CHAPTER I.

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Morocco, Its People and Places

By

Edmondo De Amicis

Translated by C. Rollin-Tilton

New York

G. P. Butnam's Sons

27 & 29 West 23d Street

1882

[Illustration: General View of Tangiers.]

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

I TANGIERS 1

II HAD-EL-GARBIA 70

III TLETA DE REISSANA 101

IV ALKAZAR-EL-KEBIR 114

V BEN-AUDA 126

VI KARIA-EL-ABBASSI 138

VII BENI-HASSAN 153

VIII SIDI-HASSEM 167

IX ZEGUTA 175

X FROM ZEGUTA TO SAGAT 186

XI FEZ 192

XII MECHINEZ 329

XIII ON THE SEBÙ 347

XIV ARZILLA 362

ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE

GENERAL VIEW OF TANGIERS 6

FESTIVAL OF THE CIRCUMCISION 24

MAHOMET 34

MARRIAGE PROCESSION IN TANGIERS 36

MOORISH HUSBANDMAN 54

LOADING THE CAMELS 66

PEASANT WOMEN OF THE INTERIOR 76

THE ARAB’S MORNING PRAYER 78

PEOPLE OF ALKAZAR 122

THE GOVERNOR ABD-ALLA 138

TAKING TEA WITH THE GOVERNOR OF KARIA-EL-ABBASSI 142

A CENTIPEDE 146

THE CAMEL CONVEYANCE 174

SHOE SHOP, FEZ 202

MOOR OF FEZ 216

A SAINT, FEZ 224

INNER COURT OF OUR HOUSE AT FEZ 226

ON THE TERRACES, FEZ 238

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GRAND VIZIER 242

NEGRO SLAVE OF FEZ 284

SLAVE OF THE SULTAN 310

GATEWAY AT MECHINEZ 336

PALACE OF THE GOVERNOR OF MECHINEZ 340

CHAPTER I.

TANGIERS.

There are no two countries in the world more entirely different from

each other than the two which are separated by the Straits of Gibraltar;

and this diversity is peculiarly apparent to the traveller who

approaches Tangiers from Gibraltar, where he has left the hurried,

noisy, splendid life of a European city. At only three hours’ journey

from thence the very name of our continent seems unknown; the word

“Christian” signifies enemy; our civilization is ignored, or feared, or

derided; all things, from the very foundations of social life to its

most insignificant particulars, are changed, and every indication of the

neighborhood of Europe has disappeared. You are in an unknown country,

having no bonds of interest in it, and every thing to learn. From its

shore the European coast can still be seen, but the heart feels itself

at an immeasurable distance, as if that narrow tract of sea were an

ocean, and those blue mountains an illusion. Within three hours a

wonderful transformation has taken place around you.

The emotion, however, which one naturally feels on first setting foot on

that immense and mysterious continent, which has moved the imagination

since one’s childhood, is disturbed by the manner of disembarkation.

Just as we began to see distinctly from the vessel the first white

houses of Tangiers, a Spanish lady behind us cried out, in a voice of

alarm, “What can all those people want?” I looked, and beheld behind the

boats that were coming to take off the passengers, a crowd of

half-naked, ragged Arabs, standing up to their hips in the water, and

pointing out the ship with eager gestures, like a band of brigands

rejoicing over their approaching prey. Not knowing who they were, or

what they wanted, I descended with an anxious mind into the boat with

the other passengers. When we had come to within twenty paces of the

shore all this brick-colored crew swarmed into our boat and laid hands

upon us, vociferating in Spanish and Arabic, and making us understand

that the water being too low for us to land from the boats, we were to

be transported upon their shoulders; which information dissipated our

fears of robbery, and imposed in their stead the dread of vermin. The

ladies were borne off in triumph upon stools, and I made my entrance

into Africa upon the back of an old mulatto, with my chin resting upon

his bare skull, and the tips of my toes in the water.

The mulatto, upon reaching the shore, unloaded me into the hands of an

Arab porter, who, passing through one of the city gates, led me at a run

through a deserted alley to an inn not far off, whence I almost

immediately issued again with a guide, and proceeded to the more

frequented streets.

I was struck at once, and more forcibly than I can express, with the

aspect of the population. They all wear a kind of long white cloak of

wool or linen, with a large pointed hood standing upright on the head,

so that the city has the aspect of a vast convent of Dominican friars.

