"To-morrow Christmas for Moros!" said the gentle Hamed, our Moorish
servant, entering the room soon after the bang of the last sunset gun of
Ramadan had shaken our windows, and the thick smoke of the coarse Moorish
powder had floated away, temporarily obscuring the gorgeous hues bestowed
by the retiring luminary on the restless waters of the South Atlantic.
"To-morrow Christmas for Moros! In the morning Hamed clean house, go for
_soko_; then all day no _trabally_; have new _haik_, new slippers, walk
about all same _tejjer_."
By which little speech our faithful attendant meant to convey that
to-morrow's rejoicing at the termination of the long and irksome fast of
Ramadan was equivalent to the "Ingleez's" Christmas, and that, after
putting the house in order and bringing the provisions from the _soko_, or
market, he would do no more _trabally_, or work--the word being a
corruption of the Spanish _trabajo_--but would don the new _haik_ and
bright yellow slippers for which he had long been saving up, and to the
purchase of which certain little presents from the children of our
household had materially contributed; and would be entitled, by
prescriptive holiday right, to "take his walks abroad" with the _dolce far
niente_ dignity of a _tejjer_, or merchant.
I think we members of the little English community of Mogador--or, as the
Moors fondly call this pleasantest town of the Morocco seaboard, "El
Souerah," or The Beautiful--had almost as good reason as the Moslem
population to rejoice at the termination of the great fast. The Moors not
being allowed, during the holy month, to eat, drink, or smoke betwixt the
rising and the setting of the sun--the more sternly orthodox even closing
their nostrils against any pleasant odour that might casually perfume the
air in their vicinity, and their ears against even the faintest sound of
music--debarring themselves, in fact, from whatever could give the
slightest pleasure to any of the senses, a considerable amount of gloom
and listlessness was the inevitable result.
The servants in the various households, not over active and intelligent at
the best of times, became, as the weary days of prayer and fasting wore
on, appallingly idiotic, sleepy, and sullen, would do but little work, and
that little never promptly nor well. Meals could not be relied on within
an hour or two, rooms were left long untidy, essential little errands and
messages unperformed, and a general gloomy confusion prevailed.
Did I, tempted by the smoothness of the sea, desire a little fishing
cruise, and send a youthful Moor to the neighbouring rocks to get me a
basket of mussels for bait, he would probably, directly he got outside the
town-gates, deposit the basket and himself in the shade of the first wall
he came to, and slumber sweetly till the tide had risen and covered all
the rocky ledges where it was possible to collect bait. Had I told the
youngster over night that he must come out to sea with me in the morning,
and take care that my boat was put outside the dock, so that she would be
afloat at a certain hour, I would find, on going down at daybreak with
rods and tackle, that the boat was high and dry upon the mud, and it would
take the united efforts of half a dozen Moors and myself to get her afloat
at the end of nearly an hour's frantic struggling and pushing through mud
and water, necessitating on my part the expenditure of a great amount of
perspiration, not a little invective, and sundry silver coins.
And when we were fairly afloat my Mahometan youth would be so weak from
fasting that his oar would be almost useless; and when we did, after an
hour or so of the most ignominious zigzaging, reach our anchorage on one
of the fishing-grounds, then would he speedily become sea-sick, and
instead of helping me by preparing bait and landing fish, he would lean
despairingly over the side in abject misery, and implore me to go home
promptly--a piteous illustration of the anguish caused by an empty stomach
contracting on itself.
Nor were these the only discomforts under which we groaned and grumbled.
From the evening when the eager lookers-out from minarets of mosques and
towers of the fortifications first descried the new moon which ushered in
the holy month of fasting, every sunset, as it flushed the far-off waves
with purple and crimson and gold, and turned the fleecy cloudlets in the
western sky to brightest jewels, and suffused the white houses and towers
of Mogador with sweetest glow of pink, and gilded the green-tiled top of
each tall minaret, had been accompanied by the roar of a cannon from the
battery just below our windows.
"What the deuce is that?" asked a friend of mine, lately arrived from
England, as we strolled homewards one evening through the dusty streets,
and the boom of the big gun suddenly fell upon his astonished ear.
"Only sunset," I replied.
"Queer place this," said J. "Does the sun always set with a bang?"
"Always during Ramadan."
