When my family was expected, thinking there was a risk that he might attack them as strangers, I sent the leopard as a gift to the Zoological Gardens. Eight months afterwards, when I was in London on leave of absence, I visited the Gardens, and there I saw ‘Maimon’ lying in a cage. I requested the keeper to allow me to pass the bar in front of the cage to pat the leopard. He replied it was not permitted; but, on telling him I was the donor, he allowed me to cross the barrier, warning me, however, that though the animal was docile, it showed sometimes a surly temper. I approached the cage where the leopard was lying listless in a corner; ‘Ya Maimon, ya habibi, busni.’ ‘Oh, beloved Maimon,’ I cried in Arabic, ‘come and embrace me.’ The animal sprang up and came to the side of the cage, and no doubt would have embraced me if the bars had not stopped him. I put in my hand and stroked his back, whilst he rubbed against the bars of the cage, making a low purring noise. Then I scratched his head, when to my horror he suddenly took my hand in his mouth; but the friendly beast only mumbled, without hurting it, and then let my hand go. A crowd had collected outside to witness the exhibition, so I thought it was time to leave, though I might have gone round with my hat to beg alms for the prisoner. As I left the cage, the leopard watched me with eager eyes, and when some way off I turned to look again, the beast was standing up with his paws on an upper bar, his bright eyes fixed anxiously upon me. During my long life loving eyes have often watched my departure, but none brighter or more anxious than those of my four-footed friend. So we parted, never to meet again, for the leopard was dead when I revisited the Zoological Gardens, after a two years’ absence.
As another instance of this Sultan’s fondness for wild animals Mr. Hay told the following story.
The Master of the Horse at the Moorish Court related to me, that Sultan Mulai Abderahman happened one day to pass through the Court of the palace, mounted on a magnificent white charger, when a lion which H.M. was accustomed to stop and caress, sprang up the side of his horse and placed its paws on the knee of the Sultan. H.M. reined in his steed, which snorted and reared. The Sultan showed no alarm and did not, said the Master of the Horse, change a muscle of his countenance, but turning to the Kaid-el-Meshwa, or Chief Officer of the Court, and putting his hand on the head of the lion to stroke it, inquired ‘How many pounds of meat are given to the lion daily?’ The officer stated the quantity.
‘Let the lion have ten more pounds,’ said His Majesty. The lion’s petition being granted, it quietly dropped off H.M.’s horse and lay down quite pacified.
‘These animals,’ observed the Master of the Horse, ‘understand what is spoken, though they have not the power of speech to tell what they want.’
‘Mashallah!’ I gravely replied.
Many interesting and distinguished persons visited Tangier during Mr. Hay’s long residence there. Amongst these may be mentioned, in 1858, three Royal guests—the Prince of Wales, Prince Alfred and the late Duc d’Orléans. In favour of the Prince of Wales an extraordinary exception was made, and he was admitted to the Basha’s house and there received by the ladies.
Louis Philippe, Duc d’Orléans, was accompanied by his tutor. After introducing H.R.H. to the sights of Tangier, Mr. Hay arranged a boar hunt for him on the Hill. The sport was good; but the object of the hunt was unsuccessful, as the Prince never fired a shot—principally through the mistaken zeal of one of his suite, who, on seeing a pig coming in the direction of the Royal guest, stepped forward and removing his hat exclaimed ‘Mon Prince, voilà le sanglier!’—with the natural result that the pig turned and broke back!
Riding down the rough mountain path afterwards, with Mr. Hay leading the way, the Prince, who was mounted on Mr. Hay’s best pony, soon outstripped with his guide the rest of the party, Mr. Hay’s horses being always selected as good walkers. Commenting on the roughness of the track, the Prince was somewhat astonished to hear Mr. Hay say that he frequently, when out late, cantered down the hills, and H.R.H. inquired eagerly whether the pony he was riding could be trusted to go fast down the broken road, and if so would Mr. Hay gallop down now with him?
Mr. Hay, after a little demur (aware that the sure-footed little Barb, who had often performed the feat, could be trusted), consented: and leading the way, he and the young Prince tore madly down the steep rough path, to the great enjoyment of the latter—though rather to the bewilderment of his worthy tutor, who did not catch sight of his pupil again till they met in the town an hour later.