Of all this cloaked company some are moving slowly, gravely, and

silently about, as if they wished to pass unobserved; others are seated

or crouched against the walls, in front of the shops, in corners of the

houses, motionless and with fixed gaze, like the petrified populations

of their legends. The walk, the attitude, the look, all are new and

strange to me, revealing an order of sentiment and habit quite different

from our own, another manner of considering time and life. These people

do not seem to be occupied in any way, nor are they thinking of the

place they are in, or of what is going on about them. All the faces wear

a deep and dreamy expression, as if they were dominated by some fixed

idea, or thinking of far-distant times and places, or dreaming with

their eyes open. I had hardly entered the crowd when I was aware of a

peculiar odor, one quite unknown to me among Europeans; it was not

agreeable, and yet I began to inhale it with a vivid curiosity, as if it

might explain some things to me. As I went on, the crowd, which at a

distance had seemed uniform, presented many varieties. There passed

before me faces white, black, yellow, and bronze; heads ornamented with

long tresses of hair, and bare skulls as shining as metallic balls; men

as dry as mummies; horrible old men; women with the face and entire

person wrapped in formless rags; children with long braids pendant from

the crown of the otherwise bare head; faces of sultans, savages,

necromancers, anchorites, bandits; people oppressed by an immense

sadness or a mortal weariness; none smiling, but moving one behind the

other with slow and silent steps, like a procession of spectres in a

cemetery. I passed through other streets, and saw that the city

corresponded in every way to the population. It is a labyrinth of

crooked lanes, or rather corridors, bordered by little square houses of

dazzling whiteness, without windows, and with little doors through which

one person can pass with difficulty,—houses which seem made to hide in

rather than live in, with a mixed aspect of convent and prison. In many

of the streets there is nothing to be seen save the white walls and the

blue sky; here and there some small Moorish arch, some arabesque window,

some strip of red at the base of a wall, some figure of a hand painted

in black beside a door, to keep off evil influences. Almost all the

streets are encumbered with rotten vegetables, feathers, rags, bones,

and in some places dead dogs and cats, infecting the air. For long

distances you meet no one but a group of Arab boys in pointed hoods,

playing together, or chanting in nasal tones some verses from the Koran;

or a crouching beggar, a Moor riding on a mule, an overloaded ass with

bleeding back, driven by a half-naked Arab; some tailless mangy dog, or

cat of fabulous meagreness. Transient odors of garlic, fish, or burning

aloes salute you as you pass; and so you make the circuit of the city,

finding everywhere the same dazzling whiteness, the same air of mystery,

sadness, and _ennui_.

Coming out upon the only square that Tangiers can boast, which is cut by

one long street that begins at the shore and crosses the whole town, you

see a rectangular place, surrounded by shops that would be mean in the

poorest of our villages. On one side there is a fountain constantly

surrounded by blacks and Arabs drawing water in jars and gourds; on the

other side sit all day long on the ground eight or ten muffled women

selling bread. Around this square are the very modest houses of the

different Legations, which rise like palaces from the midst of the

confused multitude of Moorish huts. Here in this spot is concentrated

all the life of Tangiers,—the life of a large village. The one

tobacconist is here, the one apothecary, the one _café_,—a dirty room

with a billiard-table,—and the one solitary corner where a printed

notice may be sometimes seen. Here gather the half-naked street-boys,

the rich and idle Moorish gentlemen, Jews talking about their business,

Arab porters awaiting the arrival of the steamer, _attachés_ of the

Legations expecting the dinner-hour, travellers just arrived,

interpreters, and impostors of various kinds. The courier arriving from

Fez or Morocco with orders from the Sultan is to be met here; and the

servant coming from the post, with his hands full of journals from

London and Paris; the beauty of the harem and the wife of the minister;

the Bedouin’s camel and the lady’s lapdog; the turban and the

chimney-pot hat; and the sound of a piano from the windows of a

consulate mingles with the lamentation chant from the door of a mosque.

It is the point where the last wave of European civilization is lost in

the great dead sea of African barbarism.

From the square we went up the main street, and passing by two old

gates, came out at twilight beyond the walls of the town, and found

ourselves in an open space on the side of a hill called Soc-de-Barra, or

exterior market, because a market is held there every Sunday and

Thursday. Of all the places that I saw in Morocco this is perhaps the

one that impressed me most deeply with the character of the country. It

is a tract of bare ground rough and irregular, with the tumble-down tomb

of a saint, composed of four white walls, in the midst. Upon the top

there is a cemetery, with a few aloes and Indian figs growing here and

there; below are the turreted walls of the town. Near the gate, on the

ground, sat a group of Arab women, with heaps of green-stuff before

them; a long file of camels crouched about the saint’s tomb; farther on

were some black tents, and a circle of Arabs seated around an old man

erect in their midst, who was telling a story; horses and cows here and

there; and above, among the stones and mounds of the cemetery, other

Arabs, motionless as statues, their faces turned toward the city, their

whole person in shadow, and the points of their hoods standing out

against the golden twilight sky. A sad and silent peacefulness seemed to

brood over the scene, such as cannot be described in words, but ought

rather to be distilled into the ear drop by drop, like a solemn secret.

The guide awoke me from my reverie and re-conducted me to my inn, where

my discomfiture at finding myself among strangers was much mitigated

when I discovered that they were all Europeans and Christians, dressed

like myself. There were about twenty persons at table, men and women, of

different nationalities, presenting a fine picture of that crossing of

races and interlacing of interests which go on in that country. Here was

a Frenchman born in Algiers married to an Englishwoman from Gibraltar;

there, a Spaniard of Gibraltar married to the sister of the Portuguese

Consul; here again, an old Englishman with a daughter born in Tangiers

and a niece native of Algiers; families wandering from one continent to

the other, or sprinkled along the coast, speaking five languages, and

living partly like Arabs, partly like Europeans. All through dinner a

lively conversation went on, now in French, now in Spanish, studded with

Arabic words, upon subjects quite strange to the ordinary talk of

Europeans: such as the price of a camel; the salary of a pasha; whether

the sultan were white or mulatto; if it were true that there had been

brought to Fez twenty heads from the revolted province of Garet; when

those religious fanatics who eat a live sheep were likely to come to

Tangiers; and other things of the same kind that aroused within my soul

the greatest curiosity. Then the talk ran upon European politics, with

that odd disconnectedness that is always perceptible in the discussions

of people of different nations—those big, empty phrases which they use

in talking of the politics of distant countries, imagining absurd

alliances and impossible wars. And then came the inevitable subject of

Gibraltar—the great Gibraltar, the centre of attraction for all the

Europeans along the coast, where their sons are sent to study, where

they go to buy clothes, to order a piece of furniture, to hear an opera,

to breathe a mouthful of the air of Europe. Finally came up the subject

of the departure of the Italian embassy for Fez, and I had the pleasure

of hearing that the event was of far greater importance than I had

supposed; that it was discussed at Gibraltar, at Algeziras, Cadiz, and

Malaga, and that the caravan would be a mile long; that there were

several Italian painters with the embassy, and that perhaps there might

even be a representative of the press—at which intelligence I rose

modestly from the table, and walked away with majestic steps.