"Does it rise with a bang too? I hate to be roused up early in the
morning!"
"No, there is no gun at sunrise; but there is a very loud one at about
three in the morning, or sometimes half-past, or four, or later."
"Shocking nuisance!" remarked J. "My bedroom window's just over that
abominable battery."
The early morning gun was a great trial, certainly. I would not have
minded being _reveille en sursaut_, as a Frenchman would say, and then
turning comfortably over on the other side, and going to sleep again.
But somehow or other I always found myself awake half an hour or an hour
before the time, and then I _could not_ get to sleep again, but lay
tossing about and fidgettily listening for the well-known din. At length I
would hear a sound like the hum of an enormous fiendish nightmarish
mosquito, caused by a hideous long tin trumpet, the shrill whistle of a
fife or two, and the occasional tom-tomming of a Moorish drum. "Ha, the
soldiers coming along the ramparts; they will soon fire now."
But the sound of the discordant instruments with which the soldiery
solaced themselves in the night for their enforced abstinence from such
"sweet sounds" in the day would continue for a long time before the red
flash through my wide-open door would momentarily illumine my little
chamber on the white flat roof, and then the horrid bang would rend the
air, followed by a dense cloud of foul-smelling smoke; and then would my
big dog Caesar for several minutes rush frantically to and fro upon the
roof in hot indignation, and utter deep-mouthed barks of defiance at the
white figures of the "Maghaseni," as they flitted ghost-like along the
ramparts below, and snort and pant and chafe and refuse to be pacified for
a long time.
At the firing of the sunset gun the Moors were allowed to take a slight
refection, which generally consisted of a kind of gruel. I have seen a
Moorish soldier squatting in the street with a brass porringer in his lap,
eagerly awaiting the boom of the cannon to dip his well-washed fingers in
the mess.
At about 9 P.M. another slight meal was allowed to the true believers, and
they might eat again at morning gun-fire, after which their mouths were
closed against all "fixings, solid and liquid," even against the smallest
draught of water or the lightest puff at the darling little pipe of
dream-inducing _kief_.
On the twenty-seventh day of Ramadan we were informed that twenty-seven
guns would be fired that night, and that we had better leave all our
windows open, or they would certainly be broken by the violence of the
discharge. This was pleasant; still more delightful was the glorious
uncertainty which prevailed in the minds of our informants as to the time
at which we might expect the infliction.
Some said that the twenty-seven guns would be fired before midnight;
Hamed opined that the cannonade would not take place till 3 or 4 A.M. Many
of the guns on the battery in close proximity to our abode were in a
fearfully rusty and honeycombed condition, so that apprehensions as to
some of them bursting were not unnatural, and I thought it extremely
probable that a few stray fragments might "drop in" on me.
That night I burned the "midnight oil," and lay reading till nearly two,
when sweet sleep took possession of me, from which I was awakened about
four in the morning by a terrific bang that fairly shook the house.
A minute more, and there came a red flash and another bang, presently
another. Thought I, "I will go out and see the show;" so I went on to the
flat white roof in my airy nocturnal costume, and leaning over the parapet
looked down on to the platform of the battery below. A group of dim white
figures, a flickering lantern, a glowing match, a touch at the breech of a
rusty old gun, a swift skurry of the white figures round a corner, a
squib-like fountain of sparks from the touch-hole, a red flash from the
mouth, momentarily illumining the dark violet sea, a bang, and a cloud of
smoke.
Then the white figures and the lantern appeared again; another squib,
another flash, another bang, Caesar galloping up and down over the roof,
snorting his indignation, but not barking, probably because he felt
"unable to do justice to the subject;" and at length, after the eleventh
gun had belched forth crimson flames and foul smoke, all was peace, save a
distant discord of tin trumpets, _gouals_ and _gimbris_, and I returned to
my mosquito-haunted couch with a sigh of relief.
Pass we now to the eve of "Christmas for Moros," and let ethnologist and
hagiologist derive some satisfaction from the evidences I collected in
this far-away Moorish town that the gladness of the Mahometan festival
does, similarly to the purer joy of the Christian, though in a less degree
perhaps, incline towards "peace and good-will to men," charity and
kindliness.
As we sat chatting that evening round the tea-table, to us entered Hamed,
bearing, with honest pride illumining his brown features, a great tray of
richly engraved brass, heaped up with curious but tempting-looking cakes.
