THE METROPOLIS OF THE MOORS

To modern minds the word "metropolis" suggests a city, great in extent,

in the heart of a thickly populated country; a place of marvels and of

wonderful contrivances; a place where commerce has worn mighty cañons

between huge cliffs of masonry; a place toward which all roads converge;

a place whence radiate interminable rails of steel, along which speed

steaming monsters, annihilating space and bringing vast regions under

the spell of urban supremacy; or else the suggestion is of a mighty

seaport, to which the great ships of the deep bring men from far-off

lands and cargoes from the far ends of the earth.

Metropolis, moreover, means a place where burn the beacon-lights of

intelligence and culture; where the latest word of science is spoken;

where every day a superstition dies; where seekers after truth come

nearest to their goal. A metropolis is the essence of our New Century

civilization,—the creation of an irresistible modern impulse, an entity

that challenges our admiration and inspires us with awe.

[Illustration: THE METROPOLIS OF THE MOORS]

[Illustration: APPROACHING FEZ]

But there is in this world a great city, the metropolis of a nation,

which is not like the cities that we know.

In the midst of a fertile, smiling wilderness, it is a stranger to all

things that are new; its commerce ebbs and flows through channels unknown

to the world. At its gates are no railways and no carriage-roads, but it

holds infrequent communication with a distant port by means of caravans

of mules and camels, and of messengers who run on foot. Its culture

is the culture of the Fifteenth Century, its science of still earlier

date; and truth there is yet hid by clouds of superstition. This city

is the essence of the Middle Ages; it is the heart of a nation that was

mummified eight hundred years ago by the religion of Mohammed. This city

is called Fez; the land of which it is the capital is Morocco.

[Illustration: "IN THE MIDST OF A SMILING WILDERNESS"]

The first glimpse of Fez is an event in the life of a traveler. Then,

if ever, will be experienced one of those delicious little thrills that

make their way down the spinal column of a man when he realizes that he

has accomplished something of which he has long been dreaming. And when

we, who have long been dreaming of a visit to the Moor's metropolis,

actually behold it, though it first appears as only a faint line of

walls and towers, almost undiscernible through the rough sea of heated

air-waves that surge between us and the city, now that Fez at last has

risen from this endless plain over which we have been toiling southward

for eleven days, we feel that we must draw rein, and for a few minutes

indulge in the enjoyment of that creeping thrill. There are so few of

them in life; the traveler who can remember twenty of these delicious

moments in as many years is fortunate above his kind!

[Illustration: "A FAINT LINE OF WALLS AND TOWERS"]

[Illustration: "AT ITS GATES, NO RAILWAYS—NO ROADS—"]

Happy in the assurance that a new and thoroughly uncommon experience

is opening before us, we ride rapidly on. Leaving our baggage caravan

far in the rear, and halting at a respectful distance from the walls,

we snatch a hasty luncheon before entering the gates of Fez; and this

luncheon is the last incident of our delightful journey into Morocco. We

have been eleven long days in the saddle. We recall the departure from

Tangier, the nights in camp near Berber villages, the passing glimpse

of the city of Alcazar-el-Kebir, and the visit to Morocco's greatest

saint, the Shareef of Wazzan; nor can we forget the great sun-flooded

land, bright with the colors of a million-million flowers, across which

our little caravan has struggled at a snail-like pace, crawling scarce

twenty miles between the rising and the setting of the sun.

[Illustration: "THE SUN-FLOODED LAND"]

[Illustration: "WHO CAN FORGET THE SMILING FACE OF HAJ?"]

[Illustration: KAID LHARBI]

Still with us are the Faithful Five—the five men who formed our escort,

the men to whom we looked for comfort, willing service, and protection.

There is Kaid Lharbi, the military guard, under his broad-brimmed

hat; and as for the dragoman-in-chief, who can forget the smiling face

of Haj Abd-er-Rahman? A marvel of tact and cleverness was "Haj," but

though he has successfully piloted our fleet of mules and horses, with

their cargoes of tents, furniture, provisions, cameras, and presents,

across trackless expanses where the only law is the Law of Might, he may

well assume an anxious expression as we approach the gates of Fez; for

there his task will be even more difficult. Instead of the lawless, but

simple-minded, easily-won people of the plains, he will now have to deal

with city men, men of strong anti-Christian prejudices, with the proud,

ignorant, fanatical, and cunning population of this untaken stronghold of

Mohammed's faith. We shall be met at every turn by a polite resistance,

and although our letters, obtained in Tangier from the Moorish Minister

of Foreign Affairs, assure us official protection, we shall be given to

understand that we are not welcome visitors, and that our sojourn must

be made as short as possible.

[Illustration: THE WESTERNMOST STRONGHOLD OF MOHAMMED'S FAITH]

[Illustration: THE WALLS OF FEZ]

The surroundings are so smiling and peaceful that we can scarcely realize

that yonder city is one of the most fanatical, one of the most rigidly

opposed to foreign intrusion of any in the world. Our first impression is

that Fez lies on a level plain; but we find this is not true, for it is

spread out on the slopes of an irregular valley. Another view than our

first will tell us more of the situation of the place. I must confess,

however, that although my bump of locality is fairly well developed,

I found the situation of Fez most difficult clearly to understand, and

it was only after repeated excursions to the surrounding eminences that

I was able to map out mentally the various quarters of the town. That

there are two great divisions, each almost independent of the other, we

very soon discover.

[Illustration: "FASS-EL-DJEDID"]

First, there is the Imperial and official quarter, where the palaces and

gardens of the Sultan and the buildings of the government are scattered

over uncounted acres of high-walled areas. In native speech, this quarter

is called Fass-el-Djedid; that is, "Fez, the new," for it is new when

measured by the age of Fass-Bali, or Old Fez, which soon reveals itself

to us, lying in a hollow to the left of Fass-el-Djedid. This is the

_medina_, or city proper, wherein are situated the most sacred mosques,

the busiest bazaars, the dwellings of the poorer classes, and the modest

Vice-Consulates of only two or three European nations. Between the

animated Medina,—a mass of closely packed cubes of white, appearing when

viewed from a distance like a saucer filled with sugar lumps,—and the

spacious, stately governmental quarter, lies what is called the garden

region.

[Illustration: "FASS-BALI"]

[Illustration: THE GATE OF NEW FEZ]

This portion of the city in part resembles a well-cultivated farming

region, open and free of access; in part it is like a labyrinth of

narrow high-walled alleys, dividing, with their double barriers of

stone and plaster, one mysterious garden from another, isolating the

secret retreat of one aristocratic Moor from the perfumed inclosure in

which the harem of another is confined. A veritable abode of mystery

and beauty is that distant portion of the garden region, a paradise to

which the stranger is not welcomed. Nor will the stranger be _persona

grata_ in any part of Fez if the reports of other travelers are true.

Surely, it will be a luxury to be despised by an entire population, and

despised because we are that which we are most proud to be, champions

of progress, lovers of civilization. And ready to meet the contempt of

Allah's people, we approach this city. Near the ruined walls we see a

multitude of whitish forms, now immobile, now swayed as by emotion. It

is an audience composed of men of Fez, gathered in a sort of natural

theater to listen to the dramatic tale of a famous story-teller. In

ages that are past the white-robed Greeks came forth from Athens and

sat thus in the shadow of the old Acropolis to listen to the stories of

dramatists and poets whose fame the whole world now knows. And because

of its suggestion of those ancient gatherings, this assembly takes on

a dignity and an importance in our eyes. Our coming causes a diversion;

spectators drop the thread of the speaker's discourse, and turn toward

us with a scowling curiosity. There are no greetings, not a smile, but

we are not conscious of any open rudeness, save that now and then as

we ride through the crowd, we notice that men clear their throats and

spit; this, however, we expected, for we knew that the presence of a

Christian so defiles the atmosphere that good Mohammedans must needs

cleanse their mouths and nostrils after he has passed.

[Illustration: A MULTITUDE OF SHROUDED FASSIS]

[Illustration: THE ARSENAL]

And now one of the great gates of New Fez looms before us. We enter.

For a moment a dampness like that of a tunnel wraps its cool refreshing

blackness about us, and then we emerge into a spacious age-worn court,

which shows us that the adjective "new" applied to this strange, almost

deserted quarter has only a comparative significance. There is in the

entire city nothing that is really new. And yet this is not strictly true,

for on our right we see a gateway freshly plastered, freshly painted in

pale blue, with piles of cannon balls upon the top of its pilasters.

It is the recently established arsenal of the Sultan. For the Sultan,

though averse to progress and to civilization, has not hesitated to

adopt that which is most barbarous in our science,—the modern methods

of destruction; and here he manufactures death-dealing instruments like

those invented by the Christians. We traverse the long, almost deserted

square, and cross the threshold of another gate. We find ourselves in a

tortuous, vaulted corridor, divided into gloomy sections by huge horseshoe

arches. These gates of Fez are surely not designed to facilitate urban

circulation, rather are they designed, in case of need, to prevent or at

least to impede the rapid gathering of crowds in the great areas around

the imperial palace—to isolate the various precincts of the city in case

of revolution.