I wandered about Tangiers at a late hour that night. There was not a

single light in street or window, nor did the faintest radiance stream

through any loop-hole; the city seemed uninhabited, the white houses lay

under the starlight like tombs, and the tops of the minarets and

palm-trees stood out clear against the cloudless sky. The gates of the

city were closed, and every thing was mute and lifeless. Two or three

times my feet entangled themselves in something like a bundle of rags,

which proved to be a sleeping Arab. I trod with disgust upon bones that

cracked under my feet, and knew them for the carcase of a dog or cat; a

hooded figure glided like a spectre close to the wall; another gleamed

white for one instant at the bottom of an alley; and at a turning I

heard a sudden rush and scamper, as if I had unwittingly disturbed some

consultation. My own footstep when I moved, my own breathing when I

stood still, were the only sounds that broke the stillness. It seemed as

if all the life in Tangiers were concentrated in myself, and that if I

were to give a sudden cry it would resound from one end of the city to

the other like the blast of a trumpet. Meantime the moon rose, and shone

upon the white walls with the splendor of an electric light. In a dark

alley I met a man with a lantern, who stood aside to let me pass,

murmuring some words that I did not understand. Suddenly a loud laugh

made my blood run cold for an instant, and two young men in European

dress went by in conversation; probably two _attachés_ to the Legations.

In a corner of the great square, behind the looped-up curtain of a dark

little shop, a dim light betrayed a heap of whitish rags, from which

issued the faint tinkle of a guitar, and a thin, tremulous, lamentable

voice, that seemed brought by the wind from a great distance. I went

back to my inn, feeling like a man who finds himself transported into

some other planet.

The next morning I went to present myself to our _chargé d’affaires_,

Commendatore Stefano Scovasso. He could not accuse me of not being

punctual. On the 8th of April, at Turin, I received the invitation, with

the announcement that the caravan would leave Tangiers on the 19th. On

the morning of the 18th I was at the Legation. I did not know Signor

Scovasso personally, but I knew something about him which inspired me

with a great desire to make his acquaintance. From one of his friends

whom I had seen before leaving Turin, I had heard that he was a man

capable of riding from Tangiers to Timbuctoo without any other

companions than a pair of pistols. Another friend had blamed his

inveterate habit of risking his life to save the lives of others. When I

arrived at the Legation I found him standing at the gate in the midst of

a crowd of Arabs, all motionless, in attitudes of profound respect,

seemingly awaiting his orders. Presenting myself, and being at once made

a guest at head-quarters, I learned that our departure was deferred till

the 1st of May, because there was an English embassy at Fez, and our

horses, camels, mules, and a cavalry escort for the journey, were all to

be sent from there. A transport-ship of our military marine, the _Dora_,

then anchored at Gibraltar, had already carried to Larrace, on the

Atlantic coast, the presents which King Victor Emanuel had sent to the

Emperor of Morocco. The principal scope of our journey for the _chargé

d’affaires_ was to present credentials to the young Sultan, Muley el

Hassen, who had ascended the throne in September, 1873. No Italian

embassy had ever been at Fez, and the banner of United Italy had never

before been carried into the interior of Morocco. Consequently, the

embassy was to be received with extraordinary solemnities.

My first occupation when I found myself alone was to take observations

of the house where I was to be a guest; and truly it was well worthy of

notice. Not that the building itself was at all remarkable. White and

bare without, it had a garden in front, and an interior court, with four

columns supporting a covered gallery that ran all around the first

floor. It was like a gentleman’s house at Cadiz or Seville. But the

people and their manner of life in this house were all new to me.

Housekeeper and cook were Piedmontese; there was a Moorish woman-servant

of Tangiers, and a Negress from the Soudan with bare feet; there were

Arab waiters and grooms dressed in white shirts; consular guards in fez,

red caftan, and poignard; and all these people were in perpetual motion

all day long. At certain hours there was a coming and going of black

porters, interpreters, soldiers of the pasha, and Moors in the service

of the Legation. The court was full of boxes, camp-beds, carpets,

lanterns. Hammers and saws were in full cry, and the strange names of

Fatima, Racma, Selam, Mohammed, Abd-er-Rhaman flew from mouth to mouth.

And what a hash of languages! A Moor would bring a message in Arabic to

another Moor, who transmitted it in Spanish to the housekeeper, who

repeated it in Piedmontese to the cook, and so on. There was a constant

succession of translations, comments, mistakes, doubts, mingled with

Italian, Spanish, and Arabic exclamations. In the street, a procession

of horses and mules; before the door, a permanent group of curious

lookers-on, or poor wretches, Arabs and Jews, patient aspirants for the

protection of the Legation. From time to time came a minister or a

consul, before whom all the turbans and fezes bowed themselves. Every

moment some mysterious messenger, some unknown and strange costume, some

remarkable face, appeared. It seemed like a theatrical representation,

with the scene laid in the East.

