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Morocco, Its People and Places

Morocco, Its People And Places

By

Edmondo De Amicis

Translated by C. Rollin-Tilton

New York

G. P. Butnam's Sons

27 & 29 West 23d Street

1882

General View Of Tangiers.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

CHAPTER I.
TANGIERS.

There are no two countries in the world more entirely different from each other than the two which are separated by the Straits of Gibraltar; and this diversity is peculiarly apparent to the traveller who approaches Tangiers from Gibraltar, where he has left the hurried, noisy, splendid life of a European city. At only three hours’ journey from thence the very name of our continent seems unknown; the word “Christian” signifies enemy; our civilization is ignored, or feared, or derided; all things, from the very foundations of social life to its most insignificant particulars, are changed, and every indication of the neighborhood of Europe has disappeared. You are in an unknown country, having no bonds of interest in it, and every thing to learn. From its shore the European coast can still be seen, but the heart feels itself at an immeasurable distance, as if that narrow tract of sea were an ocean, and those blue mountains an illusion. Within three hours a wonderful transformation has taken place around you.

The emotion, however, which one naturally feels on first setting foot on that immense and mysterious continent, which has moved the imagination since one’s childhood, is disturbed by the manner of disembarkation. Just as we began to see distinctly from the vessel the first white houses of Tangiers, a Spanish lady behind us cried out, in a voice of alarm, “What can all those people want?” I looked, and beheld behind the boats that were coming to take off the passengers, a crowd of half-naked, ragged Arabs, standing up to their hips in the water, and pointing out the ship with eager gestures, like a band of brigands rejoicing over their approaching prey. Not knowing who they were, or what they wanted, I descended with an anxious mind into the boat with the other passengers. When we had come to within twenty paces of the shore all this brick-colored crew swarmed into our boat and laid hands upon us, vociferating in Spanish and Arabic, and making us understand that the water being too low for us to land from the boats, we were to be transported upon their shoulders; which information dissipated our fears of robbery, and imposed in their stead the dread of vermin. The ladies were borne off in triumph upon stools, and I made my entrance into Africa upon the back of an old mulatto, with my chin resting upon his bare skull, and the tips of my toes in the water.

The mulatto, upon reaching the shore, unloaded me into the hands of an Arab porter, who, passing through one of the city gates, led me at a run through a deserted alley to an inn not far off, whence I almost immediately issued again with a guide, and proceeded to the more frequented streets.

I was struck at once, and more forcibly than I can express, with the aspect of the population. They all wear a kind of long white cloak of wool or linen, with a large pointed hood standing upright on the head, so that the city has the aspect of a vast convent of Dominican friars. Of all this cloaked company some are moving slowly, gravely, and silently about, as if they wished to pass unobserved; others are seated or crouched against the walls, in front of the shops, in corners of the houses, motionless and with fixed gaze, like the petrified populations of their legends. The walk, the attitude, the look, all are new and strange to me, revealing an order of sentiment and habit quite different from our own, another manner of considering time and life. These people do not seem to be occupied in any way, nor are they thinking of the place they are in, or of what is going on about them. All the faces wear a deep and dreamy expression, as if they were dominated by some fixed idea, or thinking of far-distant times and places, or dreaming with their eyes open. I had hardly entered the crowd when I was aware of a peculiar odor, one quite unknown to me among Europeans; it was not agreeable, and yet I began to inhale it with a vivid curiosity, as if it might explain some things to me. As I went on, the crowd, which at a distance had seemed uniform, presented many varieties. There passed before me faces white, black, yellow, and bronze; heads ornamented with long tresses of hair, and bare skulls as shining as metallic balls; men as dry as mummies; horrible old men; women with the face and entire person wrapped in formless rags; children with long braids pendant from the crown of the otherwise bare head; faces of sultans, savages, necromancers, anchorites, bandits; people oppressed by an immense sadness or a mortal weariness; none smiling, but moving one behind the other with slow and silent steps, like a procession of spectres in a cemetery. I passed through other streets, and saw that the city corresponded in every way to the population. It is a labyrinth of crooked lanes, or rather corridors, bordered by little square houses of dazzling whiteness, without windows, and with little doors through which one person can pass with difficulty,—houses which seem made to hide in rather than live in, with a mixed aspect of convent and prison. In many of the streets there is nothing to be seen save the white walls and the blue sky; here and there some small Moorish arch, some arabesque window, some strip of red at the base of a wall, some figure of a hand painted in black beside a door, to keep off evil influences. Almost all the streets are encumbered with rotten vegetables, feathers, rags, bones, and in some places dead dogs and cats, infecting the air. For long distances you meet no one but a group of Arab boys in pointed hoods, playing together, or chanting in nasal tones some verses from the Koran; or a crouching beggar, a Moor riding on a mule, an overloaded ass with bleeding back, driven by a half-naked Arab; some tailless mangy dog, or cat of fabulous meagreness. Transient odors of garlic, fish, or burning aloes salute you as you pass; and so you make the circuit of the city, finding everywhere the same dazzling whiteness, the same air of mystery, sadness, and ennui.

Coming out upon the only square that Tangiers can boast, which is cut by one long street that begins at the shore and crosses the whole town, you see a rectangular place, surrounded by shops that would be mean in the poorest of our villages. On one side there is a fountain constantly surrounded by blacks and Arabs drawing water in jars and gourds; on the other side sit all day long on the ground eight or ten muffled women selling bread. Around this square are the very modest houses of the different Legations, which rise like palaces from the midst of the confused multitude of Moorish huts. Here in this spot is concentrated all the life of Tangiers,—the life of a large village. The one tobacconist is here, the one apothecary, the one café,—a dirty room with a billiard-table,—and the one solitary corner where a printed notice may be sometimes seen. Here gather the half-naked street-boys, the rich and idle Moorish gentlemen, Jews talking about their business, Arab porters awaiting the arrival of the steamer, attachés of the Legations expecting the dinner-hour, travellers just arrived, interpreters, and impostors of various kinds. The courier arriving from Fez or Morocco with orders from the Sultan is to be met here; and the servant coming from the post, with his hands full of journals from London and Paris; the beauty of the harem and the wife of the minister; the Bedouin’s camel and the lady’s lapdog; the turban and the chimney-pot hat; and the sound of a piano from the windows of a consulate mingles with the lamentation chant from the door of a mosque. It is the point where the last wave of European civilization is lost in the great dead sea of African barbarism.

From the square we went up the main street, and passing by two old gates, came out at twilight beyond the walls of the town, and found ourselves in an open space on the side of a hill called Soc-de-Barra, or exterior market, because a market is held there every Sunday and Thursday. Of all the places that I saw in Morocco this is perhaps the one that impressed me most deeply with the character of the country. It is a tract of bare ground rough and irregular, with the tumble-down tomb of a saint, composed of four white walls, in the midst. Upon the top there is a cemetery, with a few aloes and Indian figs growing here and there; below are the turreted walls of the town. Near the gate, on the ground, sat a group of Arab women, with heaps of green-stuff before them; a long file of camels crouched about the saint’s tomb; farther on were some black tents, and a circle of Arabs seated around an old man erect in their midst, who was telling a story; horses and cows here and there; and above, among the stones and mounds of the cemetery, other Arabs, motionless as statues, their faces turned toward the city, their whole person in shadow, and the points of their hoods standing out against the golden twilight sky. A sad and silent peacefulness seemed to brood over the scene, such as cannot be described in words, but ought rather to be distilled into the ear drop by drop, like a solemn secret.

The guide awoke me from my reverie and re-conducted me to my inn, where my discomfiture at finding myself among strangers was much mitigated when I discovered that they were all Europeans and Christians, dressed like myself. There were about twenty persons at table, men and women, of different nationalities, presenting a fine picture of that crossing of races and interlacing of interests which go on in that country. Here was a Frenchman born in Algiers married to an Englishwoman from Gibraltar; there, a Spaniard of Gibraltar married to the sister of the Portuguese Consul; here again, an old Englishman with a daughter born in Tangiers and a niece native of Algiers; families wandering from one continent to the other, or sprinkled along the coast, speaking five languages, and living partly like Arabs, partly like Europeans. All through dinner a lively conversation went on, now in French, now in Spanish, studded with Arabic words, upon subjects quite strange to the ordinary talk of Europeans: such as the price of a camel; the salary of a pasha; whether the sultan were white or mulatto; if it were true that there had been brought to Fez twenty heads from the revolted province of Garet; when those religious fanatics who eat a live sheep were likely to come to Tangiers; and other things of the same kind that aroused within my soul the greatest curiosity. Then the talk ran upon European politics, with that odd disconnectedness that is always perceptible in the discussions of people of different nations—those big, empty phrases which they use in talking of the politics of distant countries, imagining absurd alliances and impossible wars. And then came the inevitable subject of Gibraltar—the great Gibraltar, the centre of attraction for all the Europeans along the coast, where their sons are sent to study, where they go to buy clothes, to order a piece of furniture, to hear an opera, to breathe a mouthful of the air of Europe. Finally came up the subject of the departure of the Italian embassy for Fez, and I had the pleasure of hearing that the event was of far greater importance than I had supposed; that it was discussed at Gibraltar, at Algeziras, Cadiz, and Malaga, and that the caravan would be a mile long; that there were several Italian painters with the embassy, and that perhaps there might even be a representative of the press—at which intelligence I rose modestly from the table, and walked away with majestic steps.

I wandered about Tangiers at a late hour that night. There was not a single light in street or window, nor did the faintest radiance stream through any loop-hole; the city seemed uninhabited, the white houses lay under the starlight like tombs, and the tops of the minarets and palm-trees stood out clear against the cloudless sky. The gates of the city were closed, and every thing was mute and lifeless. Two or three times my feet entangled themselves in something like a bundle of rags, which proved to be a sleeping Arab. I trod with disgust upon bones that cracked under my feet, and knew them for the carcase of a dog or cat; a hooded figure glided like a spectre close to the wall; another gleamed white for one instant at the bottom of an alley; and at a turning I heard a sudden rush and scamper, as if I had unwittingly disturbed some consultation. My own footstep when I moved, my own breathing when I stood still, were the only sounds that broke the stillness. It seemed as if all the life in Tangiers were concentrated in myself, and that if I were to give a sudden cry it would resound from one end of the city to the other like the blast of a trumpet. Meantime the moon rose, and shone upon the white walls with the splendor of an electric light. In a dark alley I met a man with a lantern, who stood aside to let me pass, murmuring some words that I did not understand. Suddenly a loud laugh made my blood run cold for an instant, and two young men in European dress went by in conversation; probably two attachés to the Legations. In a corner of the great square, behind the looped-up curtain of a dark little shop, a dim light betrayed a heap of whitish rags, from which issued the faint tinkle of a guitar, and a thin, tremulous, lamentable voice, that seemed brought by the wind from a great distance. I went back to my inn, feeling like a man who finds himself transported into some other planet.

The next morning I went to present myself to our chargé d’affaires, Commendatore Stefano Scovasso. He could not accuse me of not being punctual. On the 8th of April, at Turin, I received the invitation, with the announcement that the caravan would leave Tangiers on the 19th. On the morning of the 18th I was at the Legation. I did not know Signor Scovasso personally, but I knew something about him which inspired me with a great desire to make his acquaintance. From one of his friends whom I had seen before leaving Turin, I had heard that he was a man capable of riding from Tangiers to Timbuctoo without any other companions than a pair of pistols. Another friend had blamed his inveterate habit of risking his life to save the lives of others. When I arrived at the Legation I found him standing at the gate in the midst of a crowd of Arabs, all motionless, in attitudes of profound respect, seemingly awaiting his orders. Presenting myself, and being at once made a guest at head-quarters, I learned that our departure was deferred till the 1st of May, because there was an English embassy at Fez, and our horses, camels, mules, and a cavalry escort for the journey, were all to be sent from there. A transport-ship of our military marine, the Dora, then anchored at Gibraltar, had already carried to Larrace, on the Atlantic coast, the presents which King Victor Emanuel had sent to the Emperor of Morocco. The principal scope of our journey for the chargé d’affaires was to present credentials to the young Sultan, Muley el Hassen, who had ascended the throne in September, 1873. No Italian embassy had ever been at Fez, and the banner of United Italy had never before been carried into the interior of Morocco. Consequently, the embassy was to be received with extraordinary solemnities.

My first occupation when I found myself alone was to take observations of the house where I was to be a guest; and truly it was well worthy of notice. Not that the building itself was at all remarkable. White and bare without, it had a garden in front, and an interior court, with four columns supporting a covered gallery that ran all around the first floor. It was like a gentleman’s house at Cadiz or Seville. But the people and their manner of life in this house were all new to me. Housekeeper and cook were Piedmontese; there was a Moorish woman-servant of Tangiers, and a Negress from the Soudan with bare feet; there were Arab waiters and grooms dressed in white shirts; consular guards in fez, red caftan, and poignard; and all these people were in perpetual motion all day long. At certain hours there was a coming and going of black porters, interpreters, soldiers of the pasha, and Moors in the service of the Legation. The court was full of boxes, camp-beds, carpets, lanterns. Hammers and saws were in full cry, and the strange names of Fatima, Racma, Selam, Mohammed, Abd-er-Rhaman flew from mouth to mouth. And what a hash of languages! A Moor would bring a message in Arabic to another Moor, who transmitted it in Spanish to the housekeeper, who repeated it in Piedmontese to the cook, and so on. There was a constant succession of translations, comments, mistakes, doubts, mingled with Italian, Spanish, and Arabic exclamations. In the street, a procession of horses and mules; before the door, a permanent group of curious lookers-on, or poor wretches, Arabs and Jews, patient aspirants for the protection of the Legation. From time to time came a minister or a consul, before whom all the turbans and fezes bowed themselves. Every moment some mysterious messenger, some unknown and strange costume, some remarkable face, appeared. It seemed like a theatrical representation, with the scene laid in the East.

My next thought was to take possession of some book of my host’s that should teach me something of the country I was in, before beginning to study costume. This country, shut in by the Mediterranean, Algeria, the desert of Sahara, and the ocean, crossed by the great chain of the Atlas, bathed by wide rivers, opening into immense plains, with every variety of climate, endowed with inestimable riches in all the three kingdoms of nature, destined by its position to be the great commercial high-road between Europe and Central Africa, is now occupied by about 8,000,000 of inhabitants—Berbers, Moors, Arabs, Jews, Negroes, and Europeans—sprinkled over a vaster extent of country than that of France. The Berbers, who form the basis of the indigenous population—a savage, turbulent, and indomitable race—live on the inaccessible mountains of the Atlas, in almost complete independence of the imperial authority. The Arabs, the conquering race, occupy the plains—a nomadic and pastoral people, not entirely degenerated from their ancient haughty character. The Moors, corrupted and crossed by Arab blood, are in great part descended from the Moors of Spain, and, inhabiting the cities, hold in their hands the wealth, trade, and commerce of the country. The blacks, about 500,000, originally from the Soudan, are generally servants, laborers, and soldiers. The Jews, almost equal in number to the blacks, descend, for the most part, from those who were exiled from Europe in the Middle Ages, and are oppressed, hated, degraded, and persecuted here more than in any other country in the world. They exercise various arts and trades, and in a thousand ways display the ingenuity, pliability, and tenacity of their race, finding in the possession of money torn from their oppressors a recompense for all their woes. The Europeans whom Mussulman intolerance has, little by little, driven from the interior of the empire toward the coast, number less than 2,000 in all Morocco, the greater part inhabiting Tangiers, and living under the protection of the consular flags. This heterogeneous, dispersed, and irreconcilable population is oppressed rather than protected by a military government that, like a monstrous leech, sucks out all the vital juices from the State. The tribes and boroughs, or suburbs, obey their sheiks; the cities and provinces the cadi; the greater provinces the pasha; and the pasha obeys the Sultan—grand schereef, high priest, supreme judge, executor of the laws emanating from himself, free to change at his caprice money, taxes, weights and measures; master of the possessions and lives of his subjects. Under the weight of this government, and within the inflexible circle of the Mussulman religion, unmoved by European influences, and full of a savage fanaticism, everything that in other countries moves and progresses, here remains motionless or falls into ruin.

Commerce is choked by monopolies, by prohibitions upon exports and imports, and by the capricious mutability of the laws. Manufactures, restricted by the bonds laid upon commerce, have remained as they were at the time of the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, with the same primitive tools and methods. Agriculture, loaded heavily with taxes, hampered in exportation of produce, and only exercised from sheer necessity, has fallen so low as no longer to merit the name. Science, suffocated by the Koran, and contaminated by superstition, is reduced to a few elements in the higher schools, such as were taught in the Middle Ages. There are no printing-presses, no books, no journals, no geographical maps; the language itself, a corruption of the Arabic, and represented only by an imperfect and variable written character, is becoming yearly more debased; in the general decadence the national character is corrupted; all the ancient Mussulman civilization is disappearing. Morocco, the last western bulwark of Islamism, once the seat of a monarchy that ruled from the Ebro to the Soudan, and from the Niger to the Balearic Isles, glorious with flourishing universities, with immense libraries, with men famous for their learning, with formidable fleets and armies, is now nothing but a small and almost unknown state, full of wretchedness and ruin, resisting with its last remaining strength the advance of European civilization, seated upon its foundations still, but confronted by the reciprocal jealousies of civilized states.

As for Tangiers, the ancient Tingis, which gave its name to Tingistanian Mauritania, it passed successively from the hands of the Romans into those of the Vandals, Greeks, Visigoths, Arabs, Portugese, and English, and is now a city of about 15,000 inhabitants, considered by its sister cities as having been “prostituted to the Christians,” although there are no traces of the churches and monasteries founded by the Portugese, and the Christian religion boasts there but one small chapel, hidden away among the legations.

I made in the streets of Tangiers a few notes, in preparation for my journey, and they are given here, because, having been written down under the impression of the moment, they are perhaps more effective than a more elaborate description.

I am ashamed when I pass a handsome Moor in gala dress. I compare my ugly hat with his large muslin turban, my short jacket with his ample white or rose-colored caftan—the meanness, in short, of my black and gray garments with the whiteness, the amplitude, the graceful dignified simplicity of his—and it seems to me that I look like a black beetle beside a butterfly. I stand sometimes at my window in contemplation before a portion of a pair of crimson drawers and a gold-colored slipper, appearing from behind a column in the square below, and find so much pleasure in it that I cannot cease from gazing. More than any thing else I admire and envy the caic, that long piece of snow-white wool or silk with transparent stripes which is twisted round the turban, falls down between the shoulders, is passed round the waist, and thrown up over one shoulder, whence it descends to the feet, softly veiling the rich colors of the dress beneath, and at every breath of wind swelling, quivering, floating, seeming to glow in the sun’s rays, and giving to the whole person a vaporous and visionary aspect.

No one who has not seen it can imagine to what a point the Arab carries the art of lying down. In corners where we should be embarrassed to place a bag of rags or a bundle of straw, he disposes of himself as upon a bed of down. He adapts himself to the protuberances, fills up the cavities, spreads himself upon the wall like a bas-relief, and flattens himself out upon the ground until he looks like a sheet spread out to dry. He will assume the form of a ball, a cube, or a monster without arms, legs, or head; so that the streets and squares look like battle-fields strewn with corpses and mutilated trunks of men.

The greater part have nothing on but a simple white mantle; but what a variety there is among them! Some wear it open, some closed, some drawn on one side, some folded over the shoulder, some tightly wrapped, some loosely floating, but always with an air; varied by picturesque folds, falling in easy but severe lines, as if they were posing for an artist. Every one of them might pass for a Roman senator. This very morning our artist discovered a marvellous Marcus Brutus in the midst of a group of Bedouins. But if one is not accustomed to wear it, the face is not sufficient to ennoble the folds of the mantle. Some of us bought them for the journey, and tried them on, and we looked like so many convalescents wrapped in bathing-sheets.

