“But our luggage is booked for Naples,” J. objected. He was eager to push on to his studio in Rome. All the afternoon I had been drawn as by a magnet to the mysterious blue coast of Africa. Here we were at the Pillars of Hercules; should we ever be here again? If an ally had not loomed up at that moment I should never have lived my seven Arabian days and nights. He introduced himself with a sweeping bow.
“I am Ferguson, friend of the Americans. You are from Boston; you live, perhaps, upon the Common? I know the best people there, the Quincys, the Shaws, the Winthrops. I will show you their letters.”
“It is not necessary,” I interrupted, “for I also know Mark Twain, who has told all Americans about you.”
The famous guide of the “Innocents Abroad” seemed to dilate at this, till he shut out the Rock itself. He was an impressive-looking person, tall, handsome, with splendid and seductive manners. He came to my aid, and in ten minutes the matter was settled.
“I will show you Spain. I know what you want; some ladies do not understand traveling, but you shall see everything! Gypsy dances, eh? Palaces, pictures, Seville, Granada? Yes, we will go to Morocco. You shall visit the Sultan’s harem!”
Letters to my mother and sisters give some impressions of that precious stolen week.
[To my Mother.]
Tangier, January 12, 1894.
We took ship at Gibraltar for Morocco, a pleasant sail of not more than three hours. As the steamer drew near the shore a swarm of boats rowed by turbaned Moors came out to meet us. Tangier lies at the foot of a spur of the Atlas Mountains on the edge of an almost circular bay; from the boat it looked like a round white pearl set in a ring of yellow sand. We clambered into a small craft rowed by four Moors and crowded with rival guides and interpreters who fought for us and our possessions. A young Jew, Abraham Levy, won the fight. Ferguson, finding us too small game for his picking, had handed us on to him. We soon found that in Morocco the Jew stands for what in some parts of the world the Christian stands for,—education, intelligence, cleanliness; in a word, the higher civilization. The Moors are a fine race, tall, handsome, with haughty austere faces and a pride of bearing I have yet to see surpassed.
At the city gate our porters laid down our luggage at the feet of three grave Moors dressed in white turbans and bournouses, reclining gracefully in a small cell smoking keef, a mixture of hashish and snuff. No word was spoken; the Moors looked calmly at us and we at them for what seemed a long time. Then the eldest of the trio nodded, the bearers took up our traps and we passed through the gate into the city.