My next thought was to take possession of some book of my host’s that

should teach me something of the country I was in, before beginning to

study costume. This country, shut in by the Mediterranean, Algeria, the

desert of Sahara, and the ocean, crossed by the great chain of the

Atlas, bathed by wide rivers, opening into immense plains, with every

variety of climate, endowed with inestimable riches in all the three

kingdoms of nature, destined by its position to be the great commercial

high-road between Europe and Central Africa, is now occupied by about

8,000,000 of inhabitants—Berbers, Moors, Arabs, Jews, Negroes, and

Europeans—sprinkled over a vaster extent of country than that of France.

The Berbers, who form the basis of the indigenous population—a savage,

turbulent, and indomitable race—live on the inaccessible mountains of

the Atlas, in almost complete independence of the imperial authority.

The Arabs, the conquering race, occupy the plains—a nomadic and pastoral

people, not entirely degenerated from their ancient haughty character.

The Moors, corrupted and crossed by Arab blood, are in great part

descended from the Moors of Spain, and, inhabiting the cities, hold in

their hands the wealth, trade, and commerce of the country. The blacks,

about 500,000, originally from the Soudan, are generally servants,

laborers, and soldiers. The Jews, almost equal in number to the blacks,

descend, for the most part, from those who were exiled from Europe in

the Middle Ages, and are oppressed, hated, degraded, and persecuted here

more than in any other country in the world. They exercise various arts

and trades, and in a thousand ways display the ingenuity, pliability,

and tenacity of their race, finding in the possession of money torn from

their oppressors a recompense for all their woes. The Europeans whom

Mussulman intolerance has, little by little, driven from the interior of

the empire toward the coast, number less than 2,000 in all Morocco, the

greater part inhabiting Tangiers, and living under the protection of the

consular flags. This heterogeneous, dispersed, and irreconcilable

population is oppressed rather than protected by a military government

that, like a monstrous leech, sucks out all the vital juices from the

State. The tribes and boroughs, or suburbs, obey their sheiks; the

cities and provinces the cadi; the greater provinces the pasha; and the

pasha obeys the Sultan—grand schereef, high priest, supreme judge,

executor of the laws emanating from himself, free to change at his

caprice money, taxes, weights and measures; master of the possessions

and lives of his subjects. Under the weight of this government, and

within the inflexible circle of the Mussulman religion, unmoved by

European influences, and full of a savage fanaticism, everything that in

other countries moves and progresses, here remains motionless or falls

into ruin.

Commerce is choked by monopolies, by prohibitions upon exports and

imports, and by the capricious mutability of the laws. Manufactures,

restricted by the bonds laid upon commerce, have remained as they were

at the time of the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, with the same

primitive tools and methods. Agriculture, loaded heavily with taxes,

hampered in exportation of produce, and only exercised from sheer

necessity, has fallen so low as no longer to merit the name. Science,

suffocated by the Koran, and contaminated by superstition, is reduced to

a few elements in the higher schools, such as were taught in the Middle

Ages. There are no printing-presses, no books, no journals, no

geographical maps; the language itself, a corruption of the Arabic, and

represented only by an imperfect and variable written character, is

becoming yearly more debased; in the general decadence the national

character is corrupted; all the ancient Mussulman civilization is

disappearing. Morocco, the last western bulwark of Islamism, once the

seat of a monarchy that ruled from the Ebro to the Soudan, and from the

Niger to the Balearic Isles, glorious with flourishing universities,

with immense libraries, with men famous for their learning, with

formidable fleets and armies, is now nothing but a small and almost

unknown state, full of wretchedness and ruin, resisting with its last

remaining strength the advance of European civilization, seated upon its

foundations still, but confronted by the reciprocal jealousies of

civilized states.

As for Tangiers, the ancient Tingis, which gave its name to Tingistanian

Mauritania, it passed successively from the hands of the Romans into

those of the Vandals, Greeks, Visigoths, Arabs, Portugese, and English,

and is now a city of about 15,000 inhabitants, considered by its sister

cities as having been “prostituted to the Christians,” although there

are no traces of the churches and monasteries founded by the Portugese,

and the Christian religion boasts there but one small chapel, hidden

away among the legations.

I made in the streets of Tangiers a few notes, in preparation for my

journey, and they are given here, because, having been written down

under the impression of the moment, they are perhaps more effective than

a more elaborate description.

I am ashamed when I pass a handsome Moor in gala dress. I compare my

ugly hat with his large muslin turban, my short jacket with his ample

white or rose-colored caftan—the meanness, in short, of my black and

gray garments with the whiteness, the amplitude, the graceful dignified

simplicity of his—and it seems to me that I look like a black beetle

beside a butterfly. I stand sometimes at my window in contemplation

before a portion of a pair of crimson drawers and a gold-colored

slipper, appearing from behind a column in the square below, and find so

much pleasure in it that I cannot cease from gazing. More than any thing

else I admire and envy the _caic_, that long piece of snow-white wool or

silk with transparent stripes which is twisted round the turban, falls

down between the shoulders, is passed round the waist, and thrown up

over one shoulder, whence it descends to the feet, softly veiling the

rich colors of the dress beneath, and at every breath of wind swelling,

quivering, floating, seeming to glow in the sun’s rays, and giving to

the whole person a vaporous and visionary aspect.

No one who has not seen it can imagine to what a point the Arab carries

the art of lying down. In corners where we should be embarrassed to

place a bag of rags or a bundle of straw, he disposes of himself as upon

a bed of down. He adapts himself to the protuberances, fills up the

cavities, spreads himself upon the wall like a bas-relief, and flattens

himself out upon the ground until he looks like a sheet spread out to

dry. He will assume the form of a ball, a cube, or a monster without

arms, legs, or head; so that the streets and squares look like

battle-fields strewn with corpses and mutilated trunks of men.