I have not yet seen among the Arabs a hunchback, or a lame man, or a rickety man, but many without a nose and without an eye, one or both, and the greater part of these with the empty orbit—a sight which made me shiver when I thought that possibly the globe had been torn out in virtue of the lex talionis, which is in vigor in the empire. But there is no ridiculous ugliness among these strange and terrible figures. The flowing ample vesture conceals all small defects, as the common gravity and the dark, bronzed skin conceals the difference of age. In consequence of this one encounters at every step men of indefinable age, of whom one cannot guess whether they are old or young; and if you judge them old, a lightning smile reveals their youth; and if you think them young, the hood falls back and betrays the gray locks of age.

The Jews of this country have the same features as those of our own, but their taller stature, darker complexion, and, above all, their picturesque attire, make them appear quite different. They wear a dress in form very like a dressing-gown, of various colors, generally dark, bound round the waist with a red girdle; a black cap, wide trousers that come a little below the skirts of the coat, and yellow slippers. It is curious to see what a number of dandies there are among them dressed in fine stuffs, with embroidered shirts, silken sashes, and rings and chains of gold; but they are handsome, dignified-looking men, always excepting those who have adopted the black frock-coat and chimney-pot hat. There are some pretty faces among the boys, but the sort of dressing-gown in which they are wrapped is not generally becoming at their age. It seems to me that there is no exaggeration in the reports of the beauty of the Jewesses of Morocco, which has a character of its own unknown in other countries. It is an opulent and splendid beauty, with large black eyes, broad low forehead, full red lips, and statuesque form,—a theatrical beauty that looks well from a distance, and produces applause rather than sighs in the beholder. The Hebrew women of Tangiers do not wear in public their rich national costume; they are dressed almost like Europeans, but in such glaring colors—blue, carmine, sulphur yellow, and grass-green—that they look like women wrapped in the flags of all nations. On the Saturdays, when they are in all their glory, the Jewish quarter presents a marked contrast to the austere solitude of the other streets.

The little Arab boys amuse me. Even those small ones who can scarcely walk are robed in the white mantle, and with their high-pointed hoods they look like perambulating extinguishers. The greater part of them have their heads shaven as bare as your hand, except a braided lock about a foot long pendent from the crown which looks as if it were left on purpose to hang them up by on nails, like puppets. Some few have the lock behind one ear or over the temple, with a bit of hair cut in a square or triangular form, the distinctive mark of the last born in the family. In general they have pretty, pale little faces, erect, slender bodies, and an expression of precocious intelligence. In the more frequented parts of the city they take no notice of Europeans; in the other parts they content themselves with looking intently at them with an air which says, “I do not like you.” Here and there is one who would like to be impertinent; it glitters in his eye and quivers on his lip; but rarely does he allow it to escape, not so much out of respect for the Nazarene as out of fear of his father, who stands in awe of the Legations. In any case the sight of a small coin will quiet them. But it will not do to pull their braided tails. I indulged myself once in giving a little pluck at a small image about a foot high, and he turned upon me in a fury, spluttering out some words which my guide told me meant, “May God roast your grandfather, accursed Christian!”

I have at last seen two saints,—that is to say, idiots or lunatics, because throughout all North Africa that man from whom God, in sign of predilection, has withdrawn his reason to keep it a prisoner in heaven, is venerated as a saint. The first one was in the main street, in front of a shop. I saw him from a distance and stayed my steps, for I knew that all things are allowed to saints, and had no desire to be struck on the back of the neck with a stick, like M. Sourdeau, the French consul, or to have the saint spit in my face, as happened to Mr. Drummond Hay. But the interpreter who was with me assured me that there was no danger now, for the saints of Tangiers had learned a lesson since the Legations had made some examples, and in any case the Arabs themselves would serve me as a shield, since they did not wish the saint to get into trouble. So I went on and passed before the scarecrow, observing him attentively. He was an old man, all face, very fat, with very long white hair, a beard descending on his breast, a paper crown upon his head, a ragged red mantle on his shoulders, and in his hand a small lance with gilded point. He sat on the ground with crossed legs, his back against a wall, looking at the passers-by with a discontented expression. I stopped before him; he looked at me. “Now,” thought I, “he will throw his lance.” But the lance remained quiet, and I was astonished at the tranquil and intelligent look in his eyes, and a cunning smile that seemed to gleam within them. They said, “Ah! you think I am going to make a fool of myself by attacking you, do you?” He was certainly one of those impostors who, having all their reason, feign madness in order to enjoy saintly privileges. I threw him some money, which he picked up with an air of affected indifference, and going on my way presently met another. This was a real saint. He was a mulatto, almost entirely naked, and less than human in visage, covered with filth from head to foot, and so thin that he seemed a walking skeleton. He was moving slowly along, carrying with difficulty a great white banner, which the street-boys ran to kiss, and accompanied by another poor wretch who begged from shop to shop, and two noisy rascals with drum and trumpet. As I passed near him he showed me the white of his eye, and stopped. I thought he seemed to be preparing something in his mouth, and stepped nimbly aside. “You were right,” said the interpreter; “because if he had spat on you, the only consolation you would have got from the Arabs would have been, 'Do not wipe it off, fortunate Christian! Thou art blessed that the saint has spat in thy face! Do not put away the sign of God’s benevolence!’”

This evening I have for the first time really heard Arab music. In the perpetual repetition of the same notes, always of a melancholy cast, there is something that gradually touches the soul. It is a kind of monotonous lamentation that finally takes possession of the thoughts, like the murmur of a fountain, the cricket’s chirp, and the beat of hammers upon anvils, such as one hears in the evening when passing near a village. I feel compelled to meditate upon it, and find out the signification of those eternal words for ever sounding in my ears. It is a barbaric music, full of simplicity and sweetness, that carries me back to primitive conditions, revives my infantile memories of the Bible, recalls to mind forgotten dreams, fills me with curiosity about countries and peoples unknown, transports me to great distances amid groves of strange trees, with a group of aged priests bending about a golden idol; or in boundless plains, in solemn solitudes, behind weary caravans of travellers that question with their eyes the burning horizon, and with drooping heads commend themselves to God. Nothing about me so fills me with a yearning desire to see my own country and my people as these few notes of a weak voice and tuneless guitar.

The oddest things in the world are the Moorish shops. They are one and all a sort of alcove about a yard high, with an opening to the street, where the buyer stands as at a window, leaning against the wall. The shopman is within, seated cross-legged; with a portion of his merchandise before him, and the rest on little shelves behind. The effect of these bearded old Moors, motionless as images in their dark holes, is very strange. It seems themselves, and not their goods, that are on exhibition, like the “living phenomena” of country fairs. Are they alive, or made of wood; and where is the handle to set them in motion? The air of solitude, weariness, and sadness, that hangs about them is indescribable. Every shop seems a tomb, where the occupant, already separated from the living world, silently awaits his death.

I have seen two children led in triumph after the solemn ceremony of circumcision. One was about six, and the other five years old. They were both seated upon a white mule, and were dressed in red, green, and yellow garments, embroidered with gold, and covered with ribbons and flowers, from which their little pallid faces looked forth, still wearing an expression of terror and amazement. Before the mule, which was gaily caparisoned and hung with garlands, went three drummers, a piper, and a cornet-player, making all the noise they could; to the right and left walked friends and parents, one of whom held the little ones firm in the saddle, while others gave them sweetmeats and caresses, and others, again, fired off guns, and leaped and shouted. If I had not already known what it meant, I should have thought that the two poor babies were victims being carried to the sacrifice; and yet the spectacle was not without a certain picturesqueness.

Festival Of The Circumcision.

This evening I have been present at a singular metamorphosis of Racma, the minister’s black slave. Her companion came to call me, and conducted me on tip-toe to a door, which she suddenly threw open, exclaiming, “Behold Racma!” I could scarcely believe my eyes, for there stood the negress, whom I had been accustomed to see only in her common working dress, arrayed like the Queen of Timbuctoo, or a princess from some unknown African realm, brought thither on the miraculous carpet of Bisnagar. As I saw her only for a moment, I cannot say exactly how she was dressed. There was a gleam of snowy white, a glow of purple and crimson, and a shine of gold, under a large transparent veil, which, together with her ebony blackness of visage, composed a whole of barbaric magnificence and the richest harmony of color. As I drew near to observe more closely, all the pomp and splendor vanished under the gloomy Mohammedan sheet-like mantle, and the queen, transformed into a spectre, glided away, leaving behind her a nauseous odor of black savage which destroyed all my illusions.

Hearing a great outcry in the square, I looked out of my window and saw passing by a negro, naked to the waist and seated upon an ass, accompanied by some Arabs armed with sticks, and followed by a troop of yelling boys. At first I thought it some frolic, and took my opera-glass to look; but I turned away with a shudder. The white drawers of the negro were all stained with blood that dropped from his back, and the Arabs were soldiers who were beating him with sticks. He had stolen a hen. “Lucky fellow,” said my informant; “it appears they will let him off without cutting off his right hand.”

I have been seven days at Tangiers, and have not yet seen an Arab woman’s face, I seem to be in some monstrous masquerade, where all the women represent ghosts, wrapped in sepulchral sheets or shrouds. They walk with long, slow steps, a little bent forward, covering their faces with the end of a sort of linen mantle, under which they have nothing but a long chemise with wide sleeves, bound round the waist by a cord like a friar’s frock. Nothing of them is visible but the eyes, the hand that covers the face, the fingers tinted with henna, and the bare feet, the toes also tinted, in large yellow slippers. The greater part of them display only one eye, which is dark, and a small bit of yellowish-white forehead. Meeting a European in a narrow street, some of them cover the whole face with a rapid, awkward movement, and shrink close to the wall; others venture a timid glance of curiosity; and now and then one will launch a provoking look, and drop her eyes smiling. But in general they wear a sad, weary, and oppressed aspect. The little girls, who are not of an age to be veiled, are pretty, with black eyes, full faces, pale complexions, red lips, and small hands and feet. But at twenty they are faded, at thirty old, and at fifty decrepit.

I know now who are those fair-haired men, with ill-omened visages, who pass me sometimes in the streets, and look at me with such threatening eyes. They are those Rifans, Berbers by race, who have no law beyond their guns, and recognize no authority. Audacious pirates, sanguinary bandits, eternal rebels, who inhabit the mountains of the coast of Tetuan, on the Algerian frontier, whom neither the cannon of European ships nor the armies of the Sultan have ever been able to dislodge; the population, in short, of that famous Rif, where no foreigner may dare to set his foot, unless under the protection of the saints and the sheikhs; about whom all sorts of terrible legends are rife; and the neighboring peoples speak vaguely of their country, as of one far distant and unknown. They are often seen in Tangiers. They are tall and robust men, dressed in dark mantles, bordered with various colors. Some have their faces ornamented with yellow arabesques. All are armed with very long guns, whose red cases they twist about their heads like turbans; and they go in companies, speaking low, and looking about them from under their brows, like bravoes in search of a victim. In comparison with them, the wildest Arab seems a life-long friend.

We were at dinner in the evening, when some gunshots were heard from the square. Everybody ran to see, and from the distance a strange spectacle was visible. The street leading to the Soc-de-Barra was lighted up by a number of torches carried above the heads of a crowd that surrounded a large box or trunk, borne on the back of a horse. This enigmatical procession went slowly onward, accompanied by melancholy music, and a sort of nasal chant, piercing yells, the barking of dogs, and the discharge of muskets. I speculated for a moment as to whether the box contained a corpse, or a man condemned to death, or a monster, or some animal destined for the sacrifice, and then turned away with a sense of repugnance, when my friends, coming in, gave me the explanation of the enigma. It was a wedding procession, and the bride was in the box, being carried to her husband’s house.

A throng of Arabs, men and women, have just gone by, preceded by six old men carrying large banners of various colors, and all together singing in high shrill voices a sort of prayer, with woful faces and supplicating tones. In answer to my question, I am told that they are entreating Allah to send the grace of rain. I followed them to the principal mosque, and not being then aware that Christians are prohibited from entering a mosque, was about to do so, when an old Arab suddenly flew at me, and saying in breathless accents something equivalent to, “What would you do, unhappy wretch?” pushed me back against the wall, with the action of one who removes a child from the edge of a precipice. I was obliged to content myself with looking at the outside only of the sacred edifice, not much grieved, since I had seen the splendid and gigantic mosques of Constantinople, to be excluded from those of Tangiers, which, with the exception of the minarets, are without any architectural merit. Whilst I stood there, a woman behind the fountain in the court made a gesture at me. I might record that she blew me a kiss, but truth compels me to state that she shook her fist at me.

I have been up to the Casba, or castle, posted upon a hill that dominates Tangiers. It is a cluster of small buildings, encircled by old walls, where the authorities, with some soldiers, and prisoners are housed. We found no one but two drowsy sentinels seated before the gate, at the end of a deserted square, and some beggars stretched on the ground, scorched by the sun, and devoured by flies. From hence the eye embraces the whole of Tangiers, which extends from the foot of the hill of the Casba, and runs up the flanks of another hill. The sight is almost dazzled by so much snowy whiteness, relieved only here and there by the green of a fig-tree imprisoned between wall and wall. One can see the terraces of all the houses, the minarets of the mosques, the flags of the Legations, the battlements of the walls, the solitary beach, the deserted bay, the mountains of the coast—a vast, silent, and splendid spectacle, which would relieve the sting of the heaviest homesickness. Whilst I stood in contemplation, a voice, coming from above, struck upon my ear, acute and tremulous, and with a strange intonation. It was not until after some minutes’ search that I discovered upon the minaret of the mosque of the Casba, a small black spot, the muezzin, who was calling the faithful to prayer, and throwing out to the four winds of heaven the names of Allah and Mahomet. Then the melancholy silence reigned once more.

It is a calamity to have to change money in this country. I gave a French franc to a tobacconist, who was to give me back ten sous in change. The ferocious Moor opened a box and began to throw out handfuls of black, shapeless coins, until there was a heap big enough for an ordinary porter, counted it all quickly over, and waited for me to put it in my pocket. “Excuse me,” said I, trying to get back my franc, “I am not strong enough to buy any thing in your shop.” However, we arranged matters by my taking more cigars, and carrying off a pocketful of that horrible money. It appears that it is called flu, and is made of copper, worth one centime apiece now, and sinking every day in value. Morocco is inundated with it, and one need not inquire further when one knows that the Government pays with this money, but receives nothing but gold and silver. But every evil has its good side they say, and these flu, bane of commerce as they are, have the inestimable virtue of preserving the people of Morocco from the evil eye, thanks to the so-called rings of Solomon, a six-pointed star engraven on one side—an image of the real ring buried in the tomb of the great king, who, with it, commanded the good and evil genii.

There is but one public promenade, and that is the beach, which extends from the city to Cape Malabat, a beach covered with shells and refuse thrown up by the sea, and having numerous large pieces of water, difficult to guard against at high tide. Here are the Champs Elysées and the Cascine of Tangiers. The hour for walking is the evening toward sunset. At that time there are generally about fifty Europeans, in groups and couples, scattered at a hundred paces’ distance from each other, so that from the walls of the city individuals are easily recognized. I can see from my stand-point an English lady on horseback, accompanied by a guide; beyond, two Moors from the country; then come the Spanish Consul and his wife, and after them a saint; then a French nurse-maid with two children; then a number of Arab women wading through a pool, and uncovering their knees—the better to cover their faces; and further on, at intervals, a tall hat, a white hood, a chignon, and some one who must be the secretary of the Portuguese Legation, wearing the light trowsers that came yesterday from Gibraltar—for in this small European colony the smallest events are public property. If it were not disrespectful, I should say that they look like a company of condemned criminals out for a regulation walk, or hostages held by the pirates of a savage island, on the lookout for the vessel that is to bring their ransom.

It is infinitely easier to find your way in London than among this handful of houses that could all be put in one corner of Hyde Park. All these lanes, and alleys, and little squares, where one has scarcely room to pass, are so exactly like each other that nothing short of the minutest observation can enable you to distinguish one from the other. At present, I lose myself the very instant that I leave the main street and the principal square. In one of these silent corridors, in full daylight, two Arabs could bind and gag me, and cause me to vanish for ever from the face of the earth, without any one, save themselves, being the wiser. And yet a Christian can wander alone through this labyrinth, among these barbarians, with greater security than in our cities. A few European flags erected over a terrace, like the menacing index finger of a hidden hand, are sufficient to obtain that which a legion of armed men cannot obtain among us. What a difference between London and Tangiers! But each city has its own advantages. There, there are great palaces and underground railways, here, you can go into a crowd with your overcoat unbuttoned.

There is not in all Tangiers either cart or carriage; you hear no clang of bell, nor cry of itinerant vendor, nor sound of busy occupation; you see no hasty movement of persons or of things; even Europeans, not knowing what to do with themselves, stay for hours motionless in the square; every thing reposes and invites to repose. I myself, who have been here only a few days, begin to feel the influence of this soft and somnolent existence. Getting as far as the Soc-de-Barra, I am irresistibly impelled homeward; I read ten pages, and the book falls from my hand; if once I let my head fall back upon the easy chair, it is all over with me, and the very thought of care or occupation is sufficient to fatigue me. This sky, for ever blue, and this snow-white city form an image of unalterable peace, which, even with its monotony, becomes, little by little, the supreme end of life to all who inhabit this country.

Mahomet.

Among the numerous figures that buzzed about the doors of the Legation, there was a young Moor who had from the first attracted my eye; one of the handsomest men whom I saw in Morocco; tall and slender, with dark, melancholy eyes, and the sweetest of smiles; the face of an enamoured Sultan, whom Danas, the malign genius of the “Arabian Nights,” might have placed beside the Princess Badoura, instead of Prince Camaralzaman, sure that she would have made no objection to the change. He was called Mahomet, was eighteen years of age, and the son of a well-to-do Moor of Tangiers, a big and honest Mussulman protected by the Italian Legation, who, having been for some time menaced with death by the hand of an enemy, came every day with a frightened visage to claim the protection of the Minister. This Mahomet spoke a little Spanish, after the Moorish fashion, with all the verbs in the infinitive, and had thereby made acquaintance with my companions. He had been married only a few days. His father had given him a child of fifteen for a wife, who was as beautiful as he. But matrimony had not changed his habits; he remained, as we say, a Moor of the future—that is to say, he drank wine under the rose, smoked cigars, was tired of Tangiers, frequented the society of Europeans, and looked forward to a voyage to Spain. In these days, however, what drew him toward us was the desire of obtaining, through our intervention, permission to join the caravan, to go and see Fez, the great metropolis, his Rome, the dream of his childhood; and with this end he expended salutations, smiles, and grasps of the hand, with a prodigality and grace that would have seduced the entire imperial harem. Like most young Moors of his condition, he killed time in lounging from street to street, and from corner to corner, talking about the Minister’s new horses, or the departure of a friend for Gibraltar, or the arrival of a ship, or any topic that came uppermost; or else he stood like a statue, silent and motionless, in a corner of the market-place, with his thoughts no one knows where. With this handsome idler are bound up my recollections of the first Moorish house in which I put my foot, and the first Arab dinner at which I risked my palate. His father one day invited me to dinner, thus fulfilling an old wish of mine. Late one evening, guided by an interpreter, and accompanied by four servants of the Legation, I found myself at an arabesque door, which opened as if by enchantment at our approach; and crossing a white and empty chamber, we entered the court of the house. The first impression produced was that of a great confusion of people, a strange light and a marvellous pomp of color. We were received by the master of the house and his sons and relations, all crowned with large white turbans; behind them were some hooded servants; beyond, in the dark corners, and peeping through door-ways, the curious faces of women and children; and despite the number of persons, a profound silence. I thought myself in a room, until raising my eyes, I saw the stars, and found that we were in a central court, upon either side of which opened two long and lofty chambers without windows, each having a great arched door-way closed only by a curtain. The external walls were white as snow, the arches of the doors dentellated, the pavements in mosaic; here and there a window, and a niche for slippers. The house had been decorated for our coming; carpets covered the pavement; great chandeliers stood on either side of the doors, with red, yellow and green candles; on the tables were flowers and mirrors. The effect was very strange. There was something of the air of church decorations, and something of the ballroom and the theatre; artificial, but very pretty and graceful, and the distribution of light and arrangement of colors were very effective.

Marriage Procession in Tangiers.

