The Passing of Morocco

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

But things have changed. On the present visit of the Sultan to Rabat he no longer rides out except in great State; and this he does (on the advice partly of that particular Englishman of the wall adventure) every Friday regularly.

In September, while Abdul Aziz was on the road from Fez, hastening to anticipate his brother in getting to this, the war capital of Morocco (where, as the Moors say, the Sultan might listen with both ears, to the North and to the South), public criers from the rival camp of Mulai Hafid declared that Abdul Aziz was coming to the coast to be baptized a Christian under the guns of the infidel men-of-war. But this lie was easy to refute without the humiliation of a deliberate contradiction. Though at Fez it has always been the custom of the Sultan to worship at a private mosque within the grounds of his palace, it is likewise the custom for him at Rabat to go with a great fanfare and all his household and the Maghzen through lines of troops as long as he can muster, to a great public mosque in the open fields between the town’s outer and inner walls.

It was with a party of Europeans, mostly English correspondents, that I went to see the first Selamlik here. In the party there was W. B. Harris of the Times, and Wm. Maxwell of the Mail, as well as Allan Maclean, the brother of the Kaid. We had as an escort two soldiers from the British Consulate, without whom we could not have moved. The soldiers led the way shouting ‘Balak! balak!’ as we rode through the narrow crowded streets. But in all the throng no other Europeans were to be seen, until some way out we met at a cross-road and mingled for a moment with the delegation of French officials and correspondents, bound also for the great show.

Passing the Bab-el-Had, the Gate of Heads (fortunately not decorated at this time), the road led through grassy fields to a height from which is visible the whole palace enclosure. We could see, over the high white walls, the two lines of stacked muskets sweeping away in a long, opening arc from the narrow gate beside the mosque to the numerous doors of the low white-washed palace. Behind the guns the soldiers sat, generally in groups on the grass, only a few having life enough to play at any game. Considerably in the background were groups of women, garbed consistently in white, and heavily veiled.

Our soldiers, always glad to spur a horse, climbed through a break in the cactus that lined the road and led a hard canter down the slight, grassy slope, straight for one of the smaller gates. Two sentries seated on either side, perceiving us, rose nervously, retired and swung the doors in our faces, the rusty bars grating into place as we drew up. Our soldiers shouted, but got no answer, and we rode round to the Bab by the mosque, which could not be closed. As we drew up here a sentinel with arbitrary power let in two negro boys, clad each in a ragged shirt, riding together on a single dwarfed donkey not tall enough to keep their long, black, dangling legs out of the dust. But we could not pass—no; there was no use arguing, we could not pass. Slaves went in and beggars; the man was anxious, and shoved them in—but no; we, we were not French!

While our soldiers argued, the Frenchmen came up and passed in; then the guard, seeing we looked much like them, changed his mind and permitted us, too, to enter.

CHAINED NECK TO NECK—RECRUITS FOR THE SULTAN’S ARMY.

ABDUL AZIZ ENTERING HIS PALACE.