The greater part have nothing on but a simple white mantle; but what a

variety there is among them! Some wear it open, some closed, some drawn

on one side, some folded over the shoulder, some tightly wrapped, some

loosely floating, but always with an air; varied by picturesque folds,

falling in easy but severe lines, as if they were posing for an artist.

Every one of them might pass for a Roman senator. This very morning our

artist discovered a marvellous Marcus Brutus in the midst of a group of

Bedouins. But if one is not accustomed to wear it, the face is not

sufficient to ennoble the folds of the mantle. Some of us bought them

for the journey, and tried them on, and we looked like so many

convalescents wrapped in bathing-sheets.

I have not yet seen among the Arabs a hunchback, or a lame man, or a

rickety man, but many without a nose and without an eye, one or both,

and the greater part of these with the empty orbit—a sight which made me

shiver when I thought that possibly the globe had been torn out in

virtue of the _lex talionis_, which is in vigor in the empire. But there

is no ridiculous ugliness among these strange and terrible figures. The

flowing ample vesture conceals all small defects, as the common gravity

and the dark, bronzed skin conceals the difference of age. In

consequence of this one encounters at every step men of indefinable age,

of whom one cannot guess whether they are old or young; and if you judge

them old, a lightning smile reveals their youth; and if you think them

young, the hood falls back and betrays the gray locks of age.

The Jews of this country have the same features as those of our own, but

their taller stature, darker complexion, and, above all, their

picturesque attire, make them appear quite different. They wear a dress

in form very like a dressing-gown, of various colors, generally dark,

bound round the waist with a red girdle; a black cap, wide trousers that

come a little below the skirts of the coat, and yellow slippers. It is

curious to see what a number of dandies there are among them dressed in

fine stuffs, with embroidered shirts, silken sashes, and rings and

chains of gold; but they are handsome, dignified-looking men, always

excepting those who have adopted the black frock-coat and chimney-pot

hat. There are some pretty faces among the boys, but the sort of

dressing-gown in which they are wrapped is not generally becoming at

their age. It seems to me that there is no exaggeration in the reports

of the beauty of the Jewesses of Morocco, which has a character of its

own unknown in other countries. It is an opulent and splendid beauty,

with large black eyes, broad low forehead, full red lips, and statuesque

form,—a theatrical beauty that looks well from a distance, and produces

applause rather than sighs in the beholder. The Hebrew women of Tangiers

do not wear in public their rich national costume; they are dressed

almost like Europeans, but in such glaring colors—blue, carmine, sulphur

yellow, and grass-green—that they look like women wrapped in the flags

of all nations. On the Saturdays, when they are in all their glory, the

Jewish quarter presents a marked contrast to the austere solitude of the

other streets.

The little Arab boys amuse me. Even those small ones who can scarcely

walk are robed in the white mantle, and with their high-pointed hoods

they look like perambulating extinguishers. The greater part of them

have their heads shaven as bare as your hand, except a braided lock

about a foot long pendent from the crown which looks as if it were left

on purpose to hang them up by on nails, like puppets. Some few have the

lock behind one ear or over the temple, with a bit of hair cut in a

square or triangular form, the distinctive mark of the last born in the

family. In general they have pretty, pale little faces, erect, slender

bodies, and an expression of precocious intelligence. In the more

frequented parts of the city they take no notice of Europeans; in the

other parts they content themselves with looking intently at them with

an air which says, “I do not like you.” Here and there is one who would

like to be impertinent; it glitters in his eye and quivers on his lip;

but rarely does he allow it to escape, not so much out of respect for

the Nazarene as out of fear of his father, who stands in awe of the

Legations. In any case the sight of a small coin will quiet them. But it

will not do to pull their braided tails. I indulged myself once in

giving a little pluck at a small image about a foot high, and he turned

upon me in a fury, spluttering out some words which my guide told me

meant, “May God roast your grandfather, accursed Christian!”

I have at last seen two saints,—that is to say, idiots or lunatics,

because throughout all North Africa that man from whom God, in sign of

predilection, has withdrawn his reason to keep it a prisoner in heaven,

is venerated as a saint. The first one was in the main street, in front

of a shop. I saw him from a distance and stayed my steps, for I knew

that all things are allowed to saints, and had no desire to be struck on

the back of the neck with a stick, like M. Sourdeau, the French consul,

or to have the saint spit in my face, as happened to Mr. Drummond Hay.

But the interpreter who was with me assured me that there was no danger

now, for the saints of Tangiers had learned a lesson since the Legations

had made some examples, and in any case the Arabs themselves would serve

me as a shield, since they did not wish the saint to get into trouble.

So I went on and passed before the scarecrow, observing him attentively.

He was an old man, all face, very fat, with very long white hair, a

beard descending on his breast, a paper crown upon his head, a ragged

red mantle on his shoulders, and in his hand a small lance with gilded

point. He sat on the ground with crossed legs, his back against a wall,

looking at the passers-by with a discontented expression. I stopped

before him; he looked at me. “Now,” thought I, “he will throw his

lance.” But the lance remained quiet, and I was astonished at the

tranquil and intelligent look in his eyes, and a cunning smile that

seemed to gleam within them. They said, “Ah! you think I am going to

make a fool of myself by attacking you, do you?” He was certainly one of

those impostors who, having all their reason, feign madness in order to

enjoy saintly privileges. I threw him some money, which he picked up

with an air of affected indifference, and going on my way presently met

another. This was a real saint. He was a mulatto, almost entirely naked,

and less than human in visage, covered with filth from head to foot, and

so thin that he seemed a walking skeleton. He was moving slowly along,

carrying with difficulty a great white banner, which the street-boys ran

to kiss, and accompanied by another poor wretch who begged from shop to

shop, and two noisy rascals with drum and trumpet. As I passed near him

he showed me the white of his eye, and stopped. I thought he seemed to

be preparing something in his mouth, and stepped nimbly aside. “You were

right,” said the interpreter; “because if he had spat on you, the only

consolation you would have got from the Arabs would have been, 'Do not

wipe it off, fortunate Christian! Thou art blessed that the saint has

spat in thy face! Do not put away the sign of God’s benevolence!’”

