-Green, and to Lady Kirby-Green. 
 
 GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., ST. JOHN’S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, LONDON. 
 
MEDITERRANEAN 
 
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 MAP 
 
 illustrating 
 
 M* WALTER B. HARRIS’S 
 TRAVELS IN MOROCCO 
 1887. 1888. 1889. 
 
 Scale of English Milea. 
 
 20 10 O 20 
 
 Author 's Route 
 
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