CHAPTER XI.
Return to Amsmiz — Arround villagers in trouble — Pains and pleasures of a botanist — Ride across the plain — Mzouda — Experiences of a Governor in Marocco — Hospitable chief of Keira — A village in excitement — Arrival at Seksaoua — Fresh difficulties as to our route — A faithful black soldier — Rock vegetation at Seksaoua — Ascent of a neighbouring mountain — View of the Great Atlas — Absence of perpetual snow — Return of our envoy from Mtouga — Pass leading to Tarudant — Native names for the mountains — Milhaïn — Botanising in the rocks.
The morning hours of May 23 were devoted to the necessary work at our collections of the preceding day; but before our departure we once more took a short ramble through the ground surrounding the village. With a single exception, all the plants seen were species common to the Spanish peninsula, two or three being characteristic of Central Spain. Apart from the style of building and the dress of the inhabitants, a stranger transported to the spot might easily suppose himself somewhere in Southern Europe, though closer examination would suggest differences to the naturalist. At noon we started on the way to Amsmiz, halting at the torrent in the bottom of the valley to secure specimens of two very fine and undescribed plants, both very troublesome to the collectors. One was a spiny Genista, with very numerous, stiff, intricate branches; the other a fine thistle, five or six feet high, whose long woolly leaves were beset with sharp, slender, golden spines, fully an inch in length.
Without much further delay, we retraced the track that we had followed on the morning of the 21st. We were once more struck by the remarkable coolness of the climate of this region as compared with somewhat similar positions in higher latitudes on the north and east sides of the Mediterranean. Although the sun at noon now approached within less than 15 degrees of the zenith, the temperature in the shade was pleasantly cool, scarcely rising above 70° F. At the same season, and at a greater height, on the Lebanon we have seen the thermometer stand above 80° in the shade by day, and scarcely fall to 70° at night. This is mainly due to the cool winds that prevail along the coast, and extend some way inland, though not much felt in summer in the city of Marocco. As we rode along the eastern flank of the valley, and down the slopes above Amsmiz, we were pleasantly fanned by a NW. breeze that often lasts throughout the day, but subsides at night.
On the brow of the declivity overlooking Amsmiz, we met a messenger from Arround, our stopping-place at the head of the Aït Mesan valley, come to implore our protection for the unfortunate inhabitants, whose appeal to us had only brought them into fresh trouble. The story had of course been reported to the Vice-Governor (El Graoui’s deputy) with the circumstance of the sacrifice of the sheep. He had resented this attempt to escape from his authority, had had some of the suppliants severely beaten, and sent two more men of the village to prison. It seemed very doubtful whether any interference on our part might not merely aggravate the condition of these unfortunate people. We promised, however, to do what we could for them; and before we left Mogador it was reported, whether truly or falsely, that we had been successful in our intercession.
On returning to our camp at Amsmiz we found work in abundance ready to hand. Our precious collections from the Aït Mesan valley, including, as they did, the most interesting results of our expedition, had been lying for three days untouched; and it was necessary to go through them all again, putting into separate parcels those that were dry and those still requiring pressure between dry paper. With the exception of half an hour given to another interview with the friendly Kaïd of Amsmiz, we were thus occupied until long after midnight. Although our store of drying-paper was large, the demand often exceeded the supply, and many a friendly contest arose as to respective rights of property in parcels of soiled paper, here priceless, which elsewhere would have seemed of no value. Those who have had experience in this line know that the labour of a botanical collector is not light, and in truth it would be almost intolerable if it were not for its compensating pleasures. It often happened that the solitary candle was in use throughout the entire night, Ball working till two o’clock or later, when Hooker would rise, more or less refreshed, and keep up work till daylight.
But in the pursuits of a naturalist there are abundant sources of satisfaction not suspected by the uninitiated. These are not merely derived from the objects themselves, suggesting as they often do interesting trains of thought and speculation; there are further springs of keen enjoyment in the countless impressions with which they are linked by the subtle influence of association. Much of the pleasure that an artist, however unskilled, derives from travel, arises from the power of each sketch to bring back again to the mind the original scene of which it is but the imperfect transcript. If he be active and industrious, he may preserve a dozen such keys to the impressions of each day’s journey. But to the botanist almost every specimen is indissolubly linked in the memory with the spot where it was collected; and as he goes through the produce of his day’s work, every minute detail is vividly presented to the mind, along with the wider background that lay behind the original picture. The wonder and awe that dwell around the mountain fastnesses, the consolation of the forest glade, the indefinable grandeur of the desert plain, nay, even the bleak solitariness of northern moorland and morass—these dominant impressions suggested by the aspects of nature are varied and enriched for the naturalist by the myriad phases of beauty that are disclosed to the eye of the observer. The glory of colour in the gentian and saxifrage and golden Alyssum, and the other bright creatures that haunt the mountain tops; the tender grace of the delicate ferns that dwell in the rocky clefts; the teeming life of the warm woodland; the strange beauty of the unaccustomed forms that spring up in the desert solitudes; the purple glow of the heath relieving the sombreness of the leaden sky, and the delicate structures of the Drosera and Menyanthes, and bog-asphodel, and many another inhabitant of our northern bogs—these and countless other images are instantaneously revived by contact with the specimen that grew beside them. Strangest of all is, perhaps, the enduring nature of this connection. Often does it happen, as many a botanist can testify, that after a lapse of a quarter, nay, even half, a century, the sight of a specimen will bring back the picture, seemingly effaced long ago, of its original home.
We were on foot again at 5.30 A.M., May 24, and the order for departure went forth. But, as usual, there were unexpected causes for delay. Many sick came to invoke Hooker’s medical skill, some trifling presents were to be distributed, and finally word was brought that the Kaïd meant to accompany us for some distance on our day’s journey, and it was necessary to await his appearance. Among the articles provided for presents we had included scissors and needles; but such things, especially the needles, were everywhere disregarded by the natives, whether Moor or Shelluh; and it appeared that the art of sewing, as well as every other occupation requiring the slightest manual dexterity, is—at least in country places—exclusively practised by the Jews; to them, accordingly, such gifts were very welcome. In the larger towns there are, of course, many handicrafts, and notably the making of slippers and boots, practised by the Moors; but such trades are for the most part hereditary in certain families, and the ordinary Moor affects to despise all occupations of the kind.
At half-past eight the Kaïd appeared, mounted on a strong serviceable horse; and, everything being ready, we rode down the steep bank above which stands the town of Amsmiz, and, after following the torrent for a short distance, reascended to about the same level above the left bank. We now found ourselves on the verge of a wide open plain, sloping gently from south to north, and our course to Mzouda—the next stage in our journey—lay a little north of due west, while the outer range of the mountains trended away to S.W. We had been led to suppose that Mzouda lay, like Amsmiz, at the foot of the Great Atlas, and might therefore serve as starting-point for another excursion into its recesses; but it was now clear that it must stand far out in the plain, many miles from the nearest range of hills. We were somewhat comforted, however, by the positive assurance that Seksaoua, the next stopping-place beyond Mzouda, stands close to the mountains at the opening of a considerable valley, and was therefore a promising spot for our purposes.