This evening I have for the first time really heard Arab music. In the

perpetual repetition of the same notes, always of a melancholy cast,

there is something that gradually touches the soul. It is a kind of

monotonous lamentation that finally takes possession of the thoughts,

like the murmur of a fountain, the cricket’s chirp, and the beat of

hammers upon anvils, such as one hears in the evening when passing near

a village. I feel compelled to meditate upon it, and find out the

signification of those eternal words for ever sounding in my ears. It is

a barbaric music, full of simplicity and sweetness, that carries me back

to primitive conditions, revives my infantile memories of the Bible,

recalls to mind forgotten dreams, fills me with curiosity about

countries and peoples unknown, transports me to great distances amid

groves of strange trees, with a group of aged priests bending about a

golden idol; or in boundless plains, in solemn solitudes, behind weary

caravans of travellers that question with their eyes the burning

horizon, and with drooping heads commend themselves to God. Nothing

about me so fills me with a yearning desire to see my own country and my

people as these few notes of a weak voice and tuneless guitar.

The oddest things in the world are the Moorish shops. They are one and

all a sort of alcove about a yard high, with an opening to the street,

where the buyer stands as at a window, leaning against the wall. The

shopman is within, seated cross-legged; with a portion of his

merchandise before him, and the rest on little shelves behind. The

effect of these bearded old Moors, motionless as images in their dark

holes, is very strange. It seems themselves, and not their goods, that

are on exhibition, like the “living phenomena” of country fairs. Are

they alive, or made of wood; and where is the handle to set them in

motion? The air of solitude, weariness, and sadness, that hangs about

them is indescribable. Every shop seems a tomb, where the occupant,

already separated from the living world, silently awaits his death.

I have seen two children led in triumph after the solemn ceremony of

circumcision. One was about six, and the other five years old. They were

both seated upon a white mule, and were dressed in red, green, and

yellow garments, embroidered with gold, and covered with ribbons and

flowers, from which their little pallid faces looked forth, still

wearing an expression of terror and amazement. Before the mule, which

was gaily caparisoned and hung with garlands, went three drummers, a

piper, and a cornet-player, making all the noise they could; to the

right and left walked friends and parents, one of whom held the little

ones firm in the saddle, while others gave them sweetmeats and caresses,

and others, again, fired off guns, and leaped and shouted. If I had not

already known what it meant, I should have thought that the two poor

babies were victims being carried to the sacrifice; and yet the

spectacle was not without a certain picturesqueness.

[Illustration: Festival Of The Circumcision.]

This evening I have been present at a singular metamorphosis of Racma,

the minister’s black slave. Her companion came to call me, and conducted

me on tip-toe to a door, which she suddenly threw open, exclaiming,

“Behold Racma!” I could scarcely believe my eyes, for there stood the

negress, whom I had been accustomed to see only in her common working

dress, arrayed like the Queen of Timbuctoo, or a princess from some

unknown African realm, brought thither on the miraculous carpet of

Bisnagar. As I saw her only for a moment, I cannot say exactly how she

was dressed. There was a gleam of snowy white, a glow of purple and

crimson, and a shine of gold, under a large transparent veil, which,

together with her ebony blackness of visage, composed a whole of

barbaric magnificence and the richest harmony of color. As I drew near

to observe more closely, all the pomp and splendor vanished under the

gloomy Mohammedan sheet-like mantle, and the queen, transformed into a

spectre, glided away, leaving behind her a nauseous odor of black savage

which destroyed all my illusions.

Hearing a great outcry in the square, I looked out of my window and saw

passing by a negro, naked to the waist and seated upon an ass,

accompanied by some Arabs armed with sticks, and followed by a troop of

yelling boys. At first I thought it some frolic, and took my opera-glass

to look; but I turned away with a shudder. The white drawers of the

negro were all stained with blood that dropped from his back, and the

Arabs were soldiers who were beating him with sticks. He had stolen a

hen. “Lucky fellow,” said my informant; “it appears they will let him

off without cutting off his right hand.”

I have been seven days at Tangiers, and have not yet seen an Arab

woman’s face, I seem to be in some monstrous masquerade, where all the

women represent ghosts, wrapped in sepulchral sheets or shrouds. They

walk with long, slow steps, a little bent forward, covering their faces

with the end of a sort of linen mantle, under which they have nothing

but a long chemise with wide sleeves, bound round the waist by a cord

like a friar’s frock. Nothing of them is visible but the eyes, the hand

that covers the face, the fingers tinted with henna, and the bare feet,

the toes also tinted, in large yellow slippers. The greater part of them

display only one eye, which is dark, and a small bit of yellowish-white

forehead. Meeting a European in a narrow street, some of them cover the

whole face with a rapid, awkward movement, and shrink close to the wall;

others venture a timid glance of curiosity; and now and then one will

launch a provoking look, and drop her eyes smiling. But in general they

wear a sad, weary, and oppressed aspect. The little girls, who are not

of an age to be veiled, are pretty, with black eyes, full faces, pale

complexions, red lips, and small hands and feet. But at twenty they are

faded, at thirty old, and at fifty decrepit.