Some moments were spent in salutations and vigorous grasps of the hand, and we were then invited to visit the bridal chamber. It was a long, narrow, and lofty room, opening on the court. At the end, on either side, stood the two beds, decorated with a rich, dark red stuff, with coverlets of lace; thick carpets covered the pavement, and hangings of red and yellow concealed the walls. Between the two beds was suspended the wife’s wardrobe: bodices, petticoats, drawers, gowns of unknown form, in all the colors of the rainbow, in wool, silk, and velvet, bordered and starred with gold and silver; the trousseau of a royal doll; a sight to turn the head of a ballet-dancer, and make a columbine die with envy. From thence we passed into the dining-room. Here also were carpets and hangings, flowers, tall chandeliers standing on the floor, cushions and pillows of all colors spread against the walls, and two gorgeous beds, for this was the nuptial chamber of the parents. The table stood all prepared near one of the beds, contrary to the Arab custom, which is to put the dishes on the floor and eat with the fingers; and upon it glittered an array of bottles, charged, to remind us, in the midst of a Moorish banquet, that Christians existed. Before taking our places at table, we seated ourselves cross-legged on the carpets, around the master’s secretary, who prepared tea before us, and made us take, according to custom, three cups a-piece, excessively sweetened, and flavored with mint; and between each cup we caressed the shaven head and braided tail of a pretty four-year-old boy, Mahomet’s youngest brother, who furtively counted the fingers on our hands, in order to make sure that we had the same number as a Mussulman, and no more. After tea we took our seats at table, and the master, being entreated, seated himself also; and then the Arab dishes, objects of our intense curiosity, began to circulate. I tasted the first with simple faith. Great heaven! My first impulse was to attack the cook. All the contractions that can be produced upon the face of a man who is suddenly assailed by an acute colic, or who hears the news of his banker’s failure, were, I think, visible on mine. I understood in one moment how it was that a people who ate in that way should believe in another God, and take other views of human life than ours. I cannot express what I felt otherwise than by likening myself to some unhappy wretch who is forced to satisfy his appetite upon the pomatum pots of his barber. There were flavors of soaps, pomades, wax, dyes, cosmetics—every thing that is least proper to be put in a human mouth. At each dish we exchanged glances of wonder and dismay. No doubt the original material was good enough—chickens, mutton, game, fish; large dishes of a very fine appearance, but all swimming in most abominable sauces, and so flavored and perfumed that it would have seemed more natural to attack them with a comb rather than with a fork. However, we were in duty bound to swallow something, and the only eatable thing seemed to be mutton on a spit. Not even the famous cùscùssù, the national Moorish dish, which bore a perfidious resemblance to our Milanese risotto, could we get down without a pang. There was one among us who managed to taste of all; a consolatory fact which shows that there are still great men in Italy. At every mouthful our host humbly interrogated us by a look; and we, opening our eyes very wide, answered in chorus, “Excellent! exquisite!” and hastened to swallow a glass of wine to revive our drooping courage. At a certain moment there burst out in the court-yard a gust of strange music that made us all spring to our feet. There were three musicians come, according to Moorish custom, to enliven the banquet: three large-eyed Arabs, dressed in white and red; one with a theorbo, another with a mandolin, and a third with a small drum. All three were seated on the ground in the court-yard, near a niche where their slippers were deposited. Little by little, our libations, the odor of the flowers, and that of aloes burning in carved perfume-burners of Fez, and that strange Arab music, which, by dint of repetition, takes possession of the fancy with its mysterious lament, all overcame us with a sort of taciturn and fantastic dreaminess, under the influence of which we felt our heads crowned with turbans, and visions of sultanas floated before our eyes.

The dinner over, all rose and spread themselves about the room, the court, or the vestibule, looking into every corner with childlike curiosity. At every dark angle stood an Arab wrapped in his white mantle like a statue. The door of the bridal chamber had been closed by a curtain, and through the interstices a great movement of veiled heads could be seen. Lights appeared and disappeared at the upper windows, and low voices and the rustle of garments were heard on all sides. About and above us fermented an invisible life, bearing witness that though within the walls we were without the household; that beauty, love, the family soul, had taken refuge in the penetralia; that we were the spectacle while the house remained a mystery. At a certain moment the Minister’s housekeeper came out of a small door, where she had been visiting the bride, and, passing by us, murmured, “Ah, if you could see her! What a rosebud! What a creature of paradise!” And the sad lamenting music went on, and the perfumed aloe smoke arose, and our fancies grew more and more active, more so than ever, when we issued forth from that air filled with light and perfume, and plunged into a dark and solitary alley, lighted only by one lantern, and surrounded by profoundest silence.

One evening we received the not unexpected intelligence that the next day the Aissawa would enter the city. The Aissawa are one of the principal religious confraternities of Morocco, founded, like the others, under the inspiration of God, by a saint called Sidi-Mohammed-ben-Aissa, born at Mekïnez two centuries ago. His life is a long and confused legend of miracles and fabulous events, variously related. The Aissawa propose to themselves to obtain the special protection of heaven, praying continually, exercising certain practices peculiar to themselves, and keeping alive in their hearts a certain religious fever, a divine fury, which breaks out in extravagant and ferocious manifestations. They have a great mosque at Fez, which is the central house of the order, and from thence they spread themselves every year over the provinces of the empire, gathering together as they go those members of the brotherhood who are in the towns and villages. Their rites, similar to those of the howling and whirling Dervishes of the East, consist in a species of frantic dances, interspersed with leaps, yells, and contortions, in the practice of which they grow ever more furious and ferocious, until, losing the light of reason, they crush wood and iron with their teeth, burn their flesh with glowing coals, wound themselves with knives, swallow mud and stones, brain animals and devour them alive and dripping with blood, and finally fall to the ground insensible. The Aissawa whom I saw at Tangiers did not go to quite such extremities, and probably they seldom do, but they did quite enough to leave an indelible impression on my memory.

The Belgian Minister invited us to see the spectacle from the terrace of his house, which looked over the principal street of Tangiers, where the Aissawa generally passed on their way to their mosque. They were to pass at ten o’clock in the morning, coming in at the Soc-de-Barra. At nine the street was already full of people, and the tops of the houses crowded with Arab and Jewish women in all the colors of the rainbow, giving to the white terraces the look of great baskets of flowers. At the given hour all eyes were turned toward the gate at the end of the street, and in a few minutes the leaders of the procession appeared. The street was so thronged with people that for some time nothing could be seen but a waving mass of hooded heads, amid which shone out a few shaven skulls. Above them floated here and there a banner; and now and then a cry as of many voices broke forth. The crowd moved forward slowly. Little by little a certain order and regularity in the movement of all these heads became visible. The first formed a circle; others beyond a double file; others again beyond another circle; then the first in their turn broke into a double line, the second formed in a circle, and so on. But I am not very sure of what I say, because in the eager curiosity which possessed me to observe single figures it is possible that the precise laws of the general movement escaped me. My first impression as they arrived below our terrace was one of pity and horror combined. There were two lines of men, facing each other, wrapped in mantles and long white shirts, holding each other by the hands, arms, or shoulders, and, with a rocking swaying motion, stepping in cadence, throwing their heads backward and forward, and keeping up a low eager murmur, broken by groans, and sighs, and sobs of rage and terror. Only “The Possessed,” by Rubens, “The Dead Alive,” by Goya, and “The Dead Man Magnetized” of Edgar Poe, could give an idea of those figures. There were faces livid and convulsed, with eyes starting from the sockets, and foaming mouths; faces of the fever-stricken and the epileptic; some illuminated by an unearthly smile, some showing only the whites of their eyes, others contracted as by atrocious spasms, or pallid and rigid, like corpses. From time to time, making a strange gesture with their outstretched arms, they all burst out together in a shrill and painful cry, as of men in mortal agony; then the dance forward began again, with its accompaniment of groans and sobs, while hoods and mantles, wide sleeves and long disordered hair, streamed on the wind, and whirled about them with snake-like undulations. Some rushed from one side to the other, staggering like drunken men, or beating themselves against walls and doors; others, as if rapt in ecstasy, moved along, stiff and rigid, with head thrown back, eyes half closed, and arms swinging; and some, quite exhausted, unable any longer to yell, or to keep on their feet, were held up under the arms by their companions, and dragged along with the crowd. The dance became every moment more frantic, and the noise more deafening, while a nauseous smell came up from all those bodies like the odor of a menagerie of wild beasts. Here and there a convulsed visage turned upward toward our terrace, and a pair of staring eyes were fixed on mine, constraining me to turn away my face. The spectacle affected me in different ways. Now it seemed a great masquerade, and tempted me to laugh; then it was a procession of madmen, of creatures in the delirium of fever, of drunken wretches, or those condemned to death and striving to deaden their own terror, and my heart swelled with compassion; and again, the savage grandeur of the picture pleased my artistic sense. But gradually my mind accepted the inner meaning of the rite, and I comprehended what all of us have more or less experienced—the spasms of the human soul under the dread pressure of the Infinite; and unconsciously my thoughts explained the mystery: Yes; I feel Thee, mysterious and tremendous Power; I struggle in the grasp of the invisible hand; the sense of Thee oppresses me, I cannot contain it; my heart is dismayed, my reason is lost, my garment of clay is rent. And still they went by, a pallid and dishevelled mass, raising voices of pain and supplication, and seeming in their last agony. One old man, an image of distracted Lear, broke from the ranks, and tried to dash his head against a wall, his companions holding him back. A youth fell head foremost to the ground, and remained there insensible. Another, with streaming hair and face hidden in his hands, went by with long steps, his body bent almost to the earth, like one accursed of God. Bedouins were among them, Berbers, blacks, mummies, giants, satyrs, cannibal faces, faces of saints, of birds of prey, of Indian idols, furies, fauns, devils. There were between three and four hundred, and in half an hour they had all gone by. The last were two women (for they also belong to the order), looking as if they had been buried alive, and had escaped from their tomb,—two animated skeletons dressed in white, with hair streaming over their faces, straining eyes, and mouths white with foam, exhausted, but still moving along with the unconscious action of machines; and between them marched a gigantic old man, like an aged sorcerer. Dressed in a long white shirt, and stretching out two bony arms, he placed his hands now on one head, now on the other, with a gesture of protection, and helped them to rise when they fell. Behind these three spectres came a throng of armed Arabs, women, beggars, and children; and all the mass of barbarism and horrid human misery broke into the square, and was dispersed in a few minutes about the city.

Another fine spectacle that we had at Tangiers was that of the festival of the birth of Mahomet; and it made the greater impression upon me that I saw it unexpectedly. Returning from a walk on the sea-shore, I heard some shots in the direction of the Soc-de-Barra. I turned my steps in that direction, and at first found it difficult to recognize the place. The Soc-de-Barra was transfigured. From the walls of the city up to the summit of the hill swarmed a crowd of white-robed Arabs, all in the highest state of animation. There might have been about three thousand persons, but so scattered and grouped that they appeared innumerable. It was a most singular optical illusion. On all the heights around, as upon so many balconies, were groups seated in Oriental fashion, motionless, and turned toward the lower part of the Soc, where the crowd—divided into two portions—left a large space free for the evolutions of a company of cavalry, who, ranged in a line, galloped about, discharging their long guns in the air. On the other side an immense circle of Arab men and women were looking on at the games of ball-players, fencers, serpent-charmers, dancers, singers and musicians, and soldiers. Upon the top of the hill, under a conical tent open in front, could be discerned the enormous white turban of the Vice-Governor of Tangiers, who presided at the festival, seated on the ground in the midst of a circle of Moors. From above could be seen in the crowd the soldiers of the Legations, dressed in their showy red caftans, a few tall hats, and European parasols, and one or two artists, sketch-book in hand, while Tangiers and the sea formed a background to the whole. The discharge of musketry, the yells of the cavalry, the tinkle of the water-sellers’ bells, the joyful cries of the women, the noise of pipes, horns, and drums, made up a fitting accompaniment to the strange and savage spectacle, bathed in the burning noon-day light.

My curiosity impelled me to look everywhere at once, but a sudden scream of admiration from a group of women made me turn to the horsemen. There were twelve of them, all of tall stature, with pointed red caps, white mantles, and blue, orange, and red caftans, and among them was a youth, dressed with feminine elegance, the son of the Governor of Rif. They drew up in a line against the wall of the city, with faces toward the open country. The son of the Governor, in the middle, raised his hand, and all started in full career. At first there was a slight hesitation and confusion, but in a moment the twelve horsemen formed but one solid serried line, and skimmed over the ground like a twelve-headed and many-colored monster devouring the way.

Nailed to their saddles, with heads erect, and white mantles streaming in the wind of their career, they lifted their guns above their heads, and, pressing them against their shoulders, discharged them all together, with a yell of triumph, and then vanished in a cloud of smoke and dust. A few moments after they came back slowly and in disorder—the horses covered with foam and blood, their riders bearing themselves proudly, and then they began again. At every new discharge, the Arab women, like ladies at a tourney, saluted them with a peculiar cry, that is a rapid repetition of the monosyllable Jù (or in English yù) like a sort of joyous trill.

We went to look at the ball-players. About fifteen Arab boys and men—some of the latter with white beards—some with sabres, some with guns slung across their shoulders, were tossing a leathern ball about as big as an orange. One would take it, let it fall, and send it into the air with a blow of his foot; all the others rushed to catch it before it fell. The one who caught it repeated the action of the first; and so the group of players, always following the ball, were in constant movement from one point to another. The curious part of it was that there was not a word, nor a cry, nor a smile among them. Old men and boys, all were equally serious and intent upon the game, as upon some necessary labor, and only their panting breath and the sound of their feet could be heard.

At a few paces farther on, within another circle of spectators, some negroes were dancing to the sound of a pipe and a small conical drum, beaten with a stick in the shape of a half moon. There were eight of them—big, black, and shining like ebony, with nothing on them but a long white shirt, bound round the waist by a thick green cord. Seven of them held each other’s hand in a ring, while the eighth was in the middle, and all danced together, or rather accompanied the music, without moving from their places, but with a certain indescribable movement of the hips, and that satyr-like grin, that expression of stupid beatitude and bestial voluptuousness, which is peculiar to the black race. Whilst I stood looking on at this scene, two boys, about ten years of age, among the spectators, gave me a taste of the ferocity of Arab blood. They suddenly—and for some unknown reason—fell upon each other, and clinging together like a couple of young tigers, bit, clawed, and scratched, with a fury that was horrible to see. Two strong men had as much as they could do to separate them, and they were borne off all bloody and torn, and struggling to attack each other again.

The fencers made me laugh. They were four, fencing in couples, with sticks. The extravagance and awkwardness of this performance are not to be described, In other cities in Morocco I afterward saw the same thing, so it is evidently the native school of fencing. The leaps, contortions, attitudes, and waving of arms, were beyond words, and all done with a self-satisfied air that was enough to make one fall upon them with their own sticks and send them flying. The Arab spectators, however, stood about with open mouths, and frequently glanced at me, as if to enjoy my wonder and admiration, while I, willing to content them, affected to be much delighted. Then some of them drew aside that I might see them better, and I presently found myself surrounded and pressed on all sides by the Arabs, and was able to satisfy in full my desire to study the race in all its more intimate peculiarities. A soldier of the Italian Legation, seeing me in these straits, and thinking me an involuntary prisoner, came to my rescue, rather against my will, with fist and elbows.

The circle of the story-teller was the most interesting, though the smallest of all. I arrived just at the moment when he had finished the usual inaugural prayer, and was beginning his narrative. He was a man of about fifty, almost black, with a jet-black beard and gleaming eyes, wearing, like all of his profession in Morocco, an ample white robe, bound round the waist with a camel’s-hair girdle, giving him the majestic air of an antique priest. He spoke in a high voice, and slowly, standing erect within the circle of listeners, while two musicians with drum and hautboy kept up a low accompaniment. I could not understand a word, but his face, voice, and gestures, were so expressive that I managed to gather something of the meaning of his story. He seemed to be relating a tale of a journey. Now he imitated the action of a tired horse, and pointed to a distant and immense horizon; then he seemed to seek about for a drop of water, and his arms and head dropped as if in complete exhaustion. Suddenly he discovers something at a distance, appears uncertain, believes, and doubts the evidence of his senses—again believes, is re-animated, hastens his flagging steps, arrives, gives thanks to Heaven, and throws himself on the earth with a long breath of satisfaction, smiling with pleasure in the shade of a delightful oasis. The audience meanwhile stood without breath or motion, suspended on the lips of the orator, and reflecting in their faces his every word and gesture. The ingenuousness and freshness of feeling that are hidden under their hard and savage exterior became plainly visible. As the story-teller became more fervent in his narrative, and raised his voice, the two musicians blew and beat with increasing fury, and the listeners drew closer together in the intensity of their interest, until, finally, the whole culminated in one grand burst; the musicians threw their instruments into the air, and the crowd dispersed, and gave place to another circle.

There were three performers who had drawn a large audience about them. One played on a sort of bagpipes, another on a tambourine with bells, and the third on an extraordinary instrument compounded of a clarionet and two horns, which gave forth most discordant sounds. All three men were bandy-legged, tall, and with backs bent into a curve. Wrapped in a few rags, they stood side by side close together as if they had been bound one to the other, and, playing an air which they had probably played for fifty years or more, they marched around the square. Their movement was peculiar—something between walking and dancing,—and their gestures so extraordinary, made as they were with mechanical regularity and all together, that I imagine them to have expressed some idea founded in some characteristic peculiarity of the Arab people. Those three, streaming with heat from every pore, played and marched about for more than an hour in the fashion I have described, with unalterable gravity, while a hundred or so of lookers-on stood, with the sun in their eyes, giving no outward sign either of pleasure or of weariness.

The noisiest circle was that of the soldiers. There were twelve, old and young, some with white caftans, some in shirts only, one with a fez, another in a hood, and all armed with flint muskets as long as lances, into which they put the powder loose, like all their fellows in Morocco, where the cartridge is not in use. An old man directed the manœuvres. They ranged themselves in two rows of six each, facing one another. At a signal, all changed places with each other, running and putting one knee to the ground. Then one of them struck up, in a shrill falsetto voice, a sort of chant, full of trills and warblings, which lasted a few minutes, and was listened to in perfect silence. Then suddenly they all bounded to their feet in a circle, and with an immense leap and a shout of joy, fired off their guns muzzle downward. The rapidity, the fury, and something madly festive and diabolically cheerful in the performance, are not to be described. Among the spectators near me was a little Arab girl about ten years old, not yet veiled, one of the prettiest little faces I saw in Tangiers, of a delicate pale bronze in color, who, with her large blue eyes full of wonder, gazed at a spectacle much more marvellous to her than that of the soldiers’ dance: she saw me take off my gloves, which Arab boys believe to be a sort of second skin that Christians have on their hands, and can remove at pleasure without inconvenience or pain.

I hesitated about going to see the serpent-charmers, but curiosity overcame repugnance. These so-called magicians belong to the confraternity of the Aissawa, and pretend to have received from their patron, Ben Aissa, the privilege of enduring uninjured the bite of the most venomous beasts. Many travellers, in fact, most worthy of belief, assert that they have seen these men bitten severely, until the blood flowed, by serpents that a moment before had shown the fatal effect of their venom upon some animal. The Aissawa whom I saw gave a horrible but bloodless spectacle. He was a little fellow, muscular, with a cadaverous and stern countenance, the air of a Merovingian king, and dressed in a sort of blue shirt that came down to his heels. When I drew near he was engaged in jumping grotesquely about a goat-skin spread on the ground, upon which was a sack containing the serpents; and as he jumped he sang, to the accompaniment of a flute, a melancholy song that was perhaps an invocation to his saint. The song finished, he chattered and gesticulated for some time, trying to get some money thrown to him, and then kneeling down before the goat-skin, he thrust his arm into the sack and drew out a long greenish snake, extremely lively, and carried it round, handling it very carefully, for the spectators to see. This done, he began to twist it about in all directions, and generally use it as if it had been a rope. He seized it by the neck, he suspended it by the tail, he bound it round his head like a fillet, he hid it in his bosom, he made it pass through the holes in the edge of a tambourine, he threw it on the ground and set his foot upon, it, he stuck it under his arm. The horrible beast erected its head, darted out its tongue, twisted itself about with those flexible, odious, abject movements that seem the expression of perfidious baseness; and all the rage that burned in its body seemed to shoot in sparkles from its small eyes; but I could not see that it ever once attempted to bite the hand that held it. After this, the Aissawa seized the serpent by the neck, and fixed a small bit of iron in its mouth, so as to keep it open and display the fangs to the spectators; and then taking its tail between his teeth, he proceeded to bite it, while the beast went through violent contortions; and I left the place in horror and disgust.