[Illustration: "FEZ—IN ALL ITS DILAPIDATED REALITY"]

As we pass onward, veiled women observe us with a silent wonder, a few

men pause to clear their throats or sneer, a holy beggar crouching in

an angle howls after us his incoherent curse. While my horse passes

close to one of these ruined pillars, I involuntarily extend my hand and

touch the crumbling brick, as if to be assured that all this is not an

illusion; that Fez, the city of our dream, does actually exist in all

its dilapidated reality; that at last the object of our journey into

Morocco has been attained; that our arrival in the Sultan's city is an

accomplished fact. Then, followed by our caravan, we pass from under

these ponderous arches and enter another court, smaller but not less

strange than the first. Here, moving to and fro are a few white-robed

beings; but so silently do they stalk along, seemingly unconscious of

our presence, that we feel as if we had entered a city of the dead,

inhabited only by sheeted ghosts. Already we feel as if the shroud of

Islam were being slowly wrapped about us. To the left rise the walls

which hide from view the seraglios and palaces of Mulai El-Hasan III,

the Sultan; to the right are other walls, concealing we know not what

mysterious buildings—vast abandoned structures which the stranger never

sees.

[Illustration: IN THE GATES]

The Sultans have been reckless builders. We are told that the father of

Mulai El-Hasan began, long years ago, a palace which was designed to be

the largest in the world. The walls of one room only were erected, and

this room was never even covered by a roof. It forms to-day one of the

most extensive public squares of Fez, measuring three hundred by nine

hundred feet. How the old architects would have solved the problem of

arching this huge empty space, it is impossible to guess.

[Illustration: A STOLEN GLIMPSE OF THE IMPERIAL PALACE]

[Illustration: "THE EMPTY SPACIOUSNESS OF NEW FEZ"]

This is but one of the long series of abandoned squares and public places

across which our escort conducts us, each separated from another by

crumbling walls, pierced by artistic Moorish archways. Before reaching the

city proper, we pass through a dozen or more of these arched portals, so

ruinous, many of them, that they appear about to fall and crush us beneath

tons of century-old masonry. I should but weary you were I to describe our

progress in detail; suffice it to repeat that before we reach Old Fez we

pass through many gates and traverse interminable, broad, deserted alleys

leading between high, crumbling, battlemented walls, where we are stared

at, muttered at, scowled at, by the shaven-pated youth of Fez, while more

mature citizens exhibit their contempt by striding past without so much

as a look. It argues an immense amount of self-control to refrain from

gazing on such an unusual spectacle as our caravan presented, simply

because we were not true believers. Nevertheless, there were few among

the better dressed men whom we met, who did not march severely by, nose

in air, eyes front, denying themselves the satisfaction of an interested

stare, because an initial glance had assured them that we were "unclean

Christians." Though I confess that this reproach, owing to our ten days'

travel overland, and to the scarcity of water in Morocco, was only too

well founded, yet we found it consoling to notice convincing proofs that

many of the true believers were also without the virtue that is next to

godliness. Moreover, we intended to reform as soon as we could find a

home, while no such admirable intentions can be credited to those who

reviled us.

[Illustration: A PUBLIC SQUARE]

[Illustration: "STARED AT, MUTTERED AT, SCOWLED AT"]

But as for the ladies we encountered—bless their feminine souls!—with

them, womanly curiosity proved stronger than religious prejudice.

They frankly halted, turned their pretty faces toward us and gazed up

smilingly at the arriving travelers. We must admit, however, that they

had the advantage of us; we were compelled to take for granted both

the prettiness and smiles, and it was pleasanter to do so; moreover,

there was nothing else to do. Still, the features of her who paused on

the left, as vaguely molded by the masking haik, were not of Grecian

purity. She would have charmed us more had she not drawn her veil so

tight. On the right an older woman was more discreet; like the wise

Katisha she believed that it is not alone in the face that beauty is to

be sought, so she sparingly displayed her charms, revealing only a left

heel which people may have come many miles to see. The fair one in the

middle bares her face in most immodest fashion: through an opening at

least three quarters of an inch in width two pretty eyes of black are

flaming; and, indeed, it may be set down as an almost invariable rule

that the wider the opening 'twixt veil and haik, the prettier the eyes

that flash between.

[Illustration: "WOMANLY CURIOSITY STRONGER THAN RELIGIOUS PREJUDICE"]

With maledictions on the prevailing style of dress for Moorish beauties,

we ride on, passing finally from the empty spaciousness of New Fez into

the crowded compactness of the old Medina. Here our pace, always slow,

must be made even slower; our caravan winds at a careful walk into a

labyrinth of narrow ways, so dark, so crowded, so redolent of Oriental

life, so saturated with the atmosphere of Islam and the East, that we

are thrilled with pleasure at the thought that we are for a space to

become dwellers in this strange metropolis and to live its life—a life

so utterly unrelated to that of the cities whence we come.

[Illustration: "THE CROWDED COMPACTNESS OF THE OLD MEDINA"]

First we must secure an abiding-place, for there are no hotels in Fez—at

least none in which foreigners could live and remain in possession of

their self-respect and sanity. The only places of public entertainment

are the Fondaks, where men and mules are lodged and fed. A glance through

the door of the Fondak, where our own faithful animals were later in the

day entered as boarders for an indefinite period, proved how utterly

preposterous it would be for us to depend upon the hotel resources of

the capital. Although the packs have been removed, the pack-saddles,

each a burden in itself, have not been taken off nor will they be until

to-morrow for fear the animals uncovered while heated from exertion

might catch cold, fall sick, and die. In fact, the mules have not been

free from these cruel weights at any time during the journey of eleven

days. Why the idea of suicide does not appeal to the Morocco mule is

but another of the unaccountable problems of the land.

Convinced that hotel-life in Fez has no attraction for us, we follow Haj

toward the palace of the Governor, where, thanks to our official letters,

we expect to find that ample provisions for our comfort have been made.

We halt at last before an unpromising door, in a deep and narrow street.

The palace of the Basha is not extremely imposing in its exterior, but we

know that in Morocco bare outer walls often hide undreamed-of splendor,

and that dirty, dingy streets may surround pavilions and gardens of

unsuspected beauty. Therefore it is with confidence that we intrust our

letters, long, beautifully written documents in Arabic, to the attendant

at the door. He disappears; we wait; he remains out of sight; we continue

to wait.

[Illustration: "A LABYRINTH OF NARROW WAYS"]

[Illustration: THE BEST "HOTEL" IN FEZ]

For three long, mortal hours this endures. Evidently the Basha is

deliberating deeply upon the proper disposition of his unwelcome visitors.

Now and then an official comes out to look us over, but nothing is done.

Soldiers and servants are sent away on errands, and seem never to return.

We sit, meanwhile, mute protests at the door. Knowing our helplessness,

we curb our anger and impatience, and endeavor to conceal our weariness

from the scornful citizens who pass with haughty sneers, happy to see

two Christians awaiting the Basha's pleasure.

[Illustration: AT THE BASHA'S DOOR]

[Illustration: MECCA, THE HEART OF ISLAM

From a unique photograph by an anonymous Algerian pilgrim]

At last a servant comes with a reply. On receiving it, Haj flies into a

passion, and orders the caravan to follow him, and away we file through

the crowded streets, Haj gesticulating wildly and shouting loud enough

for all to hear that the Basha has attempted to extort money from the

foreign visitors, who are great lords, whereas he is bound by instructions

from the Minister at Tangier to lodge them at the expense of the city.

And this is true; it is the policy of the government to provide gratis

a house for foreign visitors to Fez. This policy is prompted not by a

generous spirit of hospitality, but by a desire to control the movements

of the strangers. It is feared that if the foreigner is permitted to

pay rental for his house, he may in some way establish a vague right to

occupy it longer than is consistent with the desires of the government.

This might prove awkward and lead to complications. It is much simpler

to make the foreigner a guest, who cannot refuse to move on when politely

notified that his abode is needed for another visitor.

[Illustration: MYSTERY-PERVADED STREETS]

In our case, however, the Basha has demanded payment for the house, and

Haj, knowing well how to deal with this emergency, is leading us with

ostentatious indignation toward the city gates, breathing as he rides

loud threats that he will report our treatment to our friend, the Moorish

Minister of Foreign Affairs, and declaring that we will, meantime, pitch

our camp outside the walls, and hold the Governor responsible by any

injury suffered at the hands of prowling robbers. His shrewd tactics prove

effectual; for as we are passing through one of the pretty alleys of the

Garden Region, we are overtaken by servants of the Governor. Repentant,

he has sent them with the keys of a villa that he has assigned to us.