I know now who are those fair-haired men, with ill-omened visages, who

pass me sometimes in the streets, and look at me with such threatening

eyes. They are those Rifans, Berbers by race, who have no law beyond

their guns, and recognize no authority. Audacious pirates, sanguinary

bandits, eternal rebels, who inhabit the mountains of the coast of

Tetuan, on the Algerian frontier, whom neither the cannon of European

ships nor the armies of the Sultan have ever been able to dislodge; the

population, in short, of that famous Rif, where no foreigner may dare to

set his foot, unless under the protection of the saints and the sheikhs;

about whom all sorts of terrible legends are rife; and the neighboring

peoples speak vaguely of their country, as of one far distant and

unknown. They are often seen in Tangiers. They are tall and robust men,

dressed in dark mantles, bordered with various colors. Some have their

faces ornamented with yellow arabesques. All are armed with very long

guns, whose red cases they twist about their heads like turbans; and

they go in companies, speaking low, and looking about them from under

their brows, like bravoes in search of a victim. In comparison with

them, the wildest Arab seems a life-long friend.

We were at dinner in the evening, when some gunshots were heard from the

square. Everybody ran to see, and from the distance a strange spectacle

was visible. The street leading to the Soc-de-Barra was lighted up by a

number of torches carried above the heads of a crowd that surrounded a

large box or trunk, borne on the back of a horse. This enigmatical

procession went slowly onward, accompanied by melancholy music, and a

sort of nasal chant, piercing yells, the barking of dogs, and the

discharge of muskets. I speculated for a moment as to whether the box

contained a corpse, or a man condemned to death, or a monster, or some

animal destined for the sacrifice, and then turned away with a sense of

repugnance, when my friends, coming in, gave me the explanation of the

enigma. It was a wedding procession, and the bride was in the box, being

carried to her husband’s house.

A throng of Arabs, men and women, have just gone by, preceded by six old

men carrying large banners of various colors, and all together singing

in high shrill voices a sort of prayer, with woful faces and

supplicating tones. In answer to my question, I am told that they are

entreating Allah to send the grace of rain. I followed them to the

principal mosque, and not being then aware that Christians are

prohibited from entering a mosque, was about to do so, when an old Arab

suddenly flew at me, and saying in breathless accents something

equivalent to, “What would you do, unhappy wretch?” pushed me back

against the wall, with the action of one who removes a child from the

edge of a precipice. I was obliged to content myself with looking at the

outside only of the sacred edifice, not much grieved, since I had seen

the splendid and gigantic mosques of Constantinople, to be excluded from

those of Tangiers, which, with the exception of the minarets, are

without any architectural merit. Whilst I stood there, a woman behind

the fountain in the court made a gesture at me. I might record that she

blew me a kiss, but truth compels me to state that she shook her fist at

me.

I have been up to the Casba, or castle, posted upon a hill that

dominates Tangiers. It is a cluster of small buildings, encircled by old

walls, where the authorities, with some soldiers, and prisoners are

housed. We found no one but two drowsy sentinels seated before the gate,

at the end of a deserted square, and some beggars stretched on the

ground, scorched by the sun, and devoured by flies. From hence the eye

embraces the whole of Tangiers, which extends from the foot of the hill

of the Casba, and runs up the flanks of another hill. The sight is

almost dazzled by so much snowy whiteness, relieved only here and there

by the green of a fig-tree imprisoned between wall and wall. One can see

the terraces of all the houses, the minarets of the mosques, the flags

of the Legations, the battlements of the walls, the solitary beach, the

deserted bay, the mountains of the coast—a vast, silent, and splendid

spectacle, which would relieve the sting of the heaviest homesickness.

Whilst I stood in contemplation, a voice, coming from above, struck upon

my ear, acute and tremulous, and with a strange intonation. It was not

until after some minutes’ search that I discovered upon the minaret of

the mosque of the Casba, a small black spot, the _muezzin_, who was

calling the faithful to prayer, and throwing out to the four winds of

heaven the names of Allah and Mahomet. Then the melancholy silence

reigned once more.

It is a calamity to have to change money in this country. I gave a

French franc to a tobacconist, who was to give me back ten sous in

change. The ferocious Moor opened a box and began to throw out handfuls

of black, shapeless coins, until there was a heap big enough for an

ordinary porter, counted it all quickly over, and waited for me to put

it in my pocket. “Excuse me,” said I, trying to get back my franc, “I am

not strong enough to buy any thing in your shop.” However, we arranged

matters by my taking more cigars, and carrying off a pocketful of that

horrible money. It appears that it is called _flu_, and is made of

copper, worth one _centime_ apiece now, and sinking every day in value.

Morocco is inundated with it, and one need not inquire further when one

knows that the Government pays with this money, but receives nothing but

gold and silver. But every evil has its good side they say, and these

_flu_, bane of commerce as they are, have the inestimable virtue of

preserving the people of Morocco from the evil eye, thanks to the

so-called rings of Solomon, a six-pointed star engraven on one side—an

image of the real ring buried in the tomb of the great king, who, with

it, commanded the good and evil genii.