At that moment our chargé d’affaires appeared in the Soc. The Vice-Governor beheld him from the hill, ran to meet him, and conducted him under the tent, where all the members of the future caravan, myself included, speedily assembled. Then came soldiers and musicians, and an immense semi-circle of Arabs formed itself in front of the tent, the men in front, the gentle sex in groups behind; and then began a wild concert of songs, dances, yells, and gunshots, which lasted for more than an hour, in the midst of dense clouds of smoke, the sounds of barbaric music, the enthusiastic shouts of the women and children, the paternal satisfaction of the Vice-Governor, and our great amusement. Before it was over, the chargé d’affaires put some coins into the hand of an Arab soldier, to be given to the director of the spectacle, and the soldier presently returning, delivered the following odd form of thanks, translated into Spanish:—“The Italian Ambassador has done a good action; may Allah bless every hair of his beard!”

The strange festival lasted until sunset. Three water-sellers were sufficient to satisfy the needs of all that crowd, exposed all day to the rays of the sun of Africa. One marengo was perhaps the utmost of the sum that circulated in that concourse of people. Their only pleasures were to see and hear. There was no love-making, no drunkenness, no knife-play,—nothing in common with the holidays of civilization.

Moorish Husbandman.

The country about Tangiers is not less curious to see than the city. Around the walls extends a girdle of gardens, belonging for the most part to the ministers and consuls, and rather neglected, but rich in luxuriant vegetation. There may be seen long files of aloes, like gigantic lances bound up in sheaves of enormous curved dagger blades, for such is the shape of their leaves. The points, with the fibre attached, are used by the Arabs to sew up wounds. There is the Indian fig—in the Moorish tongue, kermus del Inde—very tall, with leaves an inch in thickness, and growing so thickly as to obstruct the paths; the common fig, under whose shadow ten tents could be erected; oaks, acacias, oleanders, and shrubs of every sort, that interlace their branches with those of the highest trees, and with the ivy, the vine, the cane, and the thorn, form a tangled mass of verdure under which ditch and footpath are entirely concealed. In some places one has to grope one’s way, and pass from one enclosure to another through thick, thorny hedges, over prostrate fences, in the midst of grass and flowers as high as one’s waist, and no living creature to be seen. A small white house, and a well, with a wheel by means of which the water is sent flowing through little trenches dug for the purpose, are the only objects which indicate the presence of poverty and labor. Sometimes, if the captain of the staff, who was a clever guide, had not been with me, I should have lost my way in the midst of that wild vegetation; and we often had to call out, as in a labyrinth, to prevent our losing each other. It was a pleasure to me to swim amid the greenery, opening the way with hands and feet, with the joyous excitement of a savage returned from slavery to his native forest.

Beyond this girdle of gardens there are no trees, or houses, or hedges, or any indication of boundaries; there are only hills, green valleys, and undulating plains, with an occasional herd of cattle pasturing and without any visible herdsman, or a horse turned loose. Once only did I see any tilling of the ground. An Arab was driving an ass and a goat, harnessed to a very small plough, of a strange shape, such as might have been in use four thousand years ago, and which turned up a scarcely visible furrow in the stony, weedy earth. I have been assured that it is not unusual to see a donkey and a woman ploughing in company, and this will give an idea of the state of agriculture in Morocco. The only attempt at manuring is to burn the straw left after the grain is gathered; and the only care taken not to exhaust the earth, is to leave it every third year to grow grass for pasture, after having grown grain, and buckwheat or maize, in the two preceding years. In spite of this, however, the ground becomes impoverished after a few years, and then the husbandman leaves it, and seeks another field, returning, after a time, to the old one; and so but a very small part of the arable land is under cultivation at one time, whereas if it were even badly cultivated, it would return a hundred-fold the seed thrown in it.

The prettiest excursion we made was that to Cape Spartel, the Ampelusium of the ancients, which forms the north-western extremity of the African continent, a mountain of gray stone, about three hundred mètres in height, rising abruptly from the sea, and opening underneath into vast caverns, the larger of which were consecrated to Hercules: Specus Herculi sacer. Upon the summit of this mountain stands the famous lighthouse erected a few years ago, and maintained by contributions from most of the European States. We climbed to the top of the tower, where the great lantern sends its beneficent rays to a distance of five-and-twenty miles. From thence the eye embraces two seas and two continents. There can be seen the last waters of the Mediterranean and the horizon of the Atlantic—the sea of darkness, Bar-el-Dolma, as the Arabs call it—beating at the foot of the rock; the Spanish coast, from Cape Trafalgar to Cape Algesiras; the African coast, from the Mediterranean to the mountains of Ceuta, the septem fratres of the Romans; and far in the distance, faintly outlined, the enormous rock of Gibraltar—eternal sentinel of that port of the old continent, mysterious terminus of the antique world, become the “Favola vila ai naviganti industri.”

In this expedition we encountered but few persons, for the most part Arabs on foot, who passed almost without looking at us, and sometimes a Moor on horseback, some personage important either for his wealth or his office, accompanied by a troop of armed followers, who looked contemptuously at us as they passed. The women muffled their faces even more carefully than in the city, some muttering, and others turning their backs abruptly upon us. Here and there an Arab would stop before us, look fixedly at us, murmur a few words that sounded as if he were asking a favor, and then go on his way without looking back. At first we did not understand, but it was explained that they were asking us to pray to God for some favor for them. It seems that there is a superstition much in vogue among the Arabs, that the prayers of a Mussulman being very grateful to God, He generally delays granting what they ask for, in order that He may prolong the pleasure of hearing the prayer; whilst the prayer of an infidel dog, like a Hebrew or a Christian, is so hateful to Him, that He grants it at once, ipso facto, in order to be rid of it. The only friendly faces we saw were those of some Jewish boys who were scampering about on donkeys, and who threw us a cheerful “Buenos dias, Caballeros!” as they galloped by.

In spite, however, of the new and varied character of our life at Tangiers, we were all impatience to leave it, in order to get back in the month of June, before the great heats began. The chargé d’affaires had sent a messenger to Fez to announce that the embassy was ready; but ten days at least must pass before he could return. Private notices informed us that the escort was on its way, others that it had not yet started. Uncertain and contradictory rumors prevailed, as if the longed-for Fez were distant two thousand miles from the coast, instead of about one hundred and forty miles; and this, from one point of view, was rather agreeable, because our fifteen days’ journey thus assumed in our fancy the proportions of a long and adventurous voyage, and Fez seemed mysteriously attractive. The strange things, too, which were related by those who had been there with former embassies, about the city, its people, and the dangers of the expedition, all combined to excite our expectations. They told how they had been surrounded by thousands of horsemen, who saluted them with a tempest of shots, so near as almost to scorch their skins and blind them, and that they could hear the balls whistle by their ears; that in all probability some of us Italians would be shot in the head by mistake by some ball directed against the white cross in our flag, which would no doubt seem an insult to Mahomet in Arab eyes. They talked of scorpions, serpents, tarantulas, of clouds of grasshoppers and locusts, of spiders and toads of gigantic size that were found on the road and under the tents. They described in dismal colors the entrance of the embassy into Fez, in the midst of a hostile crowd, through tortuous, dark streets, encumbered with ruins and the carcases of animals; they prophesied a mountain of trouble for us during our stay at Fez—mortal languors, furious dysenteries and rheumatisms, musquitoes of monstrous size and ferocity compared with which those of our country were agreeable companions, and, finally, homesickness; apropos of which, they told us of a young Belgian painter who had gone to Fez with the embassy from Brussels, and who, after a week’s stay, was seized with such a desperate melancholy, that the ambassador was obliged to send him back to Tangiers by forced marches, that he might not see him die under his eyes; and it was true. But all this only increased our impatience to be off, and our delight can easily be imagined when Signor Soloman Affalo, the second dragoman of the Legation, one day presented himself at the door of the dining-room, and announced, in a sonorous voice—“The escort from Fez has arrived.”

With it came horses, mules, camels, grooms, tents, the route laid down for us by the Sultan, and his permission to start at once. Some days, however, had to be allowed for men and beasts to take a little rest.

The animals were sheltered at the Casba. The next day we went to see them. There were forty-five horses, including those of the escort, about twenty mules for the saddle, and more than fifty for baggage, to which were afterward added others hired at Tangiers; the horses small and light, like all Morocco horses, and the mules robust; the saddles and packs covered with scarlet cloth; the stirrups formed of a large plate of iron bent upward at the two sides, so as to support and enclose the whole foot, and serving also as spurs, as well as defences. The poor beasts were almost all lying down, exhausted more from hunger than from fatigue, a large part of their food having, according to custom, found its way, in the shape of coin, into the pockets of the drivers. Some of the soldiers of the escort were there, who came about us, and made us understand by signs and words that the journey had been a very fatiguing one, with much suffering from heat and thirst, but that, thanks to Allah, they had arrived safe and sound. They were blacks and mulattoes, wrapped in their white capotes, tall, powerful men, with bold features, sharp white teeth, and flashing eyes, that made us consider whether it would not be well to have a second escort placed between them and ourselves in case of necessity. Whilst my companions conversed in gestures, I sought among the mules one with a mild expression of generosity and gentleness in its eyes, and found it in a white mule with a crupper adorned with arabesques. To this creature I decided to confide my life and fortunes, and from that moment until our return the hope of Italian literature in Morocco was bound to her saddle.

From the Casba we proceeded to the Soc-de-Barra, where the principal tents had been placed. It was a great pleasure to us to see these canvas houses where we were to sleep for thirty nights in the midst of unknown solitudes, and see and hear so many strange things: one of us preparing his geographical maps, another his official report, another his book, a fourth his picture; forming altogether a small Italy in pilgrimage across the empire of the Schariffs. The tents were of a cylindrical conical form, some large enough to contain about twenty persons, all very high, and made of double canvas bordered with blue, and ornamented on the top with a large metal ball. Most of them belonged to the Sultan; and who knows how often the beauties of the seraglio had slept under them on their journeys from Fez to Meckinez and Morocco! In one corner of the encampment was a group of foot-soldiers of the escort, and in front of them a personage unknown, who was awaiting the arrival of the Minister. He was a man of about thirty-five, of a dignified appearance, a mulatto, and corpulent, with a great white turban, a blue capote, red drawers, and a sabre in a leathern sheath with a hilt of rhinoceros-horn. The Minister, arriving in a few moments, presented this gentleman to us as the commandant of the escort, a general of the imperial army, by name Hamed Ben Kasen Buhamei, who was to accompany us to and from Fez back to Tangiers, and whose head answered to the Sultan for the safety of ours. He shook hands with us with much grace and ease of manner, and his visage and air reassured me completely with regard to the eyes and teeth of the soldiers whom I had seen at the Casba. He was not handsome, but his countenance expressed mildness and intelligence. He must know how to read, write, and cipher—be, in fact, one of the most cultured generals in the army—since he had been chosen by the Minister of War for this delicate mission. The distribution of tents was now made in his presence. One was assigned to painting; among the largest, after that of the ambassador, was the one taken possession of by the commander of the frigate, the captain of the staff, the vice-consul, and myself, which afterward became the noisiest tent in the encampment. Another very large one was set aside as a dining-room; and then came those of the doctor, the interpreters, cooks, servants, and soldiers of the Legation. The commander of the escort and his soldiers had their tents apart. Other tents were to be added on the day of departure. In short, I foresaw that we should have a beautiful encampment, and already felt within me the beginnings of descriptive frenzy.

On the following day the chargé d’affaires went with the commander of the frigate and the captain to pay a visit to the representative of the imperial Government, Sidi-Bargas, who exercises what may be called the office of Minister of Foreign Affairs in Tangiers. I begged permission to accompany them, being very curious to see a Minister of Foreign Affairs who, if his salary has not been increased within the last twenty years (which is not probable), receives from his Government the sum of seventy-five francs, or fifteen dollars, a month, which includes the fund for the expenses of representation; a magnificent stipend, nevertheless, compared with that of the governors, who receive only fifty francs. And it is not to be said that their charge is a sinecure, and may be entrusted to the first comer. The famous Sultan Abd-er-Rahman, for instance, who reigned from 1822 to 1859, could find no man so well adapted for it as one Sidi-Mohammed el Khatïb, merchant in coffee and sugar, who continued while he was Minister to traffic regularly between Tangiers and Gibraltar. The instructions which this Minister received from his Government, although very simple, are such as to embarrass the most subtle of European diplomatists. A French consul has set them down for us with much precision—viz., to respond to all demands of the consuls with promises; to defer to the very latest moment the fulfilment of these promises; to gain time; to raise difficulties of every kind against complaint; to act in such a way that the complainants will get tired, and desist; to yield, if threatened, as little as possible; if cannon are introduced, to yield, but not until the latest moment. But it must be acknowledged that after the war with Spain, and especially under the reign of Muley-el-Hassan, things have very much changed.

We went up to the Casba where the Minister lives; a line of soldiers kept guard before the door. We crossed a garden and entered a spacious hall, where the Minister and the Governor of Tangiers came to meet us. At the bottom of the hall was a recess or alcove, with a sofa and some chairs; in one corner, a modest bed; under the bed, a coffee-service; the walls white and bare; the floor covered with matting. We seated ourselves in the alcove.

The two personages before us formed an admirable contrast. One, Sidi-Bargas, the Minister, was a handsome old man, with a white beard and a clear complexion, eyes of extraordinary vivacity, and a large smiling mouth, displaying two rows of ivory-white teeth; a countenance which revealed the finesse and marvellous flexibility demanded of him by the very nature of his office. His eye-glasses and snuff-box, together with certain ceremonious airs of head and hands, gave him something of the look of a European diplomatist. Plainly a man accustomed to deal with Christians; superior, perhaps, to many of the prejudices and superstitions of his people; a Mussulman of large views; a Moor varnished with civilization. The other, the Caid Misfiui, seemed the incarnation of Morocco. He was about fifty years of age, with black beard and bronze complexion, muscular, sombre, and taciturn; a face that looked as if it had never smiled. He held his head down, his eyes fixed on the ground, his brow bent; his expression was one of strong repugnance. Both men wore large muslin turbans and long ample robes of transparent stuff.

The chargé d’affaires presented to these two personages, through the interpreter, the commandant of the frigate and the captain. They were two officials, and their introduction required no comment. But when I was presented, a few words of explanation as to the office I filled was necessary; and the chargé d’affaires expressed himself in rather hyperbolical terms. Sidi-Bargas stood a moment silent, and then said a few words to the interpreter, who translated—

“His Excellency demands why you have such ability with your hand. Your lordship wears it covered; your lordship will please remove your glove that the hand may be seen.”

The compliment was so new to me that I was at a loss for a reply.

“It is not necessary,” observed the chargé d’affaires, “because the faculty resides in his mind, and not in his hand.”

One would have thought this settled the question; but when a Moor gets hold of a metaphor, he does not leave it so easily.

“True,” replied his Excellency, through the interpreter; “but the hand being the instrument is also the symbol of the faculties of the mind.”

The discussion was prolonged for a few minutes. “It is a gift of Allah,” finally concluded Sidi-Bargas.

Loading The Camels.

The conversation continued for some time, and the journey was discussed. There was a long citation of names of governors, of provinces, of rivers, valleys, mountains, and plains, that we should find upon our route; names that resounded in my ear as so many promises of adventure, and set my fancy to work. What was the Red Mountain? What should we find on the banks of Pearl River? What sort of a man could that Governor be who was called “Son of the Mare?” Our chargé made numerous inquiries as to distances, water, and shade. Sidi-Bargas had it all at the points of his fingers, and in this direction was certainly greatly beyond Visconti Venosta, who could not for his life have given information to a foreign ambassador as to how many springs of water and how many groups of trees there were between Rome and Naples. Finally, he wished us a pleasant journey, with the following formula: “May peace be in your path!” and accompanying the ambassador to the entrance, shook hands with us all with an air of great cordiality. The Caid Misfiui, always mute, put out the tips of his fingers, without raising his eyes. “My hand—yes,” I thought, as I gave it, “but not my head!”

“Start on Monday!” called out Sidi-Bargas, as we took leave.

The ambassador asked why Monday rather than Sunday. “Because it is a day of good omen,” he answered, with gravity; and with another deep salutation, he left us.

I learned later that Caid-Misfiui is accounted a man of great learning among the Moors: he was tutor to the reigning Sultan, and is, as his face shows, a fanatical Mussulman. Sidi-Bargas enjoys the more amiable reputation of being a very fine chess-player.

Three days before our departure the street before the Legation was thronged with curious lookers-on. Ten tall camels, which were to carry to Fez, in advance of us, a part of our provision of wine, came one after the other, kneeled down to receive their load, and departed with their guard of soldiers and servants. Within the house all was bustle, and the servants who had come from Fez were added to those already on the spot. Provisions arrived at every hour in the day. It was feared, at one moment, that we should not be able to get off on the appointed day. But on the Sunday evening, 3d of May, every thing was ready, including the lofty mast of an immense tricolored flag which was to float in the midst of our encampment; and in the night the baggage mules were loaded so that they should start early on Monday morning, several hours before us, and arrive in the evening in time to have every thing ready for us at the encampment.

I shall always remember with a pleasant emotion those last moments passed in the court of the Legation just before our departure. We were all there. An old friend of the chargé d’affaires had arrived the evening before to join us, Signor Patot, formerly Minister from Spain to Tangiers, and also Signor Morteo, a Genoese, and consular agent for Italy to Mazagan. There was the doctor of the caravan, Miguerez, a native of Algiers; a rich Moor, Mohammed Ducali, an Italian subject, who accompanied the embassy in the quality of writer; the second dragoman of the Legation, Solomon Affalo; two Italian sailors, one orderly to Commander Cassone, and the other belonging to the Dora; the soldiers of the Legation in holiday dress; cooks, workmen, and servants, all persons unknown to me, whom two months of life in common in the interior of Morocco were to render familiar to me, and whom I prepared myself to study from that moment, one by one, and to make move and speak in a book that I had in my head. Every one of them had some peculiarity of dress, which gave the whole a singularly picturesque appearance. There were plumed caps, white mantles, gaiters, veils, wallets, and blankets of every color. There were enough pistols, barometers, quadrants, albums, and field-glasses to have set up a bazaar. We might have been setting off on an expedition to the Cape of Good Hope, and every one of us was quivering with impatience, curiosity, and pleasant anticipation. To crown all, the weather was exquisite, and a delightful sea-breeze was blowing. Mahomet was with Italy.

At five o’clock exactly the ambassador mounted his horse, and the flags on the terrace of the Legation rose in salute. Preoccupied as I was with my white mule, and in all the confusion and uproar of departure I remember but little of the crowd that encumbered the street, the handsome Jewish women peering from their terraces, and an Arab boy, who exclaimed with a strange accent, as we issued from the gate of the Soc-de-Barra, “Italia!”

At the Soc we were joined by the representatives of the other Legations, who were to accompany us, according to custom, a few miles beyond Tangiers; and we took the road to Fez, a numerous and noisy cavalcade, before which waved the green folds of the banner of the Prophet.

CHAPTER II.
HAD-EL-GARBIA.