Gracefully presenting them to "the senora," he intimated that this was his
humble offering or Christmas token of good-will towards the family, and
that his mother (whom the good fellow maintains out of his modest wages)
had made them with her own hands.
The cakes were made of long thin strips of the finest paste, plentifully
sweetened with delicious honey, twisted into quaint shapes, and fried in
the purest of oil. I need hardly say that the children were delighted, and
immediately commenced to court indigestion by a vigorous onslaught on the
new and tempting sweets. Nay, why should I blush to confess that I myself
have a very sweet tooth in my head, and such a liking for all things
saccharine that my friends say jokingly that I must be getting into my
second childhood?--an imputation which, as I am only a little on the
wrong side of thirty, I can bear with equanimity. However, I firmly
decline to inform an inquisitive public how many of those delightful
Moorish cakes I ate: truth to tell, I do not remember; but I enjoyed them
heartily, nor found my digestion impaired thereby.
We had a little chat with Hamed--whose face was lighted up with the
broadest of grins as we praised his mother's pastry and showed our
appreciation of it in the most satisfactory manner--on certain matters of
the Mahometan religion and the position of women in the future life. Some
of the sterner Muslims believe that women have no souls; others opine that
while good men go to "_Eljannah_," or heaven, and bad ones to
"_Eljehannam_," or hell, women and mediocre characters are deported to a
vague kind of limbo which they designate as "_Bab Maroksh_," or the
Morocco Gate.
But the gentle, liberal, and gallant Hamed informed us, in reply to an
individual query with regard to our Moorish housemaid, that "if Lanniya
plenty good, no _tiefem_ (steal), no drinkum _sharab_ (wine), and go for
_scula_ ("school," or religious instruction in the mosque, or in a
schoolhouse adjoining it), by and by she go for "_Eljannah_."
I am hardly correct, by the way, in speaking of Lanniya as "house-_maid_,"
for Moorish maidens and wives never go in the service of European
families, being prohibited by their religion from showing their faces; it
is only widows and divorced women who may go about unveiled, and mingle
with Christians.
The next morning, soon after the last gun of Ramadan had sounded its
joyous boom in my ear, I was up and stirring, donning my shooting apparel
and preparing for an early country walk with my faithful four-footed
comrade. I had no fear of exciting the fanaticism of the Muslim population
by going out shooting on their holy day, for there is not much bigotry in
Mogador,--Moors, Christians, and Jews observing their several religions
peacefully side by side, so that three Sundays come in every week, the
Mahometan on Friday, the Jewish on Saturday, and then ours.
The sun, just rising from behind the eastern sand-hills, was gilding all
the house-tops and minarets, till our white town looked like a rich
assemblage of fairy palaces of gold and ivory; the smiling sea, serene and
azure, came rippling peacefully up to the base of the rugged brown rocks,
enlivened to-day by no statuesque figures of Moorish fishermen; nor did a
single boat dot the broad blue expanse of the unusually smooth South
Atlantic, of which the fish and the sea-fowl were for once left in
undisturbed possession.
As I gazed from the flat roof away over the great town, I heard from many
quarters loud sounds of music and merriment. As I passed presently through
the narrow streets, with their dead white walls and cool dark arches,
scarcely a camel was to be seen at the accustomed corners by the stores of
the merchants, where usually whole fleets of the "ships of the desert" lay
moored, unloading almonds, and rich gums, and hides, and all the varied
produce of the distant interior.
Outside the town-gates the very hordes of semi-wild scavenger dogs seemed
to know that the day was one of peace, for they lay in the sunshine, nor
barked and snapped at the infidel intruder as he walked over the golden
sands, along the edge of the marshy pool, past the pleasant-looking
Moorish cemetery with its graceful verdant palm-trees, a calm oasis in the
sandy plain, and out across the shallow lagoon formed by overflows of high
tides, by which a few late trains of homeward-bound camels went softly
stepping, looking wonderfully picturesque as they marched through shallow
waters so beautifully gilded by the morning sun, their drivers doubtless
eager to reach their own home or the shelter of some friendly village to
participate in the modest revelries of the joyous season. How I wandered
along the shore of the "many-sounding sea," enjoying a little rough sport,
and the blithe companionship of the big doggie; how I saw never a Moor
upon the rocks, but many Jews with long bamboo rods, busily engaged in
fishing for bream and bass and rock-fish, it boots not to describe with a
minuteness which might be wearisome to my readers, for I am not now
writing "of sport, for sportsmen."