We follow the Governor's retainers toward the heart of the aristocratic

quarter, through a perplexing labyrinth of sun-flooded alleys, where

the redundant vegetation of the silent, surrounding gardens overflows

the sky-line, or bursts through cracks in the old masonry. We know not

whither we are being led; we scarcely dare hope that we shall be permitted

to abide in this delightful residential region, and we fear that some

abandoned house will be made to serve us as a semi-prison. And soon it

seems that our worst fears are to be realized, for although the caravan

is halted in the garden region, it is in the dingiest and narrowest of

its streets, before the lowest and the darkest of its doors.

[Illustration: THE SUNNY ALLEYS OF THE GARDEN REGION]

When Pierre Loti came to Fez and saw for the first time the entrance to

his house, he immediately exclaimed: "But this is not a human habitation!

One might be pardoned for thinking it the entrance to a rabbit hutch;

and even then they must be very poor rabbits to live in such a place."

[Illustration: "IN THE NARROWEST AND DINGIEST STREET"]

[Illustration: "THE LOWEST, DARKEST DOOR"]

The door of our promised abode looks like the outlet of a sewer or

the entrance to a pig-sty. And Haj, who has buoyed up our hopes with

descriptions of the palace we were soon to occupy in Fez, receives

reproachful glances. We fear his "palaces" no more deserve their name

than did his "forests" and his "lakes" and "rivers," for to him a clump

of half a dozen trees was a "_forêt magnifique!_" a muddy pool "_un lac

superbe_," and a slimy streamlet, "_une rivière claire et belle_." And

now his "_palais splendide_" bids fair to be—a dirty prison.

[Illustration: BETWEEN SILENT GARDENS]

But the arrival of our pack-mules leaves us no time for reproaches

or complaints. The caravan completely blocks the circulation of the

neighborhood. The pack-mules, too broadly loaded, get stuck fast in

the narrow street, and we are compelled to back them out and discharge

the cargoes at a neighboring street-intersection. Our folding beds and

chairs, our gaily-colored rugs and cushions, our kitchen outfit, and

our photographic kit are heaped up in the public thoroughfare, pending

the disappearance of the animals. But happily, owing to the blockade,

there are no passers-by; else the major portion of our goods might also

disappear. A sound of rushing water fills the air, for one of the rapid

canals that irrigate the gardens and turn the flour-mills of Fez, here

flows beneath the street. It makes a music very grateful to the ears of

those who are new come from the torrid prairies of the provinces. Truly,

it will be pleasant to rest for a few days and listen to that music,

no matter how distasteful our abode may prove to be. Let us, then, with

resignation crawl through our dingy door and make ourselves at home.

[Illustration: "DISCHARGING CARGO"]

[Illustration: PACK-MULES STUCK FAST BETWEEN THE WALLS]

[Illustration: OUR FRONT DOOR]

Accordingly, we stoopingly grope through a low dark passage, then—stand

erect and gasp with pleasure! Aladdin, when for the first time he

rubbed the magic lamp, could not have been more thoroughly delighted

or surprised. Before us is a dainty villa, snowy white; around it a

delicious garden, more than an acre in extent. The fact that everything

is purely Moorish, that no hint of European occupation can be seen,

and the conviction that our home differs in no important detail from

the dwellings of our aristocratic neighbors, gives added charm to our

abode, added delight to the thought of sojourn here in this exotic

atmosphere. It is resolved that we shall occupy the upper story, that

our men shall find lodgings in the lower rooms, while for the noonday

nap, the promenade, or a quiet hour with a book, our pretty garden offers

us its shady depths. It is redolent with the perfume of orange-blossoms

and jasmine. Beneath the leafy branches of the lemon and pomegranate,

fig- and olive-trees, there is even at noon a coolness as of evening.

The hum of insects, the subdued roar of tumbling waters in the adjacent

garden, and the trickling murmur of tiny canals fill the air with a

restful symphony.

[Illustration: OUR VILLA]

[Illustration: OUR MOORISH GARDEN]

[Illustration: AT HOME IN FEZ]

We have forgotten the rudeness of our welcome; we have shut out the grim,

hostile city; we are at last at home in Fez. We are as safe as if shut

up in jail. In fact, like all foreign visitors, we, too, must record

among our sensations that of being prisoners while within the walls of

Fez; but we are very willing prisoners, and when the hour of dinner is

announced, we cheerfully climb the tiny spiral stairway to our roomy

cell, and with this first meal begin the routine of our daily home life

in the Sultan's city.

[Illustration: WILLING PRISONERS]

[Illustration: HAJ'S CUISINE]

[Illustration: THE JEWISH MAID-OF-ALL-WORK]

We have simply pitched camp in the great upper chamber of the house,

spread out the rugs, set up the beds, the chairs, and tables, and made

ourselves as comfortable as possible. The windows are merely huge openings

in the wall, unglazed, with metal bars and heavy wooden shutters. The

floor is neatly tiled, the walls are whitewashed, and the ceiling is

of wood. Our five attendants have taken possession of the lower floor.

There also Haj has installed his little cuisine, and is industriously

encouraging a tiny charcoal fire with a fan. Sitting near, intently

observing his culinary operations, is a young Jewish woman, who brought

a recommendation from the British Vice-Consul, and was engaged to act as

maid-of-all-work, to help five helpless men to bring order and comfort

out of the chaos that reigns here on the day of our arrival. That she

does not lack for occupation is proved by the aspect presented by our

courtyard during the painful period of installation in our exquisite

Moorish home. Pack-baskets, bedding, blankets, furniture, and dishes had

been dumped there in confusion; but through the efforts of our Hebrew

housekeeper, all things are quickly put to rights, the court resumes

its wonted air of Oriental languor, the little fountain sings on its

uninterrupted song, and the atmosphere of romance once more envelopes

house and court and garden. To fill our cup of happiness, a messenger

arrived, bringing a bulky packet of letters from America; for a courier

of the British consul, who left Tangier one week after our departure, has

arrived in Fez the day of our arrival, having run on foot the entire way,

one hundred and seventy miles in four days' time; while we, encumbered

with a baggage caravan, have been eleven days upon the way.

[Illustration: CHAOS IN THE COURTYARD]

[Illustration: STREETS LIKE VAULTED TUNNELS]

We remain a day and night in our new abode before venturing out into the

streets. We shall now cautiously commence a series of expeditions—one

cannot call them strolls or promenades—across and round about the

town. The objective-point of our first expedition is the office of our

banker. We descend from the high-lying Garden Region, and enter the

ruinous streets of the Medina. We are accompanied by Haj, for without

a guide we should soon go astray. We are followed by Kaid Lharbi, our

military escort, it being most imprudent for the foreigner to walk abroad

unaccompanied by a guard. To photograph in the streets of Fez is difficult

to the verge of impossibility. First, there is the Mohammedan prejudice

against picture-making, the reproduction of the likeness of living things

being prohibited by the Koran, which says: "Every painter is in hell-fire,

and Allah will appoint a person at the day of resurrection for every

picture he shall have drawn, to punish him; and they will punish him

in hell. Then, if you must have pictures, make them of trees and things

without souls." Had the photographer existed in Mohammed's day, he would

undoubtedly have had a special verse in Scripture devoted to his case;

as it is, the faithful call the camera a "painting-machine," and class

its manipulator with the impious artists whose instruments of crime are

brushes. Even though this difficulty may be overcome by cunning, the

very streets and structures conspire with the people to foil the eager

camerist. Many of these streets are vaulted tunnels, illuminated only

here and there by bands of light; others are roofed by vine-covered

trellises, that give them the appearance of interminable arbors, through

which faint squares of light flitter and fall upon the unpaved ground;

still others are so narrow and cut between such tall dark walls, that

never by any chance do rays of sunshine illuminate their depths. Street

life in Fez is vividly suggestive of subterranean existence. There is

a dark-cellar-like coolness, which, combined with the ghostly stride

and costume of the inhabitants, gives us the impression of being in the

catacombs among resuscitated men in their shrouds. Ghostly indeed is

the dress of the rich old men in Fez,—a dress that gives its wearers

the dignity of Roman senators. What a superb figure for the ghost of

Hamlet's father one well-remembered old gentleman would make! He is,

however, Haj's uncle, and greets our guide, his nephew, very cordially.

Haj, rascal that he is, knowing that we care more for snap-shots than

for introductions, always arranges when he meets a friend or relative

to detain him in conversation, in the best illuminated portion of the

street, thus giving us invaluable opportunities for secret portraiture.

Then, after he has heard the "click!" that comes from what appears to

be an innocent brown paper parcel under my right arm, Haj, with many

complimentary phrases, presents us to our visitor, introducing us as

men of great distinction from America.

[Illustration: TRELLISED THOROUGHFARES]

[Illustration: "AMONG RESUSCITATED MEN IN THEIR SHROUDS"]

[Illustration: AN EXCHANGE]

Presently we emerge from the dim bazaars, and find ourselves in a small,

deep, public square. On one side is a semi-ruinous water fountain, roofed

with tiles and decorated with mosaics. Before us is a stately portal,

the entrance to a commercial exchange, a headquarters for the better

class of merchants. It dates from the time when Fez was the commercial

center of a rich and very prosperous empire, when the merchandise of the

world found here a profitable market. The building now is sadly out of

repair, like almost every other building in the city. To make repairs

in Fez is sacrilegious. If a structure crumbles and decays, the owner

with resignation folds his hands and murmurs, "It is the will of Allah;

it is written," and forthwith, grateful for this mark of divine favor,

hies him to the mosque and prays.