A throng of ministers, consuls, dragomans, secretaries, clerks, a great international embassy, representing six monarchies and two republics, and composed for the most part of people who had been all over the world. Among others, there was the Spanish consul, dressed in the graceful costume of the province of Mercia, with a poignard in his girdle; the gigantic figure of the United States consul, once a colonel in a cavalry regiment, towering a whole head above the rest of the troop, and riding a beautiful Arab horse with Mexican saddle and accoutrements; the dragoman of the Legation of France, an athletic man, mounted upon an enormous white horse, with which he presented, in certain points of view, the image of a centaur; English, Andalusians, and Germans were there, and as every one spoke in his own tongue, mingled with laughter, the humming of songs, and the neighing of beasts, the effect may be imagined. Before us rode the banner-bearer, followed by two soldiers of the Italian Legation; behind came the escort, led by the mulatto general, with his rifle erect, one end resting on the saddle; on either side a crowd of Arabs on foot. All this motley company, gilded by the rays of the setting sun, presented a spectacle so splendidly picturesque that each one of us wore an air of complacency at the thought that we formed part of the picture.

Little by little, those who had accompanied us from Tangiers took their leave and turned back; only America and Spain remained with us. The road so far was not bad; my mule seemed the most docile of mules; what remained for me to desire? But there is no perfect felicity on this earth. The captain drew near and gave me a most unpleasing piece of news. The vice-consul, Paolo Grande, our tent companion, was a somnambulist. The captain himself had met him the night before on the stairs of the Legation, wrapped in a sheet, with a lamp in one hand and a pistol in the other. The servants, being questioned, confirmed the tale. To sleep with him in the same tent was dangerous. The captain entreated me, as I was more intimate with the vice-consul than he, to induce him to give up his arms for the night. I promised to do my best “I leave it in your hands,” said he, as he turned away, “and I speak in the name of the commandant also.” “Here’s a fine business!” thought I, as I went in search of the vice-consul. He came to meet me. With one cautious question and another I succeeded in discovering that he carried with him a small arsenal, what with fire-arms and cutting weapons, comprising an ugly Moorish poignard that seemed expressly made for cutting a hole in my own person. After turning it over in my mind, I decided to wait until the hour for going to bed arrived, and for the rest of the way the teasing thought pursued me.

We were moving now in a great curve over an undulating country, green and solitary. The road, if road it could be called, was formed of a large number of parallel paths crossing each other here and there, winding through stones and bushes, and sunken, like the beds of streams. A few palms and aloes showed their dark outlines upon the golden sky, which, above our heads, began to glitter with stars. No person was to be seen far or near. Once we heard some gunshots: it was a group of Arabs on the top of a hill, saluting the ambassador. After three hours’ travelling it was dark night, and we began to wish for the encampment. Hunger in some and fatigue in others made us silent. Nothing was heard but the horses’ feet and the panting breath of the servants running beside us. Suddenly there was a shout from the caid. On a height to the right lights were glittering, and we hailed with a unanimous shout our first encampment.

I cannot express the pleasure I felt in dismounting among the tents. Had it not been for my dignity as the representative of Italian literature, I think I should have indulged in a sort of jig. It was a little city, illuminated, and full of noise and people. Kitchen fires blazed on every side. Servants, soldiers, cooks, sailors, went to and fro, exchanging questions in all the tongues of the Tower of Babel. The tents were arranged in a large circle, with the Italian banner in the midst. Behind the tents were ranged the horses and mules. The escort had its own small encampment apart. Every thing was in military order. I recognized at once my own habitation, and ran to take possession. There were four camp-beds, mats and carpets, lanterns, candlesticks, small tables, folding chairs, washbasins striped with the Italian colors, and a great Indian fan. It was a princely establishment, in which one might willingly spend a year. Our tent was placed between those of the ambassador and the artists.

One hour after our arrival we were seated at dinner in the tent consecrated to Lucullus. I think that was the merriest dinner that ever took place within the confines of Morocco since the foundation of Fez. We were sixteen, comprising the American consul with his two sons, and the Spanish consul, with two attachés from the Legation. The Italian cuisine carried off a solemn victory. It was the first time, I believe, that in that desolate country the fumes of macaroni with gravy and risotto alla Milanese ever rose to the nostrils of Allah. The fat French cook, come from Tangiers for that night only, was clamorously called before the footlights. Toasts went off one after the other in Italian, in Spanish, in verse, in prose, in music. The Spanish consul, a handsome Castilian of the antique stamp, large-bearded, broad-shouldered, and deep-hearted, declaimed, with one hand on his dagger-hilt, the dialogue of Don Juan Tenorio with Don Luis Mendia, in Zorilla’s famous drama. There were discussions upon the Eastern Question, upon the eyes of Arab women, upon the Carlist war, upon the immortality of the soul, and upon the properties of the terrible cobra di capello—the aspic of Cleopatra—which the charlatans of Morocco allow to bite them with impunity. Some one, in the midst of the clamor of conversation, whispered in my ear that he would be grateful to me for life, if I would mention in my future book on Morocco, that he had killed a lion. I seized the occasion to request my fellow-guests to give me each a note as to the particular ferocious beast which he had conquered. The Spanish consul, out of gratitude, improvised a verse in honor of my mule, and all singing it to a tune from the “Italiana in Algieri,” we issued forth, and sought our different sleeping-places.

The encampment was immersed in profound slumber. In front of the tent of the ambassador, who had retired before us, watched the faithful Selam, first soldier of the Legation. In the distance paced like a shadow, among the tents, the form of the caid of the escort. The sky was all sparkling with stars. What a blessed night, if I had not had that thorn inserted in my pillow!

I had no sooner entered my tent than the captain repeated his advice, and I determined to attack the subject after we should be in bed. It was unavoidable, but it was very unpleasant. The vice-consul might take it badly, and I should be very sorry. He was so agreeable a companion. Like a true Sicilian, full of fire, he talked of the most insignificant things with the accent and style of an inspired preacher. He made use of the most terrible adjectives—immense, divine, and so on—on the slightest occasion. His quietest and least expressive gesture was to shake his hands wildly above his head. To see him discuss any question, with his eyes flying out of his head, and his aquiline nose that seemed to defy the world, was to judge him an irascible and imperious man, whereas he was in reality the kindest and gentlest person conceivable.

“Come, courage!” whispered the captain when we were all in bed.

“Signor Grande,” I began, “are you in the habit of getting up in the night?”

He seemed much astonished at my question. “No,” he answered; “and I should be very sorry to think that any one had such a habit.”

“That’s queer,” I thought. “Then,” said I, “you recognize that it is a dangerous habit?”

He looked at me. “Excuse me,” he said, after a moment’s silence; “I don’t suppose you mean to joke on such a subject?”

“Excuse me,” I answered; “I have not the least intention of joking. It is not my custom to jest on serious subjects.”

“Serious indeed; and it will be for you to guard against the consequences.”

“Well, this is fine! Do you imagine that I shall go and sleep in the middle of the camp?”

“Of the two it seems to me that you should go, rather than I.”

“That is an impertinence!” cried I, sitting up in bed with a jump.

“Oh, a new idea!” shouted the vice-consul, bouncing up in his turn; “an impertinence, not to risk being murdered!”

A shout of laughter from the other two broke up the discussion, and before they spoke we understood that we had been the victims of a joke. They had told him that I was in the habit of wandering about in the night wrapped in a sheet, and with a pistol in my hand.

Peasant Women of the Interior.

The night passed without disturbance, and I awoke at dawn. The camp was still immersed in slumber; only among the tents of the escort a few persons were in motion. The sky in the east was of a brilliant rose-color. I went out among the tents, and stood in contemplation before the spectacle that lay in front of me.

The camp was placed on the side of a hill covered with grass, aloes, the prickly pear, and some flowering shrubs. Near the ambassador’s tent rose a tall palm-tree, gracefully inclined toward the east. In front of the hill extended an immense plain, undulating and covered with verdure, closed in the distance by a chain of dark-green mountains, behind which appeared other blue heights almost lost in the limpid sky. In all that space there was no house, nor curl of smoke, nor tent, nor cattle, to be seen. It was like an immense garden where no living thing was admitted. A fresh and perfumed breeze rustled the branches of the palm, and made the only sound that broke the silence. Suddenly, as I turned I beheld ten dilated eyes fixed on mine. Five Arabs were seated upon a mass of rock at a few steps from me—laborers from the country, come in in the night to see the encampment. They seemed sculptured out of the rock on which they sat. They looked at me without winking, without the least sign of curiosity, or sympathy, or embarrassment, or malevolence; the whole five motionless and impassive, their faces half hidden in their hoods, like personifications of the solitude and silence of the fields. I put one hand in my pocket, and the ten eyes followed it; I took out a cigar, and the ten eyes fixed themselves upon it; they followed every motion that I made. Little by little I discovered other figures farther off, seated in the grass two by two and three by three, motionless and hooded, and, like the first, with their eyes fixed on me. They seemed to have risen from the earth, dead men with their eyes open, appearances rather than real persons, which would vanish under the first beams of the sun. A long and tremulous cry, coming from that part of the camp where the escort lay, disturbed me from my contemplation of these beings. A Mussulman soldier was announcing to his fellows the first of the five canonical hours of prayer which every Mussulman must follow. Some soldiers came out of the tents, spread their mantles on the earth, and knelt down upon them, their faces toward the east. Three times they rubbed their hands, arms, head, and feet with a handful of earth, and then began to recite their prayers in a low voice, kneeling, rising to their feet, prostrating themselves face downward, lifting their open hands to a level with their ears, and crouching on their heels. Soon the commander of the escort issued from his tent, and was followed by his servants, then the cooks. In a few minutes the greater part of the population of the camp was afoot. The sun, scarcely above the horizon, was scorching.

The Arab’s Morning Prayer.

When I went back to my tent, I made the acquaintance of several odd personages to whom I shall have frequently to allude.

The first to appear was one of the Italian sailors, orderly to the captain of the frigate, a Sicilian, born at Porto Empedocle, Ranni by name,—a young fellow of twenty-five, very tall, and of herculean build and strength,—good-tempered, grave as a magistrate, and endowed with the singular virtue of never being astonished at any thing, except perhaps the astonishment of others. For him, Porto Empedocle, Gibraltar, Africa, China, the moon itself, had he been in it, were all the same.

“What do you think of this way of living?” asked the captain, while Ranni helped him to dress.

“What am I to say?” was the response.

“Why the journey, the new country, all this confusion—do they make no impression upon you?”

He was silent a moment, and then answered ingenuously, “No impression at all.”

“But the encampment—that at least is new to you.”

“Oh no, Signor Commandant.”

“When did you ever see one before?”

“I saw this one last evening.”

The commandant looked at him, repressing his irritation. Then he said, “Well, last evening—what impression did it make then?”

“Well,” answered the sailor with candor, “the same impression, you know, that it made this morning.”

The commandant hung his head with an air of resignation.

Soon after there entered another not less curious personage. He was an Arab from Tangiers, who was in the vice-consul’s service for the time of the journey. His name was Ciua; but his master called him Civo, for greater facility of pronunciation. He was a large and tall young fellow, rather given to practical joking, but good-natured and willing—a big ingenuous boy, who laughed and hid his face when you looked at him. He had no other garment than a long, wide, white shirt, without a girdle, which floated about him when he walked, and gave him a ridiculous resemblance to a cherub. He knew about thirty Spanish words, and with these he managed to make himself understood, when constrained to speak; but he usually preferred to converse in pantomime. To look at him, you would judge him to be about five-and-twenty; but it is easy to make a mistake in an Arab’s age. I asked him how old he was. He covered his face with one hand, thought a moment, and answered, “Cuando guerra España—año y medio.” In the time of the war with Spain, which was in 1860, he was a year and a half old, consequently, he was then seventeen.

The third personage was the ambassador’s cook, who brought us our coffee—an unadulterated Piedmontese from Turin, who had dropped from the clouds one day into Tangiers, and had not yet recovered his wits. The poor man was never tired of exclaiming, “What a country! What a country!”

I asked him if before leaving Turin they had not told him what sort of a place Morocco was. He answered, yes, they had told him, “Take care; Tangiers is not Turin.” And he had thought “Pazienza! it will be like Genoa or Alexandria”; and instead he had found himself in the midst of savages. And they had given him two Arab assistants who could not understand a word he said. And then to make a two months’ journey through the deserts of Egypt! He knew he should never get back alive.

“But at any rate,” I said, “you will have something to tell when you get back to Turin.”

“Ah!” he answered, turning away with an air of profound depression, “what can I tell about a country where one cannot find a single leaf of salad?”

Breakfast over, the ambassador gave the order to break up the encampment. During that long operation, in which not less than one hundred persons were concerned, I noticed a singular trait of Arab character—the insatiable passion for command. There was no need of any indication to recognize at once in that crowd of figures the head muleteer, the head porter, the head tent-servant, the chief of the soldiers of the Legation. Each of these was invested with an authority, and he made it felt and heard, with hand and voice and eye, with or without occasion, and with all the strength of his soul and body. Those who had no authority resorted to all sorts of pretexts for giving orders, and seeming to be something a little above their fellows. The most ragged wretch among them gave himself imperious airs. The simplest operation, such as tying a cord or lifting a box, provoked an exchange of thundering yells, lightning glances, and gestures worthy of an angry sultan. Even Civo, the modest Civo, domineered over two country Arabs who allowed themselves to glance at his master’s trunks from a distance.

At ten in the morning, under a burning sun, the long caravan began slowly to descend into the plain. The Spanish consul and his two companions had been left behind; of foreigners none remained with us now but the American consul and his two sons.

From the place where we had passed the night, called in Arabic Ain-Dalia, which signifies fountain of wine, because of the vines that once were there, we were to go that day to Had-el-Garbia, beyond the mountains that shut in the plain.

For more than an hour we journeyed over a gently undulating plain, among fields of barley and millet, through winding paths, forming at their crossings many little islets of grass and flowers. We met no one, and no figure was visible in the fields. Only once we encountered a long file of camels led by two Bedouin Arabs, who muttered, as they passed, the common salutation: “Peace be on your way.”

I felt a great pity for the Arab servants who accompanied us on foot, loaded with umbrellas, field-glasses, albums, clocks, and a thousand objects of name and use unknown to them; constrained to follow our mules with rapid step, suffocated by dust, scorched by the sum half-fed, half-clothed, subject to every one, possessing nothing in the world but a ragged shirt and a pair of slippers; running afoot from Fez to Tangiers, only to go back again; and then, perhaps, to follow some other caravan from Fez to Morocco, and so to go on throughout their lives, without other recompense than just not to die of hunger, and to repose their bones under a tent at night! I thought as I looked at them of Goethe’s “Pyramid of Existence.” There was among them a boy of thirteen or fourteen years old, a mulatto, handsome and slender, who constantly fixed on us his large dark eyes full of a pensive curiosity, seeking to speak confusedly of many things, and dumbly demanding sympathy. He was a foundling, the fruit of no one knew what strange amours, who, beginning this fatiguing life in the Italian Embassy, would probably never cease until he should fall dying in some ditch. Another, an old man all skin and bones, ran with his head down, his eyes closed, and his hands clenched, with a sort of desperate resignation. Some talked and laughed as they panted on. Suddenly one darted from the ranks, passed before us, and disappeared. Ten minutes afterward we found him seated under a fig-tree. He had done a half mile at top speed, in order to gain upon the caravan and enjoy five minutes’ rest and shade.

Meantime we arrived at the foot of a small mountain, called in Arabic the Red Mountain, because of the color of its earth; steep, rocky, and still bristling on its lower part with the remains of a felled wood. This climb had been announced to us at Tangiers as the most difficult part of our road. “Mule,” said I to my beast, “I desire you to remember my contract with my editor,” and I pushed forward in a bold and reckless manner. The path rose winding among great stones that seemed to have been placed there on purpose to bring me to grief by some personal enemy; at every doubtful movement of my mule I felt a whole chapter of my future book fly away out of my head,—twice the poor beast came down on her knees, and launched my soul upon the confines of a better world,—but at last we reached the summit, safe and sound, where to my amazement I found myself in the presence of the two painters, who had gone on ahead in order to see the caravan climbing up. The spectacle was well worth the fatigue of the rapid ascent.

The caravan stretched back for more than a mile from the side of the mountain into the plain. First came the principal members of the Embassy, among whom shone conspicuous the plumed hat of the ambassador and the white turban of Mohammed Ducali, and on either side came a troop of servants on foot and on horseback, picturesquely scattered among the rocks and shrubs of the ascent. Behind these, in couples and groups of three or four, wrapped in their white and blue mantles, and bending above their scarlet saddles, the horsemen of the Moorish escort looked like a long procession of maskers; and behind them came the endless file of mules and horses carrying trunks, furniture, tents, and provisions, flanked by soldiers and servants, the last of whom appeared like white and red points among the green of the fields. This many-colored and glittering procession animated the solitary valley, and presented the strangest and gayest spectacle that can be imagined. If at that moment I had had the power to strike it motionless, so that I could contemplate it at my leisure, I think I could not have resisted the temptation. As I turned to resume my road, I saw the Atlantic Ocean lying as blue and tranquil as a lake at a few miles’ distance. There was but one ship in view, sailing near the coast, and toward the strait. The commandant, observing her with his glass, discovered her to be Italian. What would we not have given to have been seen and recognized by her!

From the Red Mountain we descended into another lovely valley, carpeted with red, white, and lilac flowers. There was not a house, nor tent, nor human being, to be seen. The ambassador deciding to halt here, we dismounted and sat down under the shade of some trees, while the baggage-train went on.

Around us, at the distance of a few steps, the servants were grouped, each holding a horse or mule. The artists drew forth their sketch-books, but it was of no use. Scarcely did one of the vagabonds perceive that he was an object of observation than he hid himself behind a tree, or drew his hood over his face. Three of them, one after the other, got up and went grumbling off, to sit down about fifty paces further on, dragging their quadrupeds with them. They did not even wish the animals to be sketched. In vain the vexed artists prayed, and coaxed, and offered money; it was all useless waste of breath. They made signs of no with their hands, pointing to the sky and smiling cunningly, as if to say, “We are not such fools as you think us.” Not even the mulatto boy, or the Legation soldiers, who were familiar with Europeans, and knew the two artists, would permit their persons to be profaned by a Christian pencil. The Koran, as we know, prohibits the representation of the human figure, as well as that of animals, as a beginning of and temptation to idolatry. One of the soldiers was asked, through the interpreter, why he would not consent to stand and have his portrait taken. “Because,” he answered, “in the figure which he will make the artist cannot put a soul. What is the purpose of his work then? God alone can create living beings, and it is a sacrilege to pretend to imitate them.” The mulatto boy answered, laughing, “Have my portrait taken! Yes, when I am asleep: then it does not matter, and I am not in fault; but never, if I know it, shall it be done.”

Then Signor Biseo began to draw one who was asleep. All the others, grouped about, stood turning their eyes, now on the painter, now on their sleeping companion. Presently the latter awoke, looked about him, made a gesture of displeasure, and went off grumbling, amid the laughter of his fellows, who seemed to be saying, “You are done for now.”

After an hour more on the road, we saw the white tents of the encampment, and a troop of horsemen, sprung from we knew not where, came toward us, yelling, and firing off their guns. At about ten paces off they stopped, their chief shook hands with the ambassador, and his men joined our escort. They proved to be soldiers of a species of landwehr belonging to the place where our camp was pitched, and forming part of the army of Morocco. Some had turbans, some a red handkerchief bound round the head, and all wore the white caftan.

The encampment was placed this time upon a barren spot; in the distance on one side was a chain of blue mountains, on the other verdant hills. At about half a mile from the tents were two groups of huts built of stubble, and half hidden among prickly-pear bushes.

We had hardly seated ourselves in the tent when a soldier came running, and planting himself before the ambassador, said, joyfully, “The muna.” “Let them come in,” said the ambassador, rising. We all rose to our feet.

A long file of Arabs, accompanied by the chief of the escort, the soldiers of the Legation, and servants, crossed the encampment, and, ranging themselves before our tent, deposited at the feet of the ambassador a great quantity of coal, eggs, sugar, butter, candles, bread, three dozen of hens, and eight sheep.

This tribute was the mona or muna. Besides the heavy tax they pay in money, the inhabitants of the country are obliged to furnish all official personages, the soldiers of the Sultan, and all envoys passing by, with a certain quantity of provisions. The Government fixes the quantity, but the local authorities demand whatever they please, without reference to the quantity received, although it may be more than is required, and it is always a small portion of that which has been extorted the month before, or will be extorted in the following month after the presentation.