There is but one public promenade, and that is the beach, which extends

from the city to Cape Malabat, a beach covered with shells and refuse

thrown up by the sea, and having numerous large pieces of water,

difficult to guard against at high tide. Here are the Champs Elysées and

the Cascine of Tangiers. The hour for walking is the evening toward

sunset. At that time there are generally about fifty Europeans, in

groups and couples, scattered at a hundred paces’ distance from each

other, so that from the walls of the city individuals are easily

recognized. I can see from my stand-point an English lady on horseback,

accompanied by a guide; beyond, two Moors from the country; then come

the Spanish Consul and his wife, and after them a saint; then a French

nurse-maid with two children; then a number of Arab women wading through

a pool, and uncovering their knees—the better to cover their faces; and

further on, at intervals, a tall hat, a white hood, a _chignon_, and

some one who must be the secretary of the Portuguese Legation, wearing

the light trowsers that came yesterday from Gibraltar—for in this small

European colony the smallest events are public property. If it were not

disrespectful, I should say that they look like a company of condemned

criminals out for a regulation walk, or hostages held by the pirates of

a savage island, on the lookout for the vessel that is to bring their

ransom.

It is infinitely easier to find your way in London than among this

handful of houses that could all be put in one corner of Hyde Park. All

these lanes, and alleys, and little squares, where one has scarcely room

to pass, are so exactly like each other that nothing short of the

minutest observation can enable you to distinguish one from the other.

At present, I lose myself the very instant that I leave the main street

and the principal square. In one of these silent corridors, in full

daylight, two Arabs could bind and gag me, and cause me to vanish for

ever from the face of the earth, without any one, save themselves, being

the wiser. And yet a Christian can wander alone through this labyrinth,

among these barbarians, with greater security than in our cities. A few

European flags erected over a terrace, like the menacing index finger of

a hidden hand, are sufficient to obtain that which a legion of armed men

cannot obtain among us. What a difference between London and Tangiers!

But each city has its own advantages. There, there are great palaces and

underground railways, here, you can go into a crowd with your overcoat

unbuttoned.

There is not in all Tangiers either cart or carriage; you hear no clang

of bell, nor cry of itinerant vendor, nor sound of busy occupation; you

see no hasty movement of persons or of things; even Europeans, not

knowing what to do with themselves, stay for hours motionless in the

square; every thing reposes and invites to repose. I myself, who have

been here only a few days, begin to feel the influence of this soft and

somnolent existence. Getting as far as the Soc-de-Barra, I am

irresistibly impelled homeward; I read ten pages, and the book falls

from my hand; if once I let my head fall back upon the easy chair, it is

all over with me, and the very thought of care or occupation is

sufficient to fatigue me. This sky, for ever blue, and this snow-white

city form an image of unalterable peace, which, even with its monotony,

becomes, little by little, the supreme end of life to all who inhabit

this country.

[Illustration: Mahomet.]

Among the numerous figures that buzzed about the doors of the Legation,

there was a young Moor who had from the first attracted my eye; one of

the handsomest men whom I saw in Morocco; tall and slender, with dark,

melancholy eyes, and the sweetest of smiles; the face of an enamoured

Sultan, whom Danas, the malign genius of the “Arabian Nights,” might

have placed beside the Princess Badoura, instead of Prince Camaralzaman,

sure that she would have made no objection to the change. He was called

Mahomet, was eighteen years of age, and the son of a well-to-do Moor of

Tangiers, a big and honest Mussulman protected by the Italian Legation,

who, having been for some time menaced with death by the hand of an

enemy, came every day with a frightened visage to claim the protection

of the Minister. This Mahomet spoke a little Spanish, after the Moorish

fashion, with all the verbs in the infinitive, and had thereby made

acquaintance with my companions. He had been married only a few days.

His father had given him a child of fifteen for a wife, who was as

beautiful as he. But matrimony had not changed his habits; he remained,

as we say, a Moor _of the future_—that is to say, he drank wine under

the rose, smoked cigars, was tired of Tangiers, frequented the society

of Europeans, and looked forward to a voyage to Spain. In these days,

however, what drew him toward us was the desire of obtaining, through

our intervention, permission to join the caravan, to go and see Fez, the

great metropolis, his Rome, the dream of his childhood; and with this

end he expended salutations, smiles, and grasps of the hand, with a

prodigality and grace that would have seduced the entire imperial harem.

Like most young Moors of his condition, he killed time in lounging from

street to street, and from corner to corner, talking about the

Minister’s new horses, or the departure of a friend for Gibraltar, or

the arrival of a ship, or any topic that came uppermost; or else he

stood like a statue, silent and motionless, in a corner of the

market-place, with his thoughts no one knows where. With this handsome

idler are bound up my recollections of the first Moorish house in which

I put my foot, and the first Arab dinner at which I risked my palate.

His father one day invited me to dinner, thus fulfilling an old wish of

mine. Late one evening, guided by an interpreter, and accompanied by

four servants of the Legation, I found myself at an arabesque door,

which opened as if by enchantment at our approach; and crossing a white

and empty chamber, we entered the court of the house. The first

impression produced was that of a great confusion of people, a strange

light and a marvellous pomp of color. We were received by the master of

the house and his sons and relations, all crowned with large white

turbans; behind them were some hooded servants; beyond, in the dark

corners, and peeping through door-ways, the curious faces of women and

children; and despite the number of persons, a profound silence. I

thought myself in a room, until raising my eyes, I saw the stars, and

found that we were in a central court, upon either side of which opened

two long and lofty chambers without windows, each having a great arched

door-way closed only by a curtain. The external walls were white as

snow, the arches of the doors dentellated, the pavements in mosaic; here

and there a window, and a niche for slippers. The house had been

decorated for our coming; carpets covered the pavement; great

chandeliers stood on either side of the doors, with red, yellow and

green candles; