This gate, or rather Barbican, is a massive structure of sand-stone. The outer front (at right angles to the inner) is built against: the inner stands in its beauty, neither disfigured nor concealed: it is covered with the richest of those figures with which we are familiar, under the name of Moresque, or Arabesque; not moulded in stucco, but carved in stone. All is in ruins, or utterly effaced and levelled, that this circuit of walls was raised to protect. From the platform commanding the entrance of the river, we obtained a perfect idea of the place; and after enjoying for a while the view landward, and the lashing of the sea upon the bar, we proceeded towards the encampments, which lay to the south, to visit the walls of the city. They might seem the ruins of some unheard-of Carthage, rather than of an upstart village on the extreme border of the world. Running in all directions, it is puzzling to make out what they exclude or what they enclose—they are now close—now far off—here intersecting a field—there skirting the horizon. They are of Tapia; some parts are forty feet in height, apparently of excessive thickness, and with square solid towers. At one place they resembled the land wall of Constantinople. The space between the first and second wall is filled with orange-groves or gardens; the produce of some of them is 3,000 dollars (600l.), which would be doubled if the bar were passable. On our way back we were stopped in one of the streets by some horsemen, galloping and discharging their muskets. A little farther on I came suddenly upon Sir F. Palgraves’ likeness, leading a laden ass: a servant was walking behind him doing nothing. The wealthiest disdain not to perform, like the patriarchs, the humblest offices; and I was told that the late governor might have been seen leading his own mules to water.
As we were passing through a narrow lane, the guard stopped and muttered, “El Caïd!” I looked, expecting to see the great man’s cortège, and it was some time before I distinguished the personage pacing along alone, wrapped in his haïk. The soldiers inclined, and saluted in a manner new to me. He stopped for a moment, uttered a few words, and passed on. It seemed as if I had met the proconsul of Mauritania Tangitana. The fasces only were wanting to the Roman toga and the Roman port. On returning home I made inquiry concerning him. The answer was, “He is a just man.” I asked, how then he came to be governor? the answer was, “He was appointed by the Town.” Supposing that my ears had deceived me, I repeated the question, and was answered a second time, “He was appointed by the Town.” The story is as follows:—
A REVOLUTION IN BARBARY.
The Caïd of Rabat, who had enjoyed his office for twelve years, was one day surprised by the entrance of a “deputation,” to tell him that the Town had despatched a messenger to the Sultan to solicit his (the Caïd’s) removal; and that until they received an answer, their civility could extend to no act of obedience. The Caïd retreated up stairs, put his head out of a little top window, and seeing “who and how many” there were, bowed to “public opinion.” The Caïd was deposed, and fined 40,000 dollars. It so happened that the new Caïd sent them, having been before at Salee, was better known than trusted; he, therefore, on his arrival, was informed by the people of Rabat, that they had already despatched to the Sultan an envoy and this message:—“We do not want a stranger to govern us, and particularly not this stranger; we have plenty of our own people who can govern better both for the Sultan and for us.” The complaisant Sultan on this revoked his second appointment, and authorised them to choose a Caïd for themselves. Their first choice fell on a rich merchant named Mike Brittel, who had taken the lead in the revolt: he declined, and recommended the present Caïd, who was thereupon chosen. This had happened within the last few weeks; and the election had been confirmed by the Sultan only since his arrival.
Inquiring as to the security of life and property, I was informed that at Rabat confiscation was not a penalty for treason. Here no real property can be held by the Sultan. At Tangier there is confiscation: the lands there are held of the Sultan, as he came into possession by the evacuation of the English. At Arzela and Mazagan, the Sultan is feudal superior, because these are conquered demesnes. This is our ancient law of treason, based on fealty and homage—as depending upon fief and benefice.
The following conversation occurred with my host:—
Q. Has there been any execution in Salee or Rabat since you have been here?
A. No.
Q. Have there been any assassinations?
A. Four years ago there was a man killed at Rabat.