An old man, who appeared to be the head of the deputation, addressed, through the interpreter, some obsequious words to the ambassador. The others, who were all poor peasants clothed in rags, looked at us, our tents, and their tribute—the fruit of their labor lying at our feet—with an air of mingled astonishment and depression which betrayed a profound resignation.

A division having been quickly made of the things, between the ambassador’s larder and that of the escort, muleteers, and soldiers, Signor Morteo, who had that morning been named Intendant-General of the camp, rewarded the old Arab, who made a sign to his companions, and all silently departed as they had come.

Then began, what was to take place every day from that time forth, a great squabbling among the servants, muleteers, and soldiers, over the sharing of the muna. It was a most amusing scene. Two or three of them went up and down with measured steps, carrying each a sheep in his arms, invoking Allah and the ambassador; others yelled out their discontent and enforced their reasoning by beating the ground with their fists; Civo fluttered about in his long white shirt with the profound conviction that he was very terrible; the sheep baa-d, the hens ran here and there, the dogs yelped. Suddenly up-rose the ambassador, and all was still.

The only one who continued to grumble was Selam.

Selam was a great personage. In reality there were two of the Legation soldiers who bore that name, both belonging to the special service of the ambassador; but, as when we say Napoleon we mean the first of that name, so when we said Selam we meant one, and one only.

He was a handsome young fellow, tall and slender, and full of cleverness. He understood every thing at a glance, did every thing with all his might, walked in a series of leaps, spoke with a look, and was in motion from morning until night. Everybody came to him, about the baggage, the tents, the kitchen, the horses, and he had an answer for all. He spoke Spanish badly and knew a few words of Italian, but could have made himself understood in Arabic, so speaking and picturesque was his pantomime. To indicate a hill, he made the gesture of a fiery colonel pointing out to his men a battery that is to be assaulted. To reprove a servant, he fell upon him as if he were about to annihilate him. He always reminded me of Salvini in “Othello,” or “Oromanes.” In whatever attitude he presented himself, whether pouring water on the ambassador’s spine, or galloping by on his chestnut horse, nailed to his saddle, he was always the same bold, graceful, and elegant figure. The two painters were never tired of looking at him. He wore a scarlet caftan and blue drawers, and was easily distinguished from one end of the camp to another. His name was in every mouth all over the encampment. When he was angry he was a savage; when he laughed, a child. Il Signor Ministro was for ever in his mouth and in his heart, for he placed him after Allah and the Prophet. Ten guns levelled at his breast would not have paled his cheek, and an undeserved rebuke from the ambassador made him cry. He was about five-and-twenty.

When he had done grumbling, he came near me and began opening a box. As he stooped, his fez fell off and I saw a large blood-mark on his head. In answer to my question, he said that he had been wounded by a loaf of sugar. “I threw it up in the air,” he said, with gravity, “and it came down on my head.” I looked amazed, and he explained—“I do it,” he said, “to harden my head. The first time I fell down insensible, but now it only draws a little blood. A time will come when it will not break the skin. All the Arabs do it. My father broke bricks as thick as two fingers on his head as easily as I would break a loaf of bread. A true Arab,” he concluded, with a haughty air, striking his head a blow with his fist, “should have a head of iron.”

The encampment that evening presented a very different aspect from that of the preceding days. Everybody had fallen into their own habits of passing the time. The artists had erected their easels and were hard at work in front of their tent. The captain had gone to observe the ground, the vice-consul to collect insects, the ex-Spanish minister to shoot partridges; the ambassador and the commandant were playing chess in the dining-tent; the servants were playing leap-frog; the soldiers of the escort conversed sitting in a circle; of the rest some walked about, some read, some wrote; one would have thought we had been there a month. If I had had a small printing-press I could have found it in my heart to edit a newspaper.

The weather was exquisite; we dined with the tent open, and during dinner the horsemen of Had-el-Garbia shouted, and fired off their guns, while the sun went down in splendor.

Opposite to me at table sat Mohammed Ducali. For the first time I was able to observe him attentively. He was a true type of the wealthy Moor—supple, elegant, and obsequious; I say wealthy, because he possessed, it was said, more than thirty houses at Tangiers, although at that time his affairs were supposed to be in some confusion. He might have been about forty years of age, was tall of stature, with regular features, fair, and bearded; he wore a small turban, twisted in a caic of the finest of the fabrics of Fez, which fell down over a purple embroidered caftan; he smiled to show his teeth, spoke Spanish in a feminine voice, and had the languid air of a young lover. In former days he had been a merchant; had been in Italy, in Spain, London, and Paris, and had returned to Morocco with some ideas of European customs. He drank wine, smoked cigarettes, wore stockings, read romances, and related his gallant adventures. The principal reason for his going to Fez was a debt owed him by the Government, which he hoped to get paid through the good offices of the ambassador. He had brought with him his own tent, servants, and mules. His glance gave one to understand that he would have brought his wives also had that been possible, but upon my hazarding a question in that direction he modestly dropped his eyes, and made no reply.

After dinner I satisfied a desire which I had nourished ever since leaving Tangiers, and went out to see the camp at night. I waited until every one had entered his tent, wrapped myself in a white mantle, and went out. The sky was studded with stars; the lights were all out, except the lantern that was attached to the flag-staff; a profound silence reigned throughout the camp. Very quietly, and avoiding a stumble over the tent-cords, I moved to the left, and had not made ten steps when an unexpected sound stopped me short. Some one appeared to be tuning a guitar, in a closed tent that I had never visited, and which stood about thirty paces outside of the circle of the camp. I approached and listened. The guitar accompanied a soft and very sweet voice singing an Arab ditty full of melancholy. Could there be a woman in this mysterious tent? It was closed on every side, so I lay down on my face and tried to peep underneath. Almost at the same moment a soft voice beside me said, “Quien es?” (Who is there?) “Allah protect me!” I thought, “there is a woman here.” I answered, aloud, “An inquisitive person,” with the most pathetic voice I could assume at the moment. A laugh responded, and a male voice said in Spanish, “Bravo! Come in and take a cup of tea!” It was the voice of Mohammed Ducali. He opened a little door, and I found myself within the tent, which was hung with some rich flowered stuff, ornamented with small arched windows, lighted by a Moorish lantern, and perfumed in a way to do honor to the fairest odalisque of the Sultan’s harem. And there, luxuriously stretched upon a Persian carpet, with his head on a rich cushion, lay a young Arab servant lad, of gentle and pensive aspect, with a guitar in his hands. In the middle of the tent there was a tea-service, and on one side smoked a perfume-burner. I explained to Ducali how I came to be so near his tent, took a cup of tea, listened to an air sung by the Arab musician, and taking my leave, resumed my wanderings. Avoiding another tent where more of Ducali’s servants were sleeping, I turned toward that of the ambassador.

Before the door lay Selam, stretched on his blue mantle, with his sabre by his side. “If I wake him, and he does not recognize me at once,” I thought, “it is all over with me! Let me be prudent.” I advanced on tip-toe, and peeped into the tent. It was divided in the middle by a rich curtain; on one side was the reception-room, with a table covered with a cloth, and writing materials, and a few gilded chairs. On the other side slept the ambassador and his friend, the ex-minister from Spain. I thought I would leave my card on the table, and advanced a step, when a low growl arrested me. It was Diana, the ambassador’s dog. Almost at the same moment the master’s voice called out, “Who’s that?”

“An assassin!” answered I.

He knew my voice, and called out, “Strike!” I explained the motive of my visit, at which he laughed, and giving me his hand in the darkness, wished me success in my undertaking. Coming out I stumbled over something which proved to be a tortoise, and as I struck a match to examine him, I discovered a monstrous toad sitting looking at me. For a moment I thought I would give up my enterprise, but curiosity overcoming disgust, I went on.

I reached the tent of the intendant. As I bent down to listen, a tall, white figure rose between me and the door, and said in sepulchral accents, “He sleeps.” I started back as at the apparition of a phantom, but recovered myself immediately. It was an Arab servant of Morteo’s, who had been with him for several years, and spoke a little Italian, and who, in spite of my white hood, had recognized me instantly. Like Selam, he had been stretched before the door of his master’s tent, with his sabre by his side. I wished him good-night, and went on my way.

In the next tent were the doctor and Solomon the dragoman. An acute odor of drugs pervaded the neighborhood, and there was a light inside. The doctor was seated at his table, reading; the dragoman was asleep, This physician, young, highly cultivated, and of very gentleman-like manners and appearance, had a very singular peculiarity. Born in Algeria of French parents, he had lived many years in Italy, and had married a Spanish wife. Not only did he speak the languages of the three countries with equal facility, but he partook of the characteristics of the three nations, loved all three countries alike, and was, in short, a sort of Latin three in one, who was equally at home in Rome, in Madrid, and in Paris. He was, besides, gifted with a most delicate and acute sense of the ridiculous; so that, without speaking, with one furtive glance, or slight movement of the lip, he could throw into relief the ridiculous side of a person or thing in a way to make one burst with laughter. At the sight of me, he guessed at once the reason of my presence, offered me a glass of wine, and raising his arm, whispered, “Success to your expedition!” “With the aid of Allah!” I rejoined, and left him to his reading.

Passing before the empty dinner-tent, I turned to the left, came out of the circle of the encampment, walked between two long rows of sleeping horses, and found myself among the tents of the escort. Listening, I could hear the breathing of the soldiers as they slept. Guns, sabres, saddles, shoulder-belts, poniards, were scattered about before the tents, together with the banner of Mahomet. I looked abroad, across the country; not a soul was visible. Only the two groups of cabins appeared like black and formless blots.

I turned back, passed between the American consul’s tent and that of his servants, both close-shut and silent, crossed a little space of ground where the kitchen had been planted, and stepping over a barricade of pots and saucepans, reached the little tent of the cook. With him were the two Arabs who served him as scullions. All was black within; I put in my head and called, “Gioanin!”

The poor fellow, afflicted by the non-success of an omelet, and perhaps worried by the neighborhood of his two “savages,” was not asleep. “Is that you?” he asked. “It is I.”

He was silent a moment, and then turning restlessly on his bed exclaimed, “Ah, che pais!” (Ah, what a country!)

“Courage!” I said; “think that in ten days we shall be before the walls of the great city of Fez.”

He muttered some confused words in which I could only distinguish the name of his native city in Italy, and, respecting his grief, I silently withdrew.

In the adjoining tent were the two sailors—Ranni, the commandant’s orderly, and Luigi, from the Dora, a Neapolitan, and such a kind, pleasant, handy young fellow, that in two days he had gained the good-will of all. They had a light, and were busy eating something. Lending an ear, I could hear some portions of their dialogue, which was very curious. Luigi inquired for whom were intended the crayon sketches which the two artists made in their albums. “Why, for the king, of course,” said Ranni. “What, without any color, like that?” demanded the other. “Oh no! when they get back to Italy, first they will color them, and then they will send them.” “Who knows how much the king will pay for them!” “Oh, a great deal, of course! Perhaps as much as a scudo (five francs) a leaf. Kings think nothing of money.”

Once more I left the circle of the encampment, and wandered for a minute or two among long rows of horses and mules, among which I recognized with emotion the white companion of my journey, apparently sunk in profound contemplation; and I next found myself before the tent of M. Vincent, a Frenchman residing at Tangiers, one of those mysterious personages who have been all over the world, speak all tongues, and understand all trades—cook, merchant, hunter, interpreter, reader of ancient inscriptions,—and who, having, with his own tent and horse, attached himself to the Italian Embassy in the capacity of high director of the kitchen, was now going to Fez to sell to the Government French uniforms bought in Algeria.

I looked in at him through a crack. He was seated on a box, in a meditative attitude, with a great pipe in his mouth, by the light of a small candle stuck in a bottle. But what a strange figure! He reminded me of those old alchemists in the Dutch pictures, musing in their studies, their faces illuminated by the fire of an alembic. Meagre, bent, and bony, he looked as if every episode of his life had been written in the wrinkles of his visage and in the angles of his form. Who knows what he was thinking about? What memories of adventurous journeys, strange meetings, mad undertakings, and odd personages were mingling in his head? Perhaps, after all, he was only thinking of the price of a pair of Turco breeches, or about his scanty provision of tobacco. Just as I was going to speak he blew out his light with a puff, and vanished into the darkness like a magician.

A few paces further on were the tents of the commandant of the escort, that of his first officer, and that of the chief of the horsemen of Had-el-Garbia. I was in the act of looking into one of these when a light step came behind me, and a hand of steel closed upon my arm. I turned, and found myself face to face with the mulatto general. He withdrew his hand at once, and with a laugh, said, in a tone of apology, “Salamu alikum! salimu alikum!” (Peace be with you!) He had taken me for a thief. We shook hands in token of amity, and I went on.

In a few moments I saw before me what appeared to be a hooded figure seated on the ground with musket in hand, and concluded that this must be a sentinel. About fifty paces further on, there was another, and then a third; a chain of them all around the encampment. I learned later that this vigilance was from no fear of violence, but simply to guard the tents from thieves, who abound there, and are extremely clever at their trade, having much practice among the tribes who live in tents. Fortunately the frankness of my movements aroused no suspicion, and I was allowed to finish my excursion.

I passed by Malek and Saladin, the envoy’s two fiery steeds, stumbled over another tortoise, and stopped before the tent of the footmen. They were lying on a little straw, one upon the top of the other, and sleeping so profoundly that they seemed like a heap of corpses. The boy with the great black eyes lay with half his body outside of the tent, and I narrowly missed stepping on his face. I felt so sorry for him that, wishing to give him a little comfort in the morning when he should wake, I placed a piece of money in his hand that lay open on the grass, palm upward, as if begging charity from the spirits of the night.

A murmur of merry voices drew me away to a neighboring tent, where were the soldiers and servants of the Embassy; they appeared to be eating and drinking. I perceived the odor of kif, and recognized the voices of Selam the Second, Abd-el-Rhaman, and others; it was an Arab orgie in full swing. The poor fellows had well earned a little diversion after the fatigues of the day, and I passed on without disturbing their merriment by my presence. In a few moments I reached the artists’ tent, which completed the circle of the encampment, and my nocturnal excursion was over.

CHAPTER III.
TLETA DE REISSANA.

The next morning we started before sunrise in a thick wet fog, which chilled us to the bone and hid us from each other. The horsemen of the escort had their cowls over their heads, and their guns slung across their shoulders. We were all wrapped in cloaks and mantles; it seemed like autumn in the Low Countries. In front of me I could discern nothing distinctly save the white turban and blue cloak of the Caid; all the others were confused shadows lost in the gray mist. We went onward in silence over the rough ground covered with dwarf palms, broom and wild plums, and fennel, in groups compact or scattered according to the crossing or forking of the road. The sun, appearing in the horizon, gilded our left side a moment, and again vanished. The mist presently grew thinner, and we could catch glimpses of the country. It was a succession of green valleys, into which we descended and came up again almost unconsciously, so gradual were the slopes. The banks were covered with the aloe and the wild olive. The olive which grows prodigiously here is left almost everywhere in its wild state, and the inhabitants use the fruit of the argan for light and food. We saw no signs of habitation, neither houses nor tents. We seemed to be travelling through a virgin country. From valley to valley, from solitude to solitude, after about three hours’ journeying we finally reached a point where the larger trees and wider paths, and a few scattered cattle here and there, gave token of an inhabited place. One after the other our mounted escort spurred their horses and galloped away over a height, others darted off in another direction, the rest arranged themselves in close order. Presently we found ourselves in front of the opening of a gorge formed by low hills, upon which stood some huts. A few ragged Arabs of both sexes looked curiously at us from behind the hedge. As we rode into the gorge the sun shone out, and, turning an abrupt angle, we found ourselves in front of a wonderful spectacle.

Three hundred horsemen, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow, and scattered in a sort of grand disorder, came toward us at full speed, with their muskets held aloft, as if they were rushing to the assault. It was the escort from the province of Laracce, preceded by the governor and his officials, coming to relieve the escort of Had-el-Garbia, which was to leave us on the confines of the province of Tangiers, a point that we had now reached.

The governor of Laracce, a dignified old man with a great white beard, stopped the advance of his horsemen with a sign of his hand, saluted the envoy, and then, turning to the troop, who seemed boiling over with impatience, made a vigorous gesture as if to say, “Break loose!” Then began one of the most splendid lab-el-baroda (or powder-plays) that could be desired.

They charged in couples, by tens, one by one, in the bottom of the valley, on the hills, in front and at the sides of the caravan, forward and backward, firing and yelling without cessation. In a few minutes the valley was as full of the smoke and smell of powder as a battle-field. On every side horses pranced, arms glittered, mantles floated, and red, yellow, green, blue, and orange caftans mingled with the shine of sabres and poniards. One by one they darted by, like winged phantoms, old and young, men of colossal proportions, strange and terrible figures, erect in their stirrups, with heads thrown back, hair streaming in the wind, and muskets held aloft; and each as he discharged his piece gave a savage cry, which the interpreter translated for us:—“Have a care!” “Oh, my mother!” “In the name of God!” “I kill thee!” “Thou art dead!” “I am avenged!” Some dedicated the shot to a special purpose or person: “To my master!” “To my horse!” “To my dead!” “To my sweetheart!” They fired up and down, and behind, bending and twisting as though they had been tied to the saddle. Here and there one would lose his turban or his mantle, and he would turn in full career and pick it up with the point of his musket. Some threw their guns up in the air and caught them as they fell. Their looks and gestures were like those of men mad with drink, and risking their lives in a sort of joyful fury. Most of the horses dripped blood from their bellies, and the feet and stirrups, and extremities of the mantles of the riders, were all bloody. Some faces in that multitude impressed themselves upon my memory from the first. Among others, a young man with a Cyclopean head and an immense pair of shoulders, dressed in a rose-colored caftan, and who emitted a succession of roars like those of a wounded lion; a lad of fifteen, handsome, bareheaded, and all in white, who passed three times, crying, “My God! my God!” a long, bony old man, with a most ill-omened visage, who flew by with half-shut eyes and a satanic grin upon his face, as if he carried the plague behind him; a black, all eyes and teeth, with a monstrous scar across his forehead, who writhed furiously about in his saddle, as if to free himself from the clutch of some invisible hand.

In this fashion they accompanied the march of the caravan, ascending and descending the heights, forming groups, dissolving and re-forming, with every combination of color, till they seemed like the fluttering of a myriad of banners.

At a short distance from the end of the gorge the ambassador stopped, and we all dismounted to enjoy a little repose and refreshment under the shade of a group of olive-trees, but the escort from Laracce continued to exercise before us. The baggage-train went on toward the spot selected for the camp.

We had reached the Cuba of Sidi-Liamani.

In Morocco they give the name of Cuba (or cupola) to a small square chapel, with a low dome, in which a saint lies buried. These Cube, very frequent in the southern part of the empire, placed in general near a spring and a palm-tree, and visible by their snowy whiteness from a great distance, serve as guides to the traveller, are visited by the faithful, and are for the most part in charge of a descendant of the saint, heir to his sanctity, who inhabits a hut close by, and lives by the alms of pious pilgrims. The Cuba of Sidi-Liamani was posted upon a little eminence at a few paces distant from us. Some Arabs were seated before the door. Behind them protruded the head of a decrepit old man—the saint—who looked at us with stupid wonder.

In a few minutes our kitchen fires were lighted, and we were breakfasting; while an empty sardine box, thrown away by the cook, and picked up by the Arabs, was carried to the Cuba for examination, and made the object of a long and animated discussion. Meantime, the lab-el-baroda being over, the horsemen had dismounted, and were scattered all about the valley; some of them were resting, some pasturing their horses, while others, seated in their saddles, remained to keep watch as sentinels upon the heights.