So let us turn homewards, as the sun is getting high in the heavens, and
note the scenes by the way.
Yonder, near the marshy corner of the plain, haunted by wild-fowl, and
carrion crows, and mongrel jackal-like dogs, is the rough cemetery of the
despised "Jehoud," the Israelites who form so large and so wealthy a
portion of the population of Mogador. Among the long flat stones that mark
the graves of the exiled sons and daughters of Israel there is a winding
crowd of white-draped figures, a funeral procession. Unwilling to intrude
upon their grief, I pass on, casting an involuntary glance at the
picturesque garb and wild gesticulations of the mourners as the women's
loud and bitter cry of "Ai, Ai, Ai, Ai!" sounds weirdly through the air,
just as it may have done in the old scriptural times, when "the mourners
went about the streets" and gave unchecked vent to their grief in public,
even as they do to this day.
But as I neared Morocco Gate, from the neighbouring "Running Ground" came
very different sounds--a din of many drums, a squeaking of merry fifes,
the firing of many long Moorish guns, the shouting of men and boys, and
the eerie shrill _taghariet_ of the Moorish women.
And as I passed in front of the round battery, out from the great gate of
the New Kasbah came the crowd of men, women, and children who had been
clamouring joyfully in the Running-Ground, a bright throng of brown faces
and white raiment, interspersed with the gay colours worn by the little
children, and dotted here and there by the blood-red of the national flag.
Suddenly from a cannon just behind me came a cloud of smoke enveloping me
and the dog, and a bang which fairly shook us, and then another and
another. The firing of the guns from this battery was the spectacle the
Moorish populace had come out to see.
It was an uncomfortable sensation to have big guns going off just behind
one; they were only loaded with blank cartridge, of course, but we were
quite near enough to be knocked down by a stray piece of wadding, and
something did once whistle past my ear suggestively.
But it would never do for an "Ingleez" to run away in the presence of a
lot of Moors; so I walked calmly across the sands while the whole battery
of guns--twelve, I think--were fired, Caesar meanwhile prancing about
majestically, and loudly giving vent to his indignation at a proceeding
which he evidently considered, as he always does the firing of any gun or
pistol by any one but me, an express insult to his master, and an
infringement of his peculiar privileges.
I went home by way of the Water-Port, where there was no movement of
lighters or fishing-craft, no stir of bare-legged porters and fishermen,
no bustle of Jewish and European merchants; nearly all the boats were
drawn up on the shore, and those which remained afloat, slumbered
tenantless on the broad blue bosom of the sea. On rocks, and in the
pleasant shade of walls and arches, a few figures, in bright and gauzy
_haiks_ and gorgeous new slippers, lounged and dozed, perchance tired with
the revelries they had gone through since daybreak, and recruiting their
energies for fresh rejoicings towards evening. Reaching home about eleven,
I rested a while, deposited my birds in the larder, and then proceeded to
stroll about the streets and see how the populace comported themselves on
this festive occasion. I was sorry to learn that some of the younger and
more fanatical of the Moors had been relieving their feelings by abusing
the Jews, some of whom had had stones thrown at them, and their heads
slightly broken. But this temporary riot was over, and now all was "peace
and good-will," except that perhaps there may have lurked a little not
unnatural ill-feeling in the minds of the broken-headed Israelites, who
could not help feeling rather disgusted at the manner in which the Muslim
youths had celebrated "Christmas for Moros."
As I passed along the narrow lane wherein the soldiers of the Kaid or
Governor, in the snowiest of _haiks_ and tallest and reddest of
_tarbooshes_, squatted against the wall, chatting blithely as they awaited
the advent of their master, a grave and venerable-looking Moorish
grandpapa, hurrying along with a great armful of cakes in one of the folds
of his _haik_, stumbled against a loose stone and dropped several of the
cakes.