[Illustration: HAJ GREETS A GENTLEMAN OF FEZ]

[Illustration: "REPAIRS ARE SELDOM MADE IN FEZ"]

[Illustration: TRADERS "ON THE CURB"]

[Illustration: THE OFFICE OF THE AMERICAN CONSULAR AGENT]

The Mohammedan strictly fulfils his religious observances. During the

hour of prayer the quarter is deserted; an hour later business is resumed,

and the wheels of metropolitan commerce, released for a short space from

the religious brake, again revolve with many a squeak and crunch, clogged

as they are by superstition and neglect. Yet for the artist or lover of

the picturesque, it would be difficult to find a more attractive crowd

of business men. And these Moorish archways, fountains, tiled roofs,

and age-eaten arabesques are still most beautiful, even in dilapidation

more beautiful, perhaps, than when in all their freshness they were the

pride and admiration of generations of Fassis, long since gathered into

Paradise. We are informed that our banker, who is also the consular agent

for the United States, has offices within a certain mediæval business

block; and as we are in need of funds, and also desirous of meeting our

representative, we push through the trading throng and enter the patio,

a spacious inner court four stories deep. Four tiers of galleries rise

about us, all richly finished in old woodwork, elaborately carved, but

sharing in the slow decay of the entire building. Our consular agent,

whose office door stands open on the left, is (as we have been told) a

native Jew, by name, Benlezrah; by occupation, a merchant, broker, and

money lender; and by nationality, thanks to the "protection" system

prevalent in Morocco, an American citizen. Benlezrah admits that his

consular duties are not engrossing, nor are they profitable; for he

receives no pay except in the form of infrequent fees; but he holds

to his office most tenaciously because the United States has power

to naturalize all its servants in Morocco, and to grant them what are

called "protection papers." Were he not thus protected by some foreign

power, the Sultan's assessor would, he assures us, soon strip him of

his comfortable fortune gained in commerce. A few days later we visited

Mr. Benlezrah at his home in the Jewish quarter, where we find him

surrounded by his family. A high sepulchral bed, something between an

Oriental shrine and the proscenium of a Punch and Judy theater, is the

dominating feature of his drawing-room. During our call our host tells

us more about the protection system. It appears that all rich men in

Morocco are subject to the most barefaced robbery by the Sultan and his

ministers. When in need of funds, the government notifies its chosen

victim that a large contribution for the coffers of the sacred Sultan

will assure the giver of the imperial favor, and that a refusal to obey

the hint will be followed by imprisonment or confiscation, or both. But

men protected by foreign powers cannot be imprisoned or punished until

tried for their offenses before the consular court in Tangier, and are

therefore practically insured against the cupidity of corrupt imperial

officials. Thus every Moor or Jew, possessed of wealth, desires the

protection of a foreign nation. Protection being such a boon, abuses

have naturally attached themselves to the granting of it.

[Illustration: JUST DIRT]

[Illustration: MR. BENLEZRA AT HOME]

[Illustration: ENIGMAS!]

[Illustration: TWO OF THE SULTAN'S CABINET]

The Moorish government has complained that consuls of the European

nations, yes, even of the United States, have been guilty of selling for

cash the protection of their respective flags to wealthy Moors and Jews.

To the Jew, protection is indeed a special blessing, since it gives him

the right to ride on horseback or muleback through these streets, where

other Jews must walk. It permits him to pass the doorways of the mosques

without stopping to remove his shoes, while other Jews must bare their

feet each time they near the sacred gates.

It must be remembered that the current calendar in Fez is not that of

A. D. 1901; but it is for the year 1319, after the Hegira of Mohammed,

and the Moors are just 582 years behind the times!

[Illustration: THE FUEL MARKET]

These Mohammedans of Fez not only do not permit the Jew to pass the

mosque with shoes upon his feet, but they do not permit any infidel to

enter their sacred places; they do not permit Jew or Christian to pause

to look in at the doors, and there is one mosque, the Shrine of Mulai

Idrees, the founder of Fez, so holy that no unbeliever is permitted even

to approach it. Across the streets leading thither barriers are placed;

the Moors stoop and pass under them; the Christian and the Jew, on pain

of death, must go no farther. Then across other streets bars are placed

to mark the point beyond which men are not allowed to pass at certain

hours.

[Illustration: NEARING A PORTAL OF THE KARÛEEÏN]

One portion of the cool cellar-like bazaar is sacred to the women,

who, temporarily embarrassed, bring hither objects that they wish to

sell. Apparently they are not eager to attract purchasers, for they

hide whatever they may have beneath their haiks; but now and then a man

approaches, and an embroidered vest, a piece of silk, a jewel or a ring

is reluctantly brought forth and passed across the barrier in exchange

for silver coins; then one white, shrouded figure rises and fades away

amid the ghostly throng. To us, newcomers to this land of mystery, it

is as disconcerting to face a crowd of these women, as for the soldier

to stand unmoved before masked batteries. We are conscious that two

score of bright, black eyes are leveled at us, but we cannot read the

message they project—the faces that would make the message legible

are veiled. Are the lips curled in scorn of the infidel? Are smiles of

ridicule excited by his strange foreign dress, so pitifully convenient

and unpicturesque, so tight, so graceless, when compared to the splendid

sweep of the Moorish costume? Or, in some faces, is there written a deep,

bitter yearning for knowledge of the outside living world,—the world

of to-day, of which we stray moderns come here as reminders? But as we

wander ever through the bazaars, meeting everywhere the same impassive,

uncurious expressions on the uncovered faces of the men, we are inclined

to believe that to the Moor, Morocco is the world,—that for him, outside

its borders, geographically or intellectually, there is nothing worthy

his consideration. A few progressive Moors, so we were told, evince a

shadowy interest in the universe at large by subscribing for a daily

paper. This paper is not printed in Fez, where journalism is unknown,

it comes from far-off Cairo on the Nile, and reaches its eager Moorish

readers after a voyage of seven days by sea and eight by land.

[Illustration: A COURTYARD OF THE INVIOLABLE KARÛEEÏN]

[Illustration: A KIOSK OF THE KARÛEEÏN]

Remembering these things, it is difficult to believe that Fez is, in the

eyes of the Mohammedans, an important seat of learning, but so it is; for

does not the famous university and mosque, known as the Karûeeïn stand

in the very heart of Fez? The Karûeeïn, a sort of inner "holy city" is,

next to the mosque of Mulai Idrees, the most sacred inclosure in Fez: As

we approach it, we are warned by Haj that Christians are not permitted

even to pause and glance into its courts when passing any of its many

portals. The imperfect pictures that will reveal to you vague glimpses

of its dark corridors and sunlit patios are the result of oft-repeated

efforts, risks, and subterfuges. The entrances are jealously guarded by

the faithful; the Jew or Christian who lingers on the threshold is rudely

jostled by the passers-by, and if he does not take the hint, a sudden

surging of the crowd sweeps him away. Three mornings were devoted to

vain attempts to bring the camera to bear upon those gates. But finally

a fourth attempt, aided by strategy, met with success. Opposite every

gate are groups of beggars, crouching in the narrow street. Strolling

with ostentatious carelessness, the camera, wrapped like a paper parcel,

under my arm, I pause before the beggars, my back turned to the sacred

entrances, and fumble in my pocket for stray coppers. No one sees any

reason for interfering with the charitable stranger; but, mingled with

the chink of the coins dropped into the outstretched palms, there might

have been heard the clicks of a photographic shutter, fired almost at

random, and these pictures here shown are the rewards of my charity,

so hypocritically bestowed. I had had faith in my ability finally to

accomplish my sinful task; I had been buoyed up for the hope of success,

but while I had not charity, my efforts did not profit me.

[Illustration: WHERE MEN ARE TAUGHT BY "INTELLECTUAL MUMMIES"]

The Karûeeïn is the greatest educational institution of western Barbary.

Nor must we smile to hear it called by so proud a name. Its past entitles

it to the respect of the world. It ranked with the great colleges of

Moorish Spain—with Cordova itself—as a seat of learning, and hither came

not only Moslems, from all corners of Islam, but also noble gentlemen

from England, France, and Spain, to complete their educations. Yes, as we

glance into another patio, where a green tiled kiosk recalls the Court

of the Lions of the Alhambra, we must not forget that here philosophy

once flourished, here astronomy, mathematics, and medicine once were more

fully developed than at any other place in the contemporary world. In the

inaccessible library of the Karûeeïn, the lost books of Euclid are said

to be moldering, also many classics, fragments for which scholars have

been seeking. But these things will not be brought to light until the

death-knell of Morocco's independence shall have sounded. The Karûeeïn

to-day stands here in the heart of Fez, as the center of resistance to

all progress, as the embodiment of slumber; yet here are gathered even

in our day more than a thousand students, four hundred of them supported

by an endowment fund dating from the twelfth century. That is, their

food is provided for them gratis, their lodging costs them nothing, for

they sleep under the arcades of the Mosque or in its spacious courts.