As I walked about with the captain, I then for the first time observed the horses of Morocco. They are all small, so much so, that upon my return to Europe, after having become accustomed to them, even middle-sized horses seemed at first enormous to me. They have brilliant eyes, the forehead a little flattened, very wide nostrils, the cheek-bone very prominent, the whole head beautiful; the shin-bone and tibia slightly curved, which gives a peculiar elasticity of movement; the crupper very sloping, rendering them more able to gallop than to trot, indeed, I do not remember ever to have seen a horse trot in Morocco. Seen in repose or merely walking past, even the finest of them make no show; but put to a gallop, they are quite changed, and become superb. Although they have much less food, and are more heavily caparisoned than ours, they bear fatigue much better. Also the manner of riding is different. The stirrups are very short, and the reins very long. The rider sits with his knees almost at a right angle, and the saddle, extremely high before and behind, holds him in a way that makes it almost impossible for him to be thrown. The horsemen wear heelless boots of yellow leather. Most of them have no spurs, but use instead of them the angle of the stirrup; some wear a small iron point in the shape of a dagger, fastened to the heel by a metal band and chain. Wonderful things are told of the great love of an Arab for his horse, the animal of the Prophet’s predilection; he is said to consider him as a sacred being; that every morning at sunrise he places his hand upon his steed’s head, and murmurs Bismillah! (in the name of God), and then kisses the hand, which has been sanctified by the touch; and that he is prodigal of cares and caresses. It may be all true. But as far as I could see, the Arab’s great affection for his horse did not prevent him from lacerating his sides in a quite unnecessary way, or from leaving him in the sun when he could have put him in the shade, or from taking him a long distance to drink, with his legs hobbled, or from exposing him a dozen times a day to the danger of breaking his limbs, out of pure mischief, or, finally, from neglecting his trappings in a way that would put him in prison for six months if he belonged to a European cavalry regiment.

The heat being very great we remained some hours at our resting-place, but no one could sleep by reason of the insects. It was the first warning of the great battle that was to be waged, growing hotter every day, until the end of the journey. Hardly had we stretched ourselves upon the ground when we were assaulted, stung, and tormented on every side, as if we had chosen a bed of nettles. Caterpillars, spiders, monstrous ants, hornets, and grasshoppers, big, impudent, and determined, swarmed about us. The commandant, who had taken upon himself to raise our spirits by always exaggerating the perils of the way, now assured us that these creatures might be considered microscopic compared with the insects that we should encounter at Fez and later in the summer; and he declared that so little would be left of us upon our return to Italy that our best friends would not know us. The cook listened to these remarks with a forced smile, and became pensive. Close by there was a monstrous spider’s web, spread over some bushes like a sheet hung out to dry. The commandant exclaimed that every thing in that country was gigantic, formidable, miraculous! and insisted that the spider which had made that web must be as large as a horse. But we could not discover him. The only ones of us who slept were the Arabs, curled up in the burning sun with a procession of creeping things marching over them. The two artists tried to sketch, surrounded by a cloud of ferocious flies, which drew from Ussi a whole rich litany of Florentine oaths.

The heat becoming less, the escort from Had-el-Garbia, the American Consul, and the Vice-Governor of Tangiers, took leave of the ambassador and turned back, while we pursued our way, accompanied by the three hundred horsemen from Laracce.

Vast undulating plains, covered here with corn and there with barley, further on with yellow stubble or with grass and flowers; here a few black tents and the tomb of a saint; now and then a palm-tree; from mile to mile three or four horsemen coming to join our escort; an immense solitude, a sky of perfect purity, a burning sun: such are the notes I find in my note-book as to the march of May 5th.

The encampment was at Tleta de Reissana. We found the tents pitched as usual in a circle, in a deep and shell-shaped gorge so overgrown with tall grass and flowers that they almost impeded our steps. It seemed like a great garden. Beds and boxes in the tents were almost hidden by tall flowers of every form and color. Close to the tent of the two painters rose two enormous aloes in blossom.

The Italian Consular Agent from Laracce met us here. He was Signor G——, an old Genoese merchant, who had lived for forty years on the Atlantic coast, jealously preserving the accent of his native town; and toward evening arrived, from no one knew where, an Arab who wished to consult the doctor of the Embassy.

He was a poor old man, lame and bent; Signor Miguerez, who spoke Arabic, questioned him about his ailments, and searched in the portable medicine chest for a remedy. Not finding the right one, he sent for Mohammed Ducali, and made him write down a prescription in Arabic, by means of which the sick man was to be treated when he got back to his family and friends. It was a medicine much in use among the Arabs. Whilst Ducali wrote, the old man muttered prayers; and when it was ready, the paper was handed to him.

Instantly, before there was time to say one word, he crammed it into his mouth with both hands. The doctor called out: “No! no! spit it out! spit it out!” But it was of no use. The poor old fellow chewed the paper with the avidity of a starving creature, swallowed it, thanked the doctor, and turned to go away. They had all the pains in the world to persuade him that the virtue of the medicine did not reside in the paper, and that another prescription must be written.

The incident cannot surprise any one who knows what the science of medicine is in Morocco. It is almost exclusively exercised by quacks, necromancers, and “saints.” Some juices of herbs, blood-letting, sarsaparilla for certain diseases, the dry skin of a serpent or chameleon for intermittent fevers, a hot iron for wounds, certain verses from the Koran written upon the medicine bottles, or on bits of paper worn round the sick man’s neck; these are the principal remedies. The study of anatomy being forbidden by their religion, it is easy to imagine to what a pass surgery is reduced. Amputation is held in abhorrence. The few Arabs who are within reach of the aid of European surgeons would prefer to die in atrocious spasms rather than submit to the cut that would save their lives. It follows that though cases of injury to a limb are frequent in Morocco, especially from the explosion of fire-arms, there are very few mutilated persons; and those few are for the most part poor wretches whose hands have been cut off by the executioner with a dull knife, and the hemorrhage stopped by the application of boiling pitch. These violent remedies, however, especially the red-hot iron, sometimes obtain admirable effects; and they apply them themselves brutally, boldly, without any aid. Either by reason of small nervous sensibility, or from their souls having been hardened in a fatalistic faith, they resist the most horrible pain with tremendous force of will. They go through the operation of cupping with an earthen pot and enough fire to roast the spine; they open boils with their daggers, driving them in at the risk of cutting an artery; and they will apply fire to an open wound on their own arm, blowing away the smoke of the frizzling flesh without a groan. The maladies that are most prevalent are fevers, ophthalmia, scald-head, elephantiasis, and dropsy; but the most common of all is syphilis, handed down from generation to generation, altered and reproduced in strange and horrid forms, with which whole tribes are infected, and of which a large proportion die; and the mortality would no doubt be even greater but for their extreme sobriety in eating, to which both their poverty and the exigencies of the climate compel them. European physicians there are none excepting in the cities of the coast; in Fez itself there are none, unless some renegade quack who has fled from Algeria or the Spanish garrisons may be counted such. When the Emperor, or a Minister, or a rich Moor falls ill, he sends for a European doctor from the coast. But this is never done except in cases of extremity, and they hide their infirmities for years, so that when the physician does arrive, it is often only to see his patient die. They have great faith in the skill of European doctors; the sight of the drugs, the chemical preparations, the surgical instruments, give them an immense idea of the power of science; they promise themselves prodigies, following the first prescriptions with the docility and cheerfulness of people quite certain of a prompt cure. But if the cure is not immediate, they lose all faith, and go back to their quacks.

The evening passed without any event worth noting, beyond the discovery of a monstrous scorpion of preternatural blackness on the pillow of my bed. I was seized with a momentary terror, and carefully threw the light upon him as I approached with cautious steps; whereupon I was able to read upon his back the following reassuring inscription: “Ceasar Biseo made it—May 5th, 1875.”

At dawn in the morning we left for the city of Alkazar. The weather was dark. The gorgeous colors of the soldiers of our escort shone out with marvellous force against the gray sky and the dark green of the country. Hamed Ben Kasen Buhamei planted himself upon a height above the road and looked complacently down upon the brilliant cavalcade as they filed by in close order, silent, grave, with eyes fixed upon the horizon, like the advance guard of an army on the morning of a battle. For some time we rode among olive-trees and high bushes; then we entered a vast plain all covered with flowers, violet and yellow, where the escort scattered to go through the lab-el-barode. It would be impossible to convey an idea of the strange beauty of the spectacle upon that flowery plain, under the threatening sky. I can scarcely believe that they had any rule by which they grouped themselves and dissolved again to form new combinations, but that morning I fancied it. One would have sworn that their movements were directed by a ballet-master. In the midst of a group of blue mantles there would appear, as if sent on purpose, one in a white cloak; and a company of white caftans surrounded a figure in brilliant rose-color, looking as if made by the stroke of an artist’s brush. Harmonious colors followed, met, and mingled for the space of a moment, and then dissolved to form new harmonies. The three hundred seemed multiplied into an army; they were everywhere wheeling and swooping like a flock of birds; and the two painters were driven to despair by them.

“Ah, canaglie!”—exclaimed one,—“if I only had you in my clutch at Florence!”

CHAPTER IV.
ALKAZAR-EL-KEBIR.

At a certain point the ambassador made a sign to the caid, and the escort came to a stand, while we, accompanied by a few soldiers, went a short distance beyond to visit the ruins of a bridge. The place was worthy of the silent respect with which we stood and viewed the little that remained of what was once a bridge. Three hundred years ago, on the fourth of August, over those flowery fields, fifty cannon and forty thousand horsemen thundered and charged under the command of one of the greatest captains of Africa, and the youngest, the most adventurous, the most unfortunate of European monarchs. On the shores of that river were put to death—by the implacable scimitars of Arabs, Turks, and Berbers—the flower of the Portuguese nobility, courtiers, bishops, Spanish soldiers, and soldiers of William of Orange, Italian, German, and French adventurers. Six thousand Christians fell that day. We stood upon the field of that terrible battle of Alkazar, which spread consternation throughout Europe, and sent a shout of joy from Fez to Constantinople. Over that bridge passed at that time the road to Alkazar. Near it was the camp of Muley Moluk, Sultan of Morocco. Muley Moluk came from Alkazar, the King of Portugal from Arzilla. The battle was fought upon that plain, and along the shores of the river. Beyond the ruins of the bridge there was not a stone or a sign to record it. From which side had the cavalry of the Duke of Riveiro made its first victorious charge? Where had Muley Ahmed fought the brother of the Sultan, the future conqueror of the Soudan, a captain suspected of cowardice in the morning, a victorious monarch in the evening? At what point on the river was drowned Mohammed the Black, the dis-crowned fratricide and provoker of the war? At what angle of the field had King Sebastian received those death-wounds that killed with him the independence of Portugal and the last hopes of Camoens? And where stood the litter of Sultan Moluk when he expired among his officers, with his finger on his lip? Whilst these thoughts were passing through our minds, the escort stood afar off, motionless on that famous field, like a handful of Muley Ahmed’s cavalry brought to life by the noise of our passage. And yet very likely not one among those soldiers knew that this had been the battlefield of three kings, the glory of their ancestors; and when we resumed our march, they glanced about with curious eyes, as if seeking among the grass and flowers for the reason of our halt.

We crossed the Mkhacem and the Uarrur, two small affluents of the Kus, or Lukkos, the Lixos of the ancients, which from the mountains of the Rif where it is born, throws itself into the Atlantic at Laracce; and continued our way toward Alkazar over a succession of arid hills, meeting only an occasional camel with his driver.

At last, we thought as we rode along, we shall arrive at a city! It was three days since we had seen a house, and every one felt a wish to get away for a day from the monotony of desert life. Besides, Alkazar was the first of the towns of the interior that we should reach, and our curiosity was very lively. The escort fell into order as we approached the place. We almost unconsciously ranged ourselves in two ranks, with the ambassador in front flanked by his two interpreters. The weather had cleared up, and a cheerful impatience animated the whole caravan.

Suddenly, from the top of a hill, we saw in the plain below, surrounded by gardens, the city of Alkazar, crowned with towers, minarets, and palms, and at the same moment there burst forth the cracking of musketry and the sound of a most infernal din of music.

It was the governor coming to meet us with his staff, a company of foot-soldiers, and a band of music. In a few minutes we met.

Ah! He who has not seen the Alkazar band, with its ten pipers, and horn-players, old men of a hundred years and boys of ten, all mounted on donkeys about as large as dogs, ragged and half naked, with their shaven heads, their satyr-like gestures, their mummy faces, has not seen, I think, the most sadly comic spectacle that can be witnessed under the wide sky.

Whilst the aged governor was giving welcome to our chief, the soldiers fired their muskets in the air, and the band continued to play. We advanced to within half a mile of the city, to an arid field where the tents were to be pitched.

The band accompanied us, still playing. The dinner tent was pitched and made ready, and we entered it while the escort fired their muskets.

Meanwhile the band, ranged before the tent, continued to blow with increasing ferocity, but a supplicating gesture from the ambassador silenced it at last. Then we assisted at a curious scene.

Almost at the same moment there presented themselves to the ambassador, one on the right and the other on the left, a black man and an Arab. The black, handsomely dressed in a white turban and a blue caftan, deposited at his feet a jar of milk, a basket of oranges, and a dish of cùcùssù; the Arab, poorly attired in the usual burnouse, placed before him a sheep. This done, the two darted lightning glances at each other. They were two mortal enemies. The ambassador, who knew them and expected them, called the interpreter, sat down, and began to question them.

They had come to ask for justice. The black was a sort of factor or steward of the old Grand Scherif Bacali, one of the most powerful personages at the court of Fez, proprietor of much land in the neighborhood of Alkazar. The Arab was a countryman. Their dispute had been going on for some time. The black, strong in the protection of his master, had several times imprisoned and fined the Arab, accusing him, and supporting his accusation with many proofs, of having stolen horses, cattle, and goods. The Arab, who insisted that he was innocent, finding no one willing to take up his defence against his persecutor, had abandoned his village one fine day, and going to Tangiers, had there enquired who among the foreign ambassadors was most just and generous. Being told that it was the Minister from Italy, he had cut the throat of a sheep before the gate of the Legation, asking in this sacred form, to which no refusal was possible, for protection and justice. The ambassador had listened to his story, had intervened through the agent at Laracce, and had called upon the authorities at Alkazar to see to it; but his own distance, the intrigues of the black, and the weakness of the authorities, had all combined to put the poor Arab in a worse condition than at first; and he was indeed again accused and subjected to new persecutions. Now the presence of the ambassador was to undo the knot. Both individuals were admitted to tell each his own story; the interpreters rapidly translating.

Nothing more dramatic can be imagined than the contrast between the figures and the language of the two men.

The Arab, a man of about thirty years of age, of a sickly and suffering aspect, spoke with irresistible fervor, trembling, shivering, invoking God, striking the earth with his fists, covering his face with his hands with a gesture of despair, fulminating at his enemy with glances that no words can describe. He declared that the other had suborned witnesses, intimidated the authorities, that he had imprisoned him, the speaker, solely to extort money, that he had cast many others into prison in order to possess their wives, that he had sworn his death, that he was the scourge of the country, an accursed of God, an infamous being; and, as he spoke, he showed the marks of the fetters upon his naked limbs, and his voice was choked with anguish. The black, whose every feature confirmed one, at least, of these accusations, listened without looking, answered quietly, smiled slightly with the edge of his lip, impassive and sinister as a statue of Perfidy.

The discussion had lasted for some time, and seemed yet far from a conclusion, when the ambassador cut it short by a decision that was received favorably by both parties. He called Selim, who appeared upon the instant with his great black eyes shining, and ordered him to mount his horse and gallop to the Arab’s village, distant an hour and a half from Alkazar, and there gather from the inhabitants information concerning the persons and the facts. The black thought:—“They are afraid of me; they will either be silent, or speak in my favor.” The Arab thought, and he was quite right, that interrogated by a soldier of the embassy, they would have courage to speak the truth.

Selim darted off like an arrow; the two disputants vanished and were seen no more. We heard afterward that the village people had all testified in favor of the Arab, and that the black had been condemned, through the intervention of the ambassador, to restore to his victim the money he had extorted from him.

Meantime the tents had been pitched, the usual poor wretches had brought the usual muna, and a few of the inhabitants of the city had come into the encampment.

As soon as it began to grow cooler, we proceeded toward Alkazar on foot, preceded, flanked, and followed by an armed force.

We saw from a distance, in passing, a singular edifice, between the camp and the town, all arches and cupolas, with a court in the midst, like a cemetery. It proved to be one of those zania, now fallen into disuse, which, when Moorish civilization flourished, contained a library, a school of letters and sciences, a hospital for the poor, an inn for travellers, besides a mosque and a sepulchral chapel; they belonged, and belong still in general, to the religious orders.

People Of Alkazar.

We approached the gates of the city. It is surrounded by old battlemented walls; near the gate by which we entered were some tombs of saints surmounted by green domes. Hearing a great noise over our heads we looked up, and found it proceeded from some large storks, erect upon the roofs of the houses, which were clattering their bills together, as if to give warning of our coming. We entered a street; the women rushed into their houses; the children took to flight. The houses are small, unplastered, without windows, and divided by dark and dirty alleys. The streets look like the beds of torrents. At some of the corners lie entire carcases of donkeys and dogs. We trudge through the dirt, among great stones, and deep holes, stumbling and jumping. The inhabitants begin to gather upon our track, looking at us with amazement. The soldiers make way for us with their fists and the butts of their muskets, with a zeal which the ambassador hastens to restrain. A throng of people now follow and precede us. When one of us turns suddenly round, all stop, some run away, and others hide themselves. Here and there a woman slams her door in our faces, and a child utters a yell of terror. The women look like bundles of dirty rags; the children are in general quite naked; boys of ten or twelve have nothing on but a shirt tied round the waist with a cord. Little by little the people about us grow bolder. They look curiously at our trousers and boots. Some boys venture to touch the skirts of our coats. The general expression of the faces is far from benevolent. A woman, in full flight, throws some words at the ambassador which the interpreter translates:—“God confound thy race!” A young man cries out:—“God grant us a good day of victory over these!” We reach a small square, so steep and stony that we can with difficulty climb it, and pass a line of horrible old women almost completely naked, seated on the ground, with bread and other matters before them which they appear to be selling. In the streets through which we pass there is at every hundred paces a great arched door, which is closed at night. The houses are everywhere naked, cracked, gloomy. We enter a bazaar, roofed with canes and branches of trees that are falling down on every side. The shops are mere niches; the shopmen, wax figures; the merchandise, rubbish offered in joke and hopeless of a purchaser. In every corner are crouched sad, sleepy, stupid-looking figures; children with scald-heads; old women with no semblance of humanity. We seem to be wandering in the halls of a hospital. The air is full of aromatic odors. Not a voice is heard. The crowd accompanies us in spectral silence. We come out of the bazaar. We meet Moors on horseback, camels with their burthens, a fury who shakes her fist at the ambassador, an old saint crowned with a laurel wreath, who laughs in our faces. At a certain point we began to see men dressed in black, with long hair, their heads covered with a blue handkerchief, who looked smilingly at us, and made humble salutations. One of these, a ceremonious old gentleman, presently came forward and invited the ambassador to visit the Mellà, or Jews’ quarter, called by the Arabs by that insulting name, which signifies accursed ground. The ambassador accepting, we passed under a vaulted door or gateway, and engaged in a labyrinth of alleys more hideous, more wretched, and more fetid than those of the Arab city, between houses that seemed mere dens, across small squares like stable-yards, from which could be seen courts like sewers; and from every side of this dirt-heap emerged beautiful women and girls, smiling and murmuring:—Buenos dias!—Buenos dias! In some places we were obliged to stop our noses and pick our way on the tips of our toes. The ambassador was indignant. “How is it possible,” said he to the old Jew, “that you can live in such filth?”

“It is the custom of the country,” he replied.

“The custom of the country! It is shameful! And you ask the protection of the Legations, talk of civilization, call the Moors savages! You, who live worse than they, and have the face to pride yourselves upon it!” The Hebrew hung his head and smiled, as if he thought:—“What strange ideas!”

As we came out of the Mellà the crowd again surrounded us. The vice-consul patted a child on the head, and there were signs of astonishment; a favorable murmur arose; the soldiers were obliged to drive back the boys who crowded in upon us. We went with quickened pace up a deserted street, leaving the crowd gradually behind us, and coming outside the walls into a road bordered by enormous cactus and tall palm trees, felt with a long breath of relief that we were free of the city and its people.