I hastily stooped and picked them up; the old man muttered a few words of
blessing upon me, insisted on my accepting the dainties I had rescued from
the dust, utterly refused to receive them back, pressed my hand, and
hurried on, leaving me in a state of embarrassment, from which I was
opportunely relieved by the arrival of a bright-eyed little Moor of seven
or eight summers, who was perfectly willing to relieve me from all trouble
connected with the handful of cakes. Passing into the busy streets of the
Moorish quarter, I found the population coming out of the various mosques,
where they had been to morning service, and now going in for a systematic
course of "greetings in the market-place," and purchasing of presents. O,
for an artist's pencil and colours to depict the gorgeous costumes of the
town Moors, the quaint, wild garb of their country cousins; the gauzy
cream-tinted _haiks_ from Morocco; the rich silken _caftans_ of purple, or
crimson, or yellow, or green, or azure, or pink, sweetly half-veiled by a
fold or two of snowy gauze thrown over them; the bright red fez caps, and
voluminous snowy turbans of the patriarchal-looking old men; the broad
silken sashes from Fez, heavy and stiff with rich embroidery of gold; the
great curved daggers in their richly chased silver or brass sheaths,
suspended amid the folds of the _haik_ by thick woolen cords of gay
colours; the handsome brown faces, the flashing black eyes, the wonderful
white teeth, the sinewy brown bare legs, the brand-new yellow slippers of
the merry Moors of Mogador!
And the negroes, or, as old Fuller would quaintly have called them, "the
images of God cut in ebony," how their honest black features glistened,
and how their bright teeth grinned beneath turban or fez, or gaudy
handkerchief of many colours!
The negro servant of one of the European residents, a good-humoured giant
of nearly seven feet, whom his master is wont to describe as "his nigger
and a half," came stalking down amongst the little shops and stalls with a
flaunting bandanna round his head, a purple jacket, a most gorgeous sash,
a pair of green baggy breeches, a glittering silver-sheathed dagger, and a
most imposing _haik_, thrown in toga-like folds over all.
Negro women, unveiled, white-clad, adorned as to their shiny black arms
with rude heavy bracelets of silver or brass, sat at street-corners with
baskets of sweet cakes and little loaves for sale. Veiled Moorish women,
perchance showing just one bright black eye to tantalise the beholder,
glided along like substantial ghosts in the white raiment which enveloped
them from their heads down to the little feet shod with red or yellow
slippers embroidered with gold thread or bright-coloured silks. Women
leading tiny toddlers of children, little bright-eyed boys with crowns
shaven all but one queer little tufted ridge in the middle, deftly curled
this morning by mamma's loving fingers; foreheads adorned with quaint
frontlets, from which hung curious ornaments of gold and coral and silver,
spells against the evil eye, talismans, and what not.
Little boys in beautiful cloth or silken cloaks of pale blue, or delicate
purple, or crimson, or rich green, or golden yellow, trotting along as
proud as peacocks, holding by the hand some tiny brother who can barely
toddle. Children who have just had new slippers purchased for them, and
are carrying them home in triumph; children who, with funny little copper
coins in their hand, are congregating round the stall of the swarthy
seller of sweetstuffs, who is ejaculating loudly, "_Heloua_, _Heloua_!"
busily brandishing a feathery branch of green _artim_ the while, to keep
the vagrom flies off his stores of rich dainties composed of walnut and
almond toffee, pastes made of almonds and honey and sugar, little brown
sugar balls thickly strewn with cummin-seeds, long sticks of peppermint,
and other delicacies difficult to describe.
As to the grown-up Moors, never was seen such a hand-shaking as is going
on amongst them. Everybody is shaking hands with everybody else, each
wishing the other the Arabic substitute for "A merry Christmas," and after
each handshaking each of the participants puts his hand to his lips and
proceeds, to be stopped two yards farther on for a repetition of the
performance.
On we go through the meat-market, and note pityingly the leanness of the
Moors' Christmas beef, which has just been butchered, and of which an
eager good-humored crowd are buying small pieces amid much vociferation,
chaff, and "compliments of the season" generally.
Then we come to the green-grocers' shops, where we see huge radishes,
great pomegranates, sweet potatoes, and bunches of fragrant mint for the
flavouring of the Moors' passionately loved beverage, green tea; then to
the grocers' quarter, where, asking a grave and portly Moor for a
pennyworth _fakea_ (dried fruit), he puts into half a gourd-shell a
pleasant collection of dates, almonds, figs, and raisins, hands them to us
with benign politeness. Opposite his store is a low table covered with
queer bottles of all shapes and sizes, filled with a dubious-looking pink
fluid, resembling the most delicious hair oil, but apparently highly
appreciated by the Moorish and Jewish youth who crowd around.
In the centre is a burly brandy-bottle, bearing the well-known label of
"J. and F. Martell," now filled with a fluid presumably more innocuous
than the choicest cognac; the big bottle is flanked by rows of little
medicine-vials and long thin bottles such as are used for attar of roses
and other Eastern scents; for the vendor of this bright-coloured liquor
does not possess cups or tumblers, but dispenses it in the little bottles.
A bare-headed youth, with shaven crown, tenders a _mozouna_, receives a
two-ounce vial, empties it solemnly amid the envious looks of his
comrades, sets it down, and walks gravely away.
Away we go too, Caesar and I, and I note that there is hardly a Jew to be
seen in the streets; they are afraid of stone-throwing, and outbursts of
the slumbering hatred and contempt with which they are regarded by the
orthodox Muslim.
As for Christians, Englishmen especially, they are much more tolerated and
respected; and I know that I may walk the town all day without fear of
molestation, and get plenty of kindly greetings and many a smile and shake
of the hand.
Out of the busy market, up the narrow and shady streets, hearing sounds of
the fearsome trumpet, which I have already compared to an exaggerated
mosquito, meeting that instrument presently at a corner--a horrid tin
thing about two yards long, wielded by a sinewy little man in a blue
tunic, accompanying a gaily-dressed boy on a sleek and patient donkey.
Fifing and drumming and firing of guns going on all around.
Fierce-looking Moors and Arabs from the country leaning on their long
silver-mounted guns, scowling at the "Kaffer," whom they have perchance
not seen until they came to El Souerah. A veiled, but evidently portly,
dame, leading by the hand a pretty little girl, in a red skirt below a
rich garment of lace or embroidery, with a crimson hooded cloak or
_djelab_ over it, rich ornaments on her smooth brown forehead, enormous
silver anklets, little bare feet, dyed, like her hands and those of most
of the little girls and many of the big ones, a bright red with henna.
Little girl shrinks behind her mother, afraid of the Giaour or of his big
dog; the Giaour slips by with a smile, doggie with a friendly wag of his
tail, and we go homeward for a while; Caesar to make a hearty meal of the
biscuits which have come all the way from England for him; his master to
partake of lunch, then smoke a pipe on the roof, and look wistfully out
over the bright blue sky, and let his thoughts wander far, far away to
many a pleasant Christmas in a pleasant corner of the fair Western land:
"Where is now the merry party
I remember long ago,
Laughing round the Christmas fireside,
Brightened by its ruddy glow?"
But the Moor's Christmas has come early in October; there is time yet, and
plenty of English steamers going backwards and forwards; who knows whether
the wanderer may not yet spend the next Christmas by a genial English
fireside, and recount to prattling children on his knee (others' children,
alas!) the curious sights, sounds, and scenes of "Christmas for Moros?"
But I have not quite done with you yet, kindly reader. I must just briefly
tell you how I went out again in the afternoon with Caesar and a two-legged
friend, and found more shopping going on and more handshaking, and found
the more festive spirits getting hilarious over green tea and coffee and
_kief_; how we strolled down to the Water-Port and sat on the quay,
surrounded by merry young Moors in their "Sunday best;" how my friend
essayed to sketch one or two of them, and they did not like it, but
thought some evil spell would be put upon them thereby; how they asked us
many questions about England, and particularly wanted to know how many
dollars we possessed; how my companion won the hearts of some of the
younger members of the party by teaching them how to whistle between their
thumbs, and how to make a certain very loud and direfully discordant
screech; and how J. and I finished the afternoon by partaking of a
delightful bottle of English ale in the courtyard of a cool store, leaning
our chairs against massive stone pillars, and smoking the pipe of peace.
But I fear the stern Editor will not grant me any more space, and I must
leave at present the recital of all that I saw on the ensuing day, which
the gentle Hamed, if he were a _little_ more closely acquainted with our
institutions, would call "Boxing-day for Moros."
C. A. P. ("SARCELLE"), _in London Society_,
MOGADOR.