They are taught by wise men—"Taleebs"—men who are intellectual mummies.

They learn to repeat the Koran word for word; they learn to hate the

unbeliever, to scorn his science and inventions, to turn their backs upon

all things that are new; they are encouraged to cling to the old dream

of Islam, and to worship the God of their fathers in this holy mosque.

They are taught the forms and simple ceremonials of the Moslem faith; to

wash the feet at the fountain before entering the sanctuary; to leave

their yellow, heel-less slippers in the court; to kneel, or rise, or

prostrate themselves at proper intervals; to pray five times each day;

to turn their faces while they pray toward the sacred city Mecca in the

East; to drink no wine, to eat no pork, to keep with cruel rigor the

long fast of the Ramadan, when for forty days they may not touch food,

drink, or tobacco between the rising of the sun and the going down of

the same. As for their secular teaching, it is refreshingly original. A

map of the world, the use of which is sanctioned by the faculty, throws

much interesting light upon the Moorish geographic point of view. An

examination of the map shows that Tangier, although a Moorish port, is

placed on the north side of the Mediterranean, while Spain, apparently,

is next door to Morocco, on the coast of Africa. The results of Stanley's

explorations are outlined with remarkable angularity and distinctness

around the sources of the Nile and the Mountains of the Moon. England,

though not named, is represented by one of the islands just north of

India and Thibet; moreover, the latest Moorish expedition to the north

pole has evidently reported that Gog and Magog abide amid the frozen

seas, for they figure on the map.

[Illustration: MAP OF THE WORLD AS USED BY THE UNIVERSITY OF FEZ A. D.

1892.]

[Illustration: "AIR OF DESOLATION"]

[Illustration: "FIRST COMES A SQUAD OF SOLDIERS"]

[Illustration: THE THOLBA CAMP]

Every spring the students of the Karûeeïn, who are called "Tholbas," go

forth from Fez, and pitch a great camp in the plain. They elect one of

their number "Sultan of the Tholbas," and to him all must pay reverence.

Even the veritable Sultan himself must ride out in state and call upon

Student Sultan in the Tholbas' camp, treating him as an Imperial brother.

The expenses of this scholastic picnic are paid by contributions exacted

by the Tholbas from the citizens of Fez.

[Illustration: MODERN MOORISH SOLDIERY]

Returning from our visit to this camp, we make our way once more into

the official quarter of New Fez, through which we passed so hurriedly

the day of our arrival. The same grim walls are there, the frowning

towers, and the air of desolation. To our great regret we have learned

that the Imperial Master, Mulai El Hasan, Sultan of Morocco, will not

return to Fez until long after our departure. He is at present on the

march across the southern deserts, returning from a journey of eighteen

months' duration to the rebellious province of Tabilet, on the border

of the Great Sahara. Small wonder that the New Fez appears deserted;

for when his Imperial Majesty goes upon a journey, he is followed by no

less than a quarter of the population of Fez, 30,000 people,—officials,

soldiers, servants, and wives and slaves. But we are, nevertheless,

to see a remnant of his retinue, for suddenly a crowd appears as if by

magic, and the square takes on an air of life and animation.

[Illustration: THE GATHERING AT THE GATE OF JUSTICE]

[Illustration: WITH THE BRITISH VICE-CONSUL]

[Illustration: CAPTURING A FORT WITH CAMERAS]

First comes a squad of soldiers, marching to the beating of a drum. They

wear the hideous modern uniform of the new Moorish army—an army that

has been created within the past few years by a foreign officer on the

Imperial staff, a Scotchman, Kaid Maclean, who has transformed the ragged

unkempt hordes of his Imperial Master into an army with some pretensions

to discipline and equipment, although to us it appears almost grotesque.

The uniform chosen gives the private soldier the aspect of a simian pet

of an organ-grinder, a little overgrown. Judging by their appearance

we are prepared to see these warriors doff their caps and pass them

around for coppers; but this is less the fault of the soldiers than of

the military tailor; the same men robed in long flowing garments would,

in all probability, appear as dignified as the civilians. We had the

curiosity to examine their weapons, and we were rewarded by discovering

several muzzle-loading rifles, bearing the inscription, "Springfield,

Massachusetts, 1865."

[Illustration: "THERE ARE GARDENS AND ORCHARDS"]

The first awkward squad is followed by another and another, until the

great square, bisected by a long procession of those red-coated fighters,

appears like a ravine through which there flows a river of blood.

Meantime, from the portal of the palace there emerges with solemnity

and slowness a stately company of white-robed Moors, some mounted upon

superbly harnessed mules, followed by spotlessly arrayed dignitaries and

courtiers on foot; and in the midst of these rides the Viceroy of Fez.

We dared not raise our cameras as he passed, for the crowds regarded

us with hostility, and the picture we secured shows only his retreating

form, towering above the heads of his attendants.

[Illustration: A DIPLOMATIC OUTING]

The procession enters the huge "Gate of Justice." On the left we discern

a line of crouching figures, those who have come to make or answer

charges before the autocratic tribunal. There is no appeal from the

instantaneous decisions given by the old Vizier of Justice. Happy the

citizen who, thanks to the protection afforded him by a foreign consul,

is exempt from being dragged to this bar of so-called justice!

[Illustration: "TRAILS THAT ARE ALMOST ROADS"]

The only Anglo-Saxon representative in Fez is His Britannic Majesty's

Vice-Consul, Mr. MacIver MacLeod. For downright pertinacity commend

me to this man, who, in the face of an entire nation's opposition,

planted himself in Fez, established a vice-consulate, and stuck to his

post until the Moors gave up the fight and resolved to tolerate his

permanent presence in their holy city. With Mr. MacLeod we enjoy frequent

excursions roundabout the city, to the nearer mountain crests, and to the

abandoned forts upon the hill-tops, whence splendid views of Fez are to

be had. One day, finding no practicable doorway to one of those deserted

strongholds, we entered boldly through the embrasure where years ago the

noses of old cannon had breathed threatenings above the once-rebellious

city. Affrighted at our daring, my youthful camera-bearer dropped the

case and fled.

[Illustration: THE VICE-CONSULAR VILLA]

There are orchards and gardens in the environs of Fez, and there are

trails that are almost roads, radiating in all directions. We are

invariably accompanied by an escort when we ride forth from Fez; the

country roundabout is not safe. The British Vice-Consul always brings

his followers, and insists that we shall order out Kaid Lharbi, our

picturesque old soldier-chaperon, every time we venture beyond the

crumbling walls.

[Illustration: BRITISH SOCIETY IN FEZ]

The Vice-Consulate is in the old Medina, in the heart of Fez; but Mr.

MacLeod lives in the garden region. A pretty Moorish villa has been

transformed into an English home, presided over by the Vice-Consul's

mother, who has exiled herself from England to spend her days with her

courageous son in Fez.

"But I am not the only Christian woman in Fez," Mrs. MacLeod assures

us, in reply to our remark that she must sorely miss the companionship

of people of her own race and religion. "If you will dine with us on

Sunday, you will meet the five Tabeebas." We accepted the invitation,

and met the "five Tabeebas," each one a study for a statue of Lot's

wife after she had so unwisely looked over her left shoulder. Pillars

of salt they look, and in truth they are the salt of this cruel Moorish

land. They are Christian women, angels of mercy, missionaries,—but not

ordinary missionaries,—theirs is a _medical_ mission,—a mission through

which no energy is wasted, against which no criticism can be urged.

Among them are three English women, members of the Church of England;

one Irishwoman, who is a Catholic, and one Scotch lassie, who is a

Presbyterian; and yet in perfect harmony they work together. Their work

is, of necessity, with the bodies, not with the souls of those they seek

to aid; for they realize, as every sane-minded Christian must, that to

Christianize Moorish Mohammedans is an impossibility.

[Illustration: THE TABEEBAS]

The dress of these women is but another expression of their innate tact.

If they insisted upon going abroad in the streets with uncovered faces,

they would immediately lose the respect and confidence of the people who

have learned to love them for their numberless good works. They occupy a

large house in the densely populated quarter, a home which is by turns a

school or a hospital. Here they teach Moorish girls many useful things;

here every day they receive and treat, free of charge, as many patients

as present themselves. One afternoon while we were taking tea with the

Tabeebas, they were repeatedly called from the room to dress a wound,

apply an ointment, or give advice to some poor sufferer. Of course we

were not permitted to see the Moorish girls who come to the Tabeebas

school. To secure a photograph of them my camera was lent to one of the

Tabeebas, who secretly made an exposure from behind a door that stood

ajar. Did the parents of these young girls know of the making of the

picture, there would be no pupils here upon the morrow. The faces in

the group are faces on which no man may look, unless he be the father,

brother, or husband.