Such is the city of Alkazar, commonly called Alkazar-el-Kebir, which signifies—the great Palace. Tradition says that it was founded in the twelfth century by that Abou-Yussuf Yacoub-el-Mansur, of the dynasty of the Almoadi, who conquered Alonzo IX of Castile at the battle of Alarcos, and who built the famous tower of the Giralda at Seville. It is related that one evening he lost his way while hunting, and that a fisherman sheltered him in his hut. The Caliph in gratitude built for him on the same spot a great palace with some other houses, around which clustered gradually the city. It was once a flourishing and populous place; now it has about five thousand inhabitants, between Moors and Jews, and is very poor, although it draws some advantages from being on the road of the caravans that traverse the empire from north to south.

Passing near one of the gates we saw an Arab boy of about twelve years old walking stiffly and with difficulty, with his legs wide apart in the most awkward attitude. Other boys were following him. When he came near we saw that he had a great bar of iron about a foot in length fixed between his legs by two rings around his ankles. He was a lean and dirty lad, with an ill-favored countenance. The ambassador questioned him through the interpreter:

“Who put that bar upon you?”

“My father,” answered the boy, boldly.

“For what reason?”

“Because I will not learn to read.”

We did not believe him, but a town Arab who was present confirmed what he had said.

“Have you worn it long?”

“Three years,” he answered, smiling bitterly.

We thought it all a lie. But the Arab again confirmed it, adding that the boy slept with the bar upon him, and that all Alkazar knew him. Then the ambassador, moved with compassion, made him a little speech, exhorting him to study, to get rid of that shame and torture, and not to dishonor his family; and when the interpreter had repeated it, he was asked what his answer was.

“My answer is this,” replied the boy, “that I will wear the iron all my life, but that I will never learn to read, and that I will die before I yield.”

The ambassador looked fixedly at him, but he sustained his glance with unflinching eye.

“Gentlemen,” said the ambassador, turning to us, “our mission is over.” We returned to the camp, and the boy with his iron bar re-entered the city.

“A few years more,” said a soldier, “and there will be another head over the Alkazar gate.”

CHAPTER V.
BEN-AUDA.

The next morning, at sunrise, we forded the river Kus, on the right bank of which the city of Alkazar is situated, and again advanced over an undulating, flowery, solitary country, whose confines stretched beyond our sight. The escort was scattered in a number of detached groups, looking like so many little cortéges of a Sultan. The artists galloped here and there, sketch-book in hand, sketching horses and riders. The rest of the members of the embassy talked of the invasion of the Goths, of commerce, of scorpions, of philosophy, eagerly listened to by the mounted servants who came behind. Civo lent particular attention to a philosophic discussion; Hamed listened to his master, who was telling about a wild-boar hunt, in which he had risked his life. This Hamed was, after Selim, the most notable personage in the whole category of servants, soldiers, and grooms. He was an Arab of about thirty years old, very tall, bronzed, muscular, strong as a bull; but he had also a beardless face, the softest dark eyes, a voice, a smile, a grace in all his movements, which made the most marked contrast with his powerful person. He wore a white turban, a blue jacket, and Zouave trousers; spoke Spanish, knew how to do every thing, and pleased everybody, so that the vain-glorious Selim was jealous of him. The others also were all more or less handsome young fellows, attentive, and full of obsequious solicitude. When one of us looked back, he encountered their big eyes asking whether he needed any thing. “What a pity,” thought I, “that we should not be attacked by a band of robbers, so that we might see all these nimble fellows put to the proof!”

We had ridden about two hours when we began to meet people. The first was a black horseman, who held in his hand one of those little sticks with an inscription in Arabic, called herrez, which the monks give to travellers to preserve them from robbers and illness. Then came some ragged old women bearing great bundles of wood upon their shoulders. Oh, power of fanaticism! Bent as they were, tired, breathless, they still found strength to launch a curse at us. One murmured, “God curse these infidels!” Another, “God keep us from the evil spirit!” About an hour later we met a courier, a poor lean Arab, bearing letters in a leathern bag slung about his neck. He stopped to say that he came from Fez, and was going to Tangiers. The ambassador gave him a letter for Tangiers, and he hastened on his way.

Such, and no other, is the postal service of Morocco, and nothing can be more wretched than the lives of these couriers. They eat nothing on their journey but a little bread and a few figs; they stop only at night for a few hours to sleep, with a cord tied to the foot, to which they set fire before going to sleep, and which wakens them within a certain time; they travel whole days without seeing a tree or a drop of water; they cross forests infested with wild boar, climb mountains inaccessible to mules, swim rivers, sometimes walk, sometimes run, sometimes roll down declivities, or climb ascents on feet and hands, under the August sun, under the drenching autumn rains, under the burning desert wind, taking four days from Tangiers to Fez, a week from Tangiers to Morocco, from one extremity of the empire to the other, alone, barefooted, half-naked; and when they have reached their journey’s end, they go back! And this they do for a few francs.

At about half-way from Alkazar to our destination the road began to ascend very gradually until we reached a height from whence we saw another immense plain covered with vast tracts of yellow, red, and white flowers, looking like stretches of snow, striped with gold and crimson. Over this plain there came galloping to meet us some two hundred horsemen, with muskets resting on their saddle, led by a figure all in white, which Mohammed Ducali recognized and announced in a loud voice to be the governor of Ben-Auda.

We had reached the confines of the province of Seffian, called also Ben-Auda, from the family name of the governor, which signifies son of a mare; a name which had taken my fancy before leaving Tangiers.

We descended into the plain, and the two hundred of Seffian having drawn up in a line with the three hundred of Laracce, the governor Ben-Auda presented himself to our chief.

If I live to be a hundred years old I shall never forget that countenance. He was a lean old man, with savage eyes, a forked nose,[^[1]] a lipless mouth cut in the form of a semicircle turned downward. Arrogance, superstition, Venus, kif, idleness, and satiety were written upon his visage. A big turban covered his forehead and ears. A curved dagger hung from his girdle.

The ambassador dismissed the commander of the escort from Laracce, who at once withdrew with his horsemen at a gallop; and we went on with the new escort, and the usual accompaniment of charging and firing.

Their faces were blacker, their robes more gaudy, their horses finer, their yells more extraordinary, their charges and manœuvres more wildly impetuous than any we had yet seen. The further we advanced, the more apparent became the local color of all things.

In all that multitude twelve horsemen, dressed with unusual elegance and mounted on beautiful horses, were conspicuous, even in the eyes of the Arabs. Five of them were colossal young men, who appeared to be brothers; all had pale bronzed faces and great black brilliant eyes under enormous turbans, These five were the sons, and the other seven, nephews of the governor Ben-Auda.

The firing and charging went on for about an hour, at which time we reached a garden belonging to the governor, where we dismounted to rest and refresh ourselves.

It was a grove of orange and lemon trees, planted in parallel rows, and so thickly as to form an intricate green roof, under which one enjoyed the coolness, shade, and perfume of paradise.

The governor dismounted with us, and presented his sons,—five as handsome, dignified, and amiable faces as are often to be seen. One after the other pressed our hands, with a slight bow, casting down his eyes with an air of boyish shyness.

We were all presently seated in the garden, upon a beautiful carpet from Rabat, where we were served with breakfast. The governor of Ben-Auda sat upon a mat at twenty paces from us, and also breakfasted, waited upon by his slaves. Then ensued a curious exchange of courtesies between him and the ambassador. First, Ben-Auda sent a vase of milk as an offering: the ambassador returned it with a beefsteak. The milk was followed by butter, the beefsteak by an omelet; the butter by a sweet dish, the omelet by a box of sardines; the whole accompanied by a thousand coldly ceremonious gestures—hands clasped upon the breast, and eyes turned up to heaven with a comical expression of gastronomic enthusiasm. The sweet dish, by the way, was a species of tart made of honey, eggs, butter, and sugar, of which the Arabs are extremely fond, and about which they have an odd superstition—that if while the woman is cooking it a man should happen to enter the room, the tart goes wrong, and even if it could be eaten it would not be prudent to do so. “And wine?” some one asked; “should we not offer him some wine?” There was some discussion. It was asserted that governor Ben-Auda was in secret devoted to the bottle; but how could he drink in the presence of his soldiers? It was decided not to send any. To me, however, it seemed that he cast very soft glances at the bottles, much softer than those with which he favored us. During the whole time that he sat there on his mat, except when he was giving thanks for gifts, he maintained a frowning expression of pride and anger that made me wish to have under my orders our forty companies of bersaglieri,[^[2]] that I might parade them under his nose.

Mohammed Ducali meantime was relating to me a notable episode in the history of Ben-Auda, in which family the government of Seffian has been for ages. The people of this province are brave and turbulent; and they are said to have given proof of their valor in the late war with Spain, when, at the battle of Vad-Ras, in March, 1861, Sidi Absalam Ben-Abd-el-Krim Ben-Auda, then governor of the whole province of Garb, was killed. To this Absalam succeeded his eldest son, Sidi Abd-el-Krim. He was a violent and dissipated man, who despoiled his people by taxation and tormented them with a capricious ferocity. One day he intimated to one Gileli Ruqui that he desired a large sum of money. The man excused himself on the plea of poverty. He was loaded with chains and cast into prison, The family and friends of the prisoner sold all they had and brought the desired sum to Sidi Abd-el-Krim. Gileli came out of prison, and having assembled all his friends, they took a solemn oath to kill the governor. His house was situated at about two hours’ ride from the garden where we were. The conspirators attacked it in the night in force. They killed the sentinels, broke into the hall, strangled and poniarded Sidi Abd-el-Krim, his wives, children, servants, and slaves; sacked and burned the house, and then threw themselves into the open country, raising the cry of revolt. The relatives and partisans of Ben-Auda gathered themselves together and marched against the rebels; the rebels dispersed them, and rebellion broke out all over the Garb. Then the Sultan sent an army; the revolt, after a furious resistance, was put down, and the heads of the leaders hung from the gates of Fez and Morocco; the land of the Benimalek was divided from the province; the house of Ben-Auda was rebuilt; and Sidi-Mohammed Ben-Auda, brother of the murdered man, and guest of the Italian embassy, assumed the government of the land of his fathers. It was a passing victory of desperation over tyranny, followed by a harder tyranny than before; in these words may be summed up the history of every province of the empire, and, perhaps, at that very moment there was a predestined Gileli Ruqui for Sidi-Mohammed Ben-Auda.

Before sunset we reached our encampment, which was not very far off, on a solitary plain, at the foot of a small eminence on which was a Cuba flanked by a palm tree.

The ambassador had hardly arrived, when the mona was brought and deposited as usual before his tent, in the presence of the intendant, the caid, the soldiers, and servants. Whilst they were busy making the division, I saw, as I raised my eyes toward the Cuba, a man of tall stature and strange aspect coming down with long strides toward the encampment. There was no doubt about it: here was the hermit, the saint, coming to make a disturbance. I said not a word, but waited. He skirted the camp on the outside so as to appear suddenly before the ambassador’s tent. He moved on the tips of his toes; a sepulchral figure, covered with black rags, disgusting to behold. All at once he broke into a run, dashed into the midst of us; and, recognizing our chief by his dress, rushed upon him with the howl of one possessed. But he had scarcely time to howl. With lightning rapidity the caid seized him by the throat, and dragged him furiously into the midst of the soldiery, who in a second had him out of the camp, stifling his roars with a mantle. The interpreter translated his invectives as follows: “Let us exterminate all these accursed Christian dogs, who go to the Sultan and do what they please, while we are dying with hunger!”

A little after the presentation of the customary mona, there arrived at the camp about fifty Arabs and blacks, bearing in single file great round boxes, with high conical covers of straw, and containing eggs, chickens, tarts, sweets, roast meats, cùscùssù, salads, etc., enough to satisfy an entire tribe. It was a second mona, spontaneously offered to the ambassador by Sidi-Mohammed Ben-Auda, perhaps to do away with the effect of his threatening visage in the morning.

That personage himself presently appeared on horseback, accompanied by his five sons and a crowd of servants. The ambassador received them in his tent, and conversed with them through the interpreters. He asked one of his sons if he had ever heard of Italy. The young man answered that he had heard it mentioned several times. One of them asked whether England or Italy was farthest from Morocco; how many cannons we had, what was the name of our chief city, and how the king was dressed. As they spoke, they all examined curiously our neckties and our watch-chains. The ambassador then asked the governor some questions about the extent and population of his province. Either he knew nothing, or did not choose to tell; any how, it was not possible to get any information out of him. I remember he said that the exact number of the population could not be known. “But about what number?” was asked. Not even about the number could be known. Then he questioned us again. “How did we like the city of Alkazar? Should we like to stay in Morocco? Why had we not brought our wives?” They drank tea with us, and after many salutations and genuflexions, remounted their horses, and spurred away, or rather disappeared; for as there was not a village or a house within eyeshot, all those who came and went made the effect of people who had risen out of the ground, or vanished into thin air.

This, like every other day, closed with a splendid sunset, and a noisy, merry dinner. But the night was one of the most disturbed that we had had throughout the journey; perhaps because it was necessary in the land of Seffian that the ambassador should be more carefully guarded than in other places, the night sentinels kept each other awake by singing, every quarter of an hour, a verse from the Koran. One intoned the words, and all the others responded in chorus, in loud voices, accompanied by the neighing of steeds and the barking of dogs. We had hardly dropped asleep when we were aroused again, and could not succeed in closing an eye. By way of addition, a little after midnight, in one of the intervals of silence, a wild, harsh voice arose out in the fields, and never ceased until dawn. Sometimes it approached, then seemed to recede, then approached again very near, taking a tone of menace, or lamenting, despairing, and bursting out now and then in piercing cries or yells of laughter that chilled one’s bones. It was the saint wandering about the confines of the camp, and calling down God’s malediction on our heads. In the morning when we issued forth from our tents, there he was erect, like a spectre in front of his solitary Cuba, bathed in the first rose tints of dawn, and pouring out curses in a harsh voice, waving his skeleton arms above his head.

I went in search of the cook to see what he thought of this awful personage. But I found him so busy making coffee for an impatient crowd who were all attacking him at once, that I had not the heart to torment him. Some were talking Arabic, Ranni spoke Sicilian, the Calefato Neapolitan, Hamed Spanish, and M. Vincent French.

“Ma, I can’t understand a word you say, gallows-birds that you are!” screamed the cook in despair.

“Ma, this is Babylon! Let me breathe! Do you want to see me die? Oh che pais, mi povr’om! Oh, what a country for a poor man to be in! They all talk together, and no one understands the other!”

When he had recovered his breath a little, I pointed out the howling saint, and asked him, “Well, what do you think of that piece of impudence?”

He raised his eyes to the Cuba, looked steadily at the saint for a few moments, and then with a gesture of profound contempt answered in Piedmontese accent, “Guardo e passi!”[^[3]] and withdrew with dignity into his tent.

CHAPTER VI.
KARIA-EL-ABBASSI.

We struck our camp and moved on in the usual order, amid the cries and musket-shots of the escort, arriving in two hours’ time at a small watercourse which marked the confines of Seffian. Here we were met by a large company of horsemen, led by the governor of the province which extends from Seffian to the large river Sebù. The escort from Ben-Auda turned and disappeared; we forded the stream, and were instantly surrounded by the new-comers.

The Governor Abd-Alla.

Bu-Bekr-Ben-el-Abbassi, an elegant and graceful personage, pressed warmly the hand of our chief, saluted amicably Ducali, his former school companion, and welcomed the rest with a dignified and graceful gesture. We rode on, and for some time not one of us could take our eyes off the new-comer. He was the most interesting of all the governors we had seen. Of middle height, and slender figure, dark, with soft penetrating eyes, aquiline nose, and a full black beard, through which, when he smiled, gleamed two rows of beautiful teeth. He was wrapped in a fine snow-white mantle, with the hood drawn over his turban, and mounted on a jet-black horse with sky-blue housings. He looked like a generous, beloved, and happy man. Either my fancy misled me, or the aspect of the two hundred horsemen from Karia-el-Abbassi reflected the benignity of the governor. They appeared to me to have the open and contented expression of men who had for years enjoyed the miraculous grace of a humane government.

This appearance, together with the huts, that began to be more frequent in the country, and the serene weather, refreshed by a perfumed breeze, gave me for a time the delusion that the province was an oasis of prosperity and peace in the midst of the miserable empire of the Scherifs.

We passed through a village composed of two rows of camel-skin tents, held together with canes and sticks; every tent having a tiny enclosure surrounded by a cactus hedge. Beyond the tents cows and horses were feeding; in front, upon our road, were some groups of half-naked children come to look at us; ragged men and women peeped at us over the hedges. No one shook his fist at us, no one cursed us. Hardly had we passed the village when they all came out of their huts, and we beheld a crowd of some hundreds of black, hideous, famine-stricken wretches, who might have risen from some graveyard. Some ran behind us for a while; others vanished among the irregularities of the ground.

The configuration of the country through which we were passing gave rise to a wonderful variety of picturesque effects as the escort and caravan proceeded. It was a succession of deep valleys, parallel to each other, formed by great earth waves, and all covered with flowers like a garden. Passing from one valley to another we would lose sight of the escort for a moment; then on the top of the height behind us would appear, first the muzzles of the muskets, then fezes and turbans, then faces, and finally the figures of men and horses, rising apparently out of the earth. Looking back from a height we could see the two hundred scattered along the valley amid the smoke and re-echoing noises of their shots, and far along behind, the servants, soldiers, horses, and mules, appearing for an instant, and then plunging into the depths and lost to sight. Seen in that way the caravan appeared interminable, and presented the grandiose aspect of an expeditionary army or an emigrating people.

Karia-el-Abbassi was made up of the governor’s house and a group of huts shaded by a few fig and wild olive trees. We accepted the governor’s invitation to rest at his house, and the caravan went on to the spot selected for the camp.

Crossing two or three courts, enclosed between bare white walls, we entered a garden, upon which opened the principal gate of the mansion; a little white house, windowless, and silent as a convent. A few mulatto slaves showed us into a small ground-floor room, also white, with no aperture except the door by which we entered, and another little door in a corner. There were two alcoves, three white mattresses on the mosaic floor, and some embroidered cushions. It was the first time we had been within four walls since our departure from Tangiers; we stretched ourselves voluptuously in the alcoves, and awaited with curiosity the continuation of the spectacle.

The governor came in wrapped in a snowy caic that reached from his turban to his feet. He threw off his yellow slippers, and sat down barefooted on the mattress between Ducali and the ambassador. Slaves brought jars of milk and plates of sweetmeats, and Ben-el-Abbassi himself made the tea, and poured it out into beautiful little cups of Chinese porcelain, which his favorite servant, a young mulatto with his face tattooed in arabesque, carried round. The grace and dignity of our host in all that he did are not to be described, and seemed amazing in a man who was probably very ignorant, who governed a few thousands of tented Arabs, and never in all his life perhaps had seen fifty civilized persons. In the most aristocratic salon in Europe not the least fault could have been found in his manners. His dress was fresh, neat, and fragrant as that of an odalisque just come from the bath. As he moved, his caic showed beneath gleams of the splendid and varied colors of his costume, inspiring in the spectator an ardent wish to tear off the veil and see what was hidden under it. He spoke in quiet tones and without the slightest appearance of curiosity, as if he had seen us the day before. He had never been out of Morocco, and said that he should like much to see our railways and our great palaces; and he knew that there were in Italy three cities which were called Genoa, Rome, and Venice. As he conversed, the little door opened behind him, and the head of a pretty little mulatto girl was thrust out, which rolled around two large astonished and startled eyes, and vanished. She was the governor’s daughter by a black woman. He was aware of the apparition, and smiled. There followed a long interval of silence. In the middle of the chamber rose the fumes of burning aloes from the perfume burners; before the door stood a group of curious slaves; behind the slaves were palm trees; and over all smiled the clear blue sky of Africa. It all seemed so unreal that I found myself thinking of my little room in Turin, and of its sometime occupant, as of another person.

On our way to the encampment, which was about half a mile from the governor’s house, upon a high plain covered with dry grass, we for the first time felt the scorching power of the sun. It was only the 8th of May; and we were not a hundred miles from the Mediterranean coast, and we had yet to cross the great plain of the Sebù.