[Illustration: THE TABEEBAS TEACHING]

Let us steal away through the mysterious, fascinating streets and byways

that lead us, with a hundred puzzling turns, back to our peaceful villa.

It is needless to say that our neighbors have not called upon us, nor

indicated by any sign that they are conscious of our presence in this

aristocratic precinct. Walls from fifteen to twenty feet in height

surround our garden, cutting us off completely from the public streets

and from the garden of our next-door neighbors. Our curiosity concerning

that adjoining garden and the family that dwelt therein increased from

day to day. Apparently an interminable picnic is in progress there; for

three days past we have been hearing the shouts of children at play and

the strange shrill cry peculiar to Moorish women, a piercing tremolo, to

which they give utterance in token of joyfulness. It might be called the

"college yell" of these Oriental wives—pupils in the school of submission.

[Illustration: OUR VILLA FROM THE STREET]

Finally we can resist no longer; we must learn what is passing there on

the other side of that high wall. But how? We dare not show our heads for

fear some jealous Moor may smash them. We resolve to make a cat's-paw

of the faithful camera to snatch curiosity-satisfying chestnuts out of

the fire of Moslem exclusiveness. We climb a ladder, lift the camera,

upside-down, above the wall, take aim by looking up into the inverted

finder, fire, and withdraw precipitately. The result was worth the

risk and effort. The plate revealed a scene from private family life in

Fez,—the picture of a rich Moor's wives and children attended by black

slaves, taking their ease in the absolute seclusion of their garden,

brewing and drinking Moorish tea, as they sit on a tiled platform that

surrounds a bathing tank. The foreshortening of the figures may be at

first a trifle puzzling; remember we are looking, or, rather, the camera

is looking down upon the group from over a garden-wall that is not less

than twenty feet in height.

[Illustration: A STOLEN PEEP OVER GARDEN WALL]

[Illustration: DISCOVERED!]

[Illustration: "GREETS US WITH LOUD HOWLS"]

Fortunately, the attention of the family had been attracted by something

occurring just out of our range of vision, though we knew nothing of this

at the time. The negative was not developed till we reached America,

so the camera recorded a scene which we ourselves have never looked

upon. Encouraged by the silence following our first attempt, we chose

another section of the wall and repeated our manœuver. Unfortunately a

preliminary click was heard by our sitters, whose startled expressions,

faithfully registered, prove that they have seen the guilty lens and

shutter winking at them from the summit of the wall. Some have already

hid their faces, others are apparently crying out in protest; even the

dog, like a good Mohammedan, turns his back to the "painting machine."

The unique picture tells us what manner of women is concealed by the

shroudlike garments, which are worn in the streets and which make women,

be they young, old, rich, poor, beautiful, or ugly, appear as like,

one to another, as are bales of woolen cloth. Street life in Fez is

for women a perpetual masquerade, a lifelong domino party. But in these

high-walled gardens all the participants unmask, throw off their haiks,

and during the home hours regain an individuality of visage, form, and

dress. This revelation of the inner life of Fez makes the city seem

more human to us, less like a city of specters, ghosts, and animated

mummies. Nevertheless these people seem not quite real to us, for we

did not actually see them, nor did they see us, face to face. Next day

two huge black men-slaves came to notify us that if any more mysterious

boxes appeared over the garden-wall their master, now absent, should be

informed, and our departure hastened.

[Illustration: NEIGHBORS]

We had one neighbor, however, who was more sociable; in fact, he became

painfully familiar. He lived at a street corner where he enjoyed a

squatter-right, for he had been squatting there without intermission

for five years or more. The man is crazy. He invariably greets us with

loud howls, and insists upon it that we are "his mothers!" Then, like a

whining child, he teases for matches with which to light a fire. He has

a mania for collecting brushwood, building fires, and then extinguishing

them by calmly sitting down upon the flames, much to the detriment of

his cuticle and raiment. When his clothes are burned completely off,

he counts upon his prudish neighbors for a new garb. Altogether, he is

decidedly eccentric even for a madman; and he must be very mad, for he

either refuses money, or, when it is thrust upon him, tosses it away to

other beggars who are always crouching near.

[Illustration: THE PALACE OF A RICH OFFICIAL]

Toward the close of our visit we managed to scrape acquaintance with the

servants of another neighbor. One was a veiled woman, who would smile

at us through her mask, and another a fat negress slave, as unctuous

and good-natured as any Mississippi mammy. "And are there really slaves

in Fez?" some one may ask. There are; and every day in a certain remote

and cheerless market-place young negresses are sold at auction. Seldom,

however, does a stranger witness this trafficking in human flesh. At

his approach, buyers and sellers, slaves and auctioneers, mysteriously

vanish. Thrice we found the market-place deserted. Twice, owing to the

skillful manœuvering of our guide, we surprised the market in full swing,

and saw six little negro girls, fresh from the barbarous regions of the

south, purchased by solemn white-robed citizens at prices varying from

eighty to two hundred dollars.

[Illustration: AROUND THE MOORISH MAHOGANY]

But do not think because our neighbors do not call upon us that we

receive no social courtesies whatever. On the contrary, the Minister

of Finance, the Moorish Secretary of the Treasury, one of the highest

and by a curious coincidence one of the richest dignitaries in Morocco,

one day, invited us to dinner. The invitation was delivered through the

British vice-consul, who promised to accompany us and to see that we

made no _faux pas_. We were not rude enough to take a camera with us,

knowing the prejudices of the Moors, and therefore I have no picture

of the gorgeous palace into the courtyard of which we were ushered by

a group of slaves. Our host resembled the rich men we see daily in the

streets, being princely in bearing, haughty and reserved. Contrary to

Moorish custom, we sat at a table and on chairs, instead of on the floor.

There were no other guests. As soon as we were seated, Mr. MacLeod took

from his pocket a paper parcel and opened it, displaying three pairs of

knives and forks.

"I always carry these when I dine out with the Moorish swells; they don't

have any," he explained; "and they like to have me bring them when they

are entertaining foreign guests."

"But how do they eat?" we asked.

"Watch his Excellency, and you'll soon understand."

[Illustration: CARRYING BAKED MEATS TO A FEAST]

At this moment there appeared a huge round platter, three feet in

diameter, on which has been erected a pyramid of chickens. To each of

us an entire bird was given. Then our host, with deft fingers, tore his

portion very neatly into shreds, picked out the choicest morsels of the

chicken and passed them to us. Then followed pyramids of pigeons, then

huge chunks of mutton, then sausages on spits; and that those sausages

were not less than two inches thick and one foot long I am positively

certain, because we each were compelled to take a whole one, and I

remember my vain efforts to get it all upon my plate, three inches

of protruding sausage threatening the table-cloth on each side. And

every course was carved by our host, who used nothing sharper than his

finger-nails, and every time he came upon a morsel of especial daintiness,

he courteously offered it to one of us. We were almost stuffed to death,

for the consul warned us that to refuse the proffered tidbits would be

a great affront. There were no sauces, no vegetables, nothing but meats

roasted underground by slow fires that had burned all night.

[Illustration: "LET ME BE AN AMERICAN FOR A MINUTE!"]

We had nothing with which to wash down this "all too solid" food except

sickly lukewarm rosewater. And not content with stuffing us and forcing

us to drink that perfumed liquid, our host would every now and then give

a signal, whereupon the servants would spray stronger rosewater down our

backs and in our ears. Never was anything more welcome than the tiny

cups of Turkish coffee that at last were brought to end our tortures.

I could not blame my friend, when, on our return to our own house, he

declared that he had had enough of Oriental luxury, exclaiming as Haj

brought the "antidotes," "Let me be an American for a minute!"

[Illustration: THE "MELLAH" OR "GHETTO" OF FEZ]

The table was served by two slaves, and by a young man whose bearing

told us that he was no servant. He was, in fact, the eldest son of our

host. Custom commands that the son should wait upon the father's guests.

Imagine this custom introduced at Washington, and picture the sons of

a cabinet-official passing huge finger-bowls around the banquet table!

As for our conversation, it turned first upon the only modern institution

in the city, the Arsenal and Rifle Factory of the Sultan. The secretary

spoke of course in Arabic, the vice-consul acting as interpreter. Then

we were questioned regarding the city whence we come, Chicago; and,

being native-born Chicagoans, no urging was required to wring from us

the story of the great phœnix city on the shore of the American inland

sea. We described "skyscrapers," elevators, cable-cars, and trolleys.

Then we told of the World's Fair, visited in one day by seven times more

people than reside in Fez, and then with a keener interest the secretary

listened to the incredible figures relating to the movements of wheat

and corn and to the shipments of beef and mutton. Next, as a climax,

we launched enthusiastically into pork statistics, but our spokesman

checks us with the caution: "Hush! Don't shock his Excellency; remember

his religious prejudices. Don't say a word about the pigs. You know the

Moslem eats no pork." Therefore we leave our host unenlightened regarding

the pet industry of our western metropolis.

[Illustration: "A PLACE OF WHITED SEPULCHERS"]

[Illustration: "AND DINGY HUTS"]

[Illustration: POOR NEIGHBORS OF THE WEALTHY DEAD]

The next day we devote to the Jewish quarter, a distinct and separate

city, called the "Mellah." We approach it through the Hebrews' burial

ground, a place of whited sepulchers, dwellings for the dead, and dingy

huts, temporary abodes for living men and women; for there are two

populations in the Jewish cemetery, a fixed population of the wealthy

dead, a passing population of the living poor. You must remember that in

these Moorish cities the Jews are still compelled to dwell apart from

true believers. Their houses are confined in the restricted Mellah,

where no provision was originally made for an increase of population.

Therefore the poorer and the weaker Jews have been squeezed out of its

gates and have found refuge here in the city of the dead, where they

have built crude huts and begun life anew. The streets or passageways

are, however, far cleaner than those of the inner Mellah, and we cannot

but agree that residence in the freer atmosphere of this city of the

dead is preferable to living on the other side of yonder walls, where

every inch of space is occupied, where the atmosphere is heavy with bad

odors, and where sunshine and fresh air are things almost unknown.

[Illustration: A HOME IN THE CEMETERY]

[Illustration: THE WALLS OF THE "MELLAH"]

A poor old Jew, a man with a large dependent family, serves as our guide.

He tells of the misery of his people, begs me to repeat in my own land

the story of their woe. It is not the Sultan, he says, who is most cruel

to them; it is the rich men, the elders and the rabbis of his own tribe

whom he accuses of injustice.

[Illustration: A FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD MOTHER]

The right to build these shelters in the cemetery was granted by the

Sultan to the poor, when the overcrowding of the Mellah proper became

a menace to the public health. Nevertheless, no poor man is permitted

to take up his abode among these cast-out members of the tribe until

he has paid certain fees to the headmen of the quarter. He says that

the oppression of Jew by Jew is harder to bear than the much-talked-of

oppression to which the children of Israel have been subjected by the

Sons of Ishmael. The statements of our pauper guide surprised us, but

what he said was confirmed by every poor Jew with whom we talked. They

all declared that the rich elders and the rabbis of their own tribe

were their hardest masters. A wealthy man, with whom we discussed the

question later, assured us that his class had almost impoverished itself

with charities, that the cause of all the evil lay in the decrease of

commerce and the rapid increase of the Jewish population. The poor,

undoubtedly, are very poor; and though the rich live in apparent luxury

and comfort, it cannot be true that Fez is the only city in the world

where the rich Jews abandon their own people to starvation and distress.

The noble Jewish charities throughout the world argue the contrary, and

even in Fez the philanthropy of European Jews is manifest in the excellent

school established here in this very Mellah by the French branch of the

Israelite Alliance.

[Illustration: IN THE MAZE OF REEKING ALLEYS]

We can assure all those who have given pecuniary support to the Alliance

that the money is here spent conscientiously, and that the work now

doing among the Moorish Jews is nobly done and worthy the sympathy and

encouragement of every lover of humanity. But in spite of the educational

and civilizing influences of the school, many reforms in customs remain

to be effected, and it is to be hoped that in the future, a daughter of

the Mellah will not be given in marriage at the age of ten and, like

one girl we saw, be mother of a family at fourteen years of age, and

become at twenty-five a hideous old woman. Let us hope that in another

generation girl-children who at fourteen are still unmarried will not

be regarded, as they are to-day, in the light of hopeless spinsters.

[Illustration: JEWISH COBBLERS]

[Illustration: "OLD MEN WHO LOOK THE PART OF SHYLOCK"]

[Illustration: AN ENGLISH HOME IN FEZ]

As for the sanitary reforms demanded in the Mellah, you have but to enter

the crowded streets to be convinced that they are numberless. Here Jews

are packed like live sardines in greasy boxes. Pierre Loti describes the

Mellah as "an airless huddle of houses squeezed together as if screwed in

a compress, and emitting all sorts of stifling odors." Again he tells of

finding here "moldy smells in varieties that are not known elsewhere."

But how is it possible to expect cleanliness on the part of people who

are denied a sufficiency of space and air and light and water, who are

not permitted to remove the refuse from their streets, lest the Moorish

scavenger should lose his fee; people who are despised by their Moslem

fellow-citizens, called "dogs," and forced to walk barefooted through

the streets of Moorish Fez?

[Illustration: IN THE MIDST OF THE "MELLAH"]

[Illustration: THE FAMILY OF BENSIMON]

[Illustration: "IN TINY SHOPS SIT GOLD- AND SILVER-SMITHS"]

As a crowning indignity, the Moors have decreed that the place of deposit

for dead animals, from cats to camels, shall be at the gate of the Mellah;

and every night the jackals feast and sing their death chants beneath

the walls of this unhappy Jewish city. We are surprised, however, to

find here and there a touch of color in the dress of these unfortunate

inhabitants, for black has always been the uniform imposed upon the

Jew. Black is to Moorish minds the color of disgrace; hence were the

Jews compelled to wear black caps and gaberdines. To-day, however, this

regulation is not so rigidly enforced, although the general tone of the

men's dress is very somber.

[Illustration: FIVE O'CLOCK TEA IN A HEBREW HOUSEHOLD]

In every street we see old men, who could, without a change of raiment,

step on the theatrical stage and look the part of Shylock to the life.

In tiny shops, like niches bordering these streets, sit the gold-

and silver-smiths, the lawyers, scribes, and money-changers; there

are few idlers here. Jewish industry and thrift here rise superior to

the discouraging surroundings. A few shops boast a supply of foreign

merchandise. The merchants greet us with a polite "_buenos dias_," and

converse in fluent Spanish; for besides Hebrew and Arabic, these people

speak the language of the land from which their fathers were cruelly

cast out by Spanish kings.

[Illustration: A HEBREW HOME]

The commerce of the land is largely in the hands of Moorish Jews, who are

forbidden by law to leave the country, lest a general exodus occur, and

the trade of the entire empire, deprived of their fostering care, languish

and ultimately die. Many large fortunes have been accumulated here, by

usury and commerce. We made a formal call one Sabbath afternoon at the

home of one of the richest Jews in Fez, old Mr. Bensimon. Magnificent,

indeed, is the interior of the house, with its carved, painted doors, its

stucco arabesques, immaculate tiled floors, and richly furnished rooms.

The Bensimons are of the old conservatives. They speak no Spanish and

have no knowledge of anything away from their immediate surroundings. The

Mellah is their world; their house is one of the rare oases of elegance

in the midst of a wilderness of squalor. But they are all very gracious

to us; of the two pretty little girls, eleven and thirteen years of age,

respectively, the elder is already married, the younger is a fiancée.

A curious incident gave us an insight into the reality of their religion.

To amuse our host we performed some tricks of sleight-of-hand. Producing

a silver dollar, I asked the aged father to assure himself that it was

a real dollar, not tampered with in any way. He seemed reluctant to pick

up the coin.

[Illustration: AT THE SCHOOL OF THE ISRAELITE ALLIANCE]

"You must not urge him," said our guide. "It is the Jewish Sabbath; a

Jew may not touch filthy lucre on the holy day."

Before departing we were asked to take tea with the family, and were

forthwith ushered into an apartment, furnished with that crude gaudiness

that is the result of Oriental imitation of Occidental fashions. Of their

"European Room" they are as proud as we are of our so-called "Oriental

dens." The mirrors, clocks, sofas, and chandeliers, imported from the

continent, are the envy of their neighbors.

Tea-drinking in Morocco is a solemn ceremony, to the stranger almost

a sickening one. A handful of tea is put in the teapot, and the pot is

filled to the very top with sugar, broken from a huge cone loaf; then

boiling water is poured on. Then a bouquet of mint is thrust into this

saturated solution of sugar and tea. Next, half a glassful is thrown

away to exorcise evil spirits, and then one glassful is boldly swallowed

by the host to reassure the guests by proving that there is no intent

to poison them. Extravagant as this may sound, it is a necessary bit of

etiquette in a land where tea-parties are so often fatal to a rich man's

enemies. Finally, little painted glasses full of mint tea are served to

all, and the traditional three rounds of this abominable concoction—a

sort of warm and flat mint-julep, with the true soul of a mint-julep

lacking—must be drunk on pain of being thought ill-bred. If the glasses

are not completely emptied every time, the residue is complacently turned

back into the teapot, to which more mint and water have meantime been

added, and the greater noise we make in drinking the tea, the better are

our manners thought to be. The resulting sounds at a really fashionable

tea-party suggest the releasing of the air-brakes on a railway train.

[Illustration: "KINDLY FACES SMILING DOWN"]

During the function, sticky sweetmeats and preserved fruits, that are

as revolting as they are adhesive, are passed repeatedly, and every

time we are expected to accept and eat. I nearly ruined my digestion in

an attempt to be polite. My friend, more happily situated, is able to

pour most of his tea out of the window, and deftly to drop the sticky

abominations out upon the heads of the passers-by.

[Illustration: OUR GUESTS]

[Illustration: THE PICNIC PARTY IN OUR GARDEN]

Escaping finally, we make another call, this time upon the little colony

connected with the mission school of the French Israelite Alliance. We

find it most refreshing to meet a group of educated people, with whom

to talk of all the strange things we have seen. Among them are the

teachers, sent from France, their wives and families, and also a number

of the most progressive Jews in Fez. The boys are students of the school,

and a fat one is presented as the prize pupil of the institution, the

pride and admiration of his teachers who put him through his paces at

a blackboard to convince us of his cleverness. He certainly did gallop

through arithmetical puzzles with rapidity and ease, and answered the

questions that we propounded with a facility that put us quite to shame,

for we could think of nothing difficult enough to stagger him for a

moment.

[Illustration: ISRAELITE SOCIETY IN FEZ]

Then, after another infliction of mint tea and some sweetmeats that

seemed like sugar-coated sausages, we take our leave, descend the narrow

stairway, and pass out into the dingy little street. An avalanche of

shouts and laughter overwhelms us, and looking up we see the sky-line of

the house adorned with a border of kindly faces, smiling down a cheery

"_au revoir_." For it has been arranged that we are all to meet again

upon the morrow. These new-found friends have been invited to spend the

day at our villa, to attend a picnic in our garden, to forget there in

the leafy spaciousness of our temporary abode the cramped and airless

houses of the Mellah.

There are no private gardens in the Mellah, lack of space forbids; nor

are there public gardens in the Moorish city. Therefore the Jews must

take their air and sunshine on the housetops, where level terraces,

surrounded by low parapets, afford them opportunities to bake themselves

in the torrid atmosphere of Africa. Needless to say, our invitation

was accepted, and next morning, shortly after breakfast, a caravan of

white-robed guests makes its appearance at our garden door. The women

have ridden on mule-back across the city, for they are all protégés of

France, and therefore are not compelled to go about on foot, like nearly

all their co-religionists.

[Illustration: "EVERYWHERE THE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER"]

Great preparations have been made by Haj for their entertainment. He has

adorned the house and court-yard with objects borrowed from unsuspecting

owners. Let me explain that almost every evening when we return from

rambles in the city, we find awaiting us two or three dealers in curios,

rugs, old brocades, and Moorish weapons; their goods spread out in a most

artistic, tempting fashion. Haj has induced the men who came the night

before to leave their goods on approval until the following evening; and

thus it is that we are able to give our picnic a rich Oriental setting

without incurring any great expense. In the picture of the merrymakers

it may be interesting to identify my friend, who sits on the extreme

left, robed in a white burnoose. Then on the right is Haj, dressed in

his best; near him there sits an old gray-bearded man. He is our only

Moorish guest, one of the few Moors who is free from the prejudices of

his race, who does not fear to sit at meat with Jews and Christians;

moreover, he speaks Spanish fluently. But he is more of a good fellow

than a good Mohammedan; to our knowledge he dares to disregard the rule

of total abstinence imposed upon the nation, for in his home there is a

secret cellar filled with wine. And, curiously, this old _bon vivant_,

who to-day makes merry with us in our Moorish garden, bears the same

name as he who sang the joys of the "jug in a Persian Garden" long ago;

his name, too, is Omar.

[Illustration: "NOTHING REMINISCENT OF THE CITIES OF OUR WORLD"]

[Illustration: "NAUGHT IN COMMON WITH THE COMMERCE OF TO-DAY"]

[Illustration: THE STREET THAT SKIRTS OUR GARDEN WALL]

Our guests remain with us from morning until evening, departing just

before the hour when the great wooden gates of every district are closed

securely for the night. In Fez, the populace keeps early hours. After

nine o'clock it is impossible to enter or to leave the city or even to

pass from one quarter to another, be it adjacent or remote. The gates

once closed, each district is completely isolated, and all who are shut

in must wait till morning to escape; all who are shut out must spend the

night away from home, unless they be men of influence, or carry written

orders for the opening of the barriers. There is, of course, nothing

to do at night; there are no theaters, clubs, or evening parties; the

city life dies out at sunset. The people go to their homes before the

gates are closed. There is by night no movement save the flowing of

the waters. A river sings its way through the heart of Fez, and swift

canals are laughing in every quarter. There is everywhere in Fez the

sound of running water, as in Rome, as at Nikko in Japan, as round the

hill of the Alhambra. The sound is thus associated in my mind with four

of the most fascinating places in the world. There is not in the entire

city a building that is reminiscent of the cities of our world; there

is no smoke, and there are no chimneys; there are no vehicles of any

kind in Fez, there is but one wheeled vehicle in the whole Empire; it

is the state-coach given by Queen Victoria to the Sultan, a curiosity

that is exhibited on state occasions, but a turnout in which the Sultan

never rides. There is no noise in Fez—no noise as we understand the

word; there are sounds, pleasant and unpleasant, but the ceaseless roar

of western cities is not there. The struggle for existence is almost

a silent struggle. Moreover, I believe that Fez is in a higher state

of civilization, and that its people are less given to crime than are

the dwellers in the poorer quarters of London, Paris, and New York. It

is safe for a Moorish citizen to walk these crowded streets by day; at

night he sleeps securely in his home. There is no flagrant immorality,

yet there is no regular police.

[Illustration: "ROOFLESS DUNGEONS THAT SERVE AS STREETS"]

[Illustration: "THERE IS NO NOISE IN FEZ"]

The streets of Fez can never cease to astonish men from the modern

world. We may have seen similar settings on the stage, similar costumes

in pictures or museums; so these are not new to us. What astonishes us

is that these things should anywhere form a part of the actual daily

life of men and women of our own time. And this life does not even

touch our life; its points of contact with the outside world are few.

Commercial Fez communicates with the mysterious regions of the south,

with Senegambia and Timbuktoo, by means of camel fleets that traverse

seas of sand. This commerce has naught in common with the commerce of

our world; its methods and its means of transport are totally foreign

to our own, and its itineraries are far beyond our ken.

[Illustration: THE SACRED HOUR OF MOGHREB]

[Illustration: OUR LAST EVENING IN FEZ]

But this city that appears so dim and so mysterious as we walk through

the roofless dungeons that serve as streets, reveals to us a brilliant,

dazzling aspect, when, disregarding the unwritten law forbidding men

to go upon housetops, we venture out upon the terrace of our villa. The

roof terraces are sacred to the women; there they may bare their faces in

the light of day, there they may lay aside their shrouds, and, bathed in

the soft evening light, appear for a brief space as living women,—women

with charms and personalities. The men of Fez have tacitly agreed that

on the housetops the women shall be free from male observation, free to

forget that they are practically slaves. We could not bind ourselves to

keep this courteous law, the view from our roof terrace was too tempting.

All Fez was there spread out before us, Fez with its snowy dwellings

reflecting the golden rays of the declining sun, Fez with its minarets,

its mosques, its palaces; Fez with its streets seldom trodden by the

feet of unbelievers, its sacred places never polluted by an alien glance.

[Illustration: WHERE UNBELIEVERS SELDOM TREAD]

[Illustration: "THE FIERCE SURROUNDING COUNTRY"]

Old Fez so long the city of our dreams now become the city of our waking

thoughts, is soon to become the city of our reminiscences. For alas!

this is to be our last evening in the holy city. The limit of official

tolerance is reached; our passports have been suggestively returned,

and, knowing the futility of protest, we dine in regretful silence

close to the open window that we may not lose a single phase of the

ever-changing coloring and lighting of the picture there revealed to us.

For the last time we watch the city grow dim in the twilight; although

we have witnessed ten times the dying of the day from this same window,

the spectacle has not lost its charm, the picture has not lost its

fascinating mystery. A sojourn of ten days in Fez has not dissipated,

it has but deepened the sense of mystery. But we, to our surprise, have

not yet suffered from that strange mental disease, the "longing to get

away" that infallibly attacks ambassadors and representatives of foreign

powers and is a political force upon which Moorish diplomats may count

to rid them of annoying visitors who have come to press vexing demands

upon their government. At last a sudden glow, like a great flood of

fire, overspreads the city; it is the glow of sunset, the last signal of

the dying day, and for a moment it suffuses the entire heavens, as if

there were a distant world in conflagration. Fez has assumed a shroud

of black; it is the sacred hour of Moghreb, and the lower darkness is

resounding with the cries of the Muezzin, those cries of intense faith,

those wailing laments that seem to express the nothingness of all things

earthly.

The Moors speak of their country as "Moghreb-al-Aksa," the "Country of the

Setting Sun." How prophetic!—for in very truth the sun of civilization

has set forever upon this land, and though its past be brilliant as the

heavenly sunset fires, its future is as dim as the soft-footed night

that, stealing in from the black, fierce surrounding country, broods

like a pall of death above the sleeping city of the Moors.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: LES DERNIERS REBELLES

(BENJAMIN CONSTANT)]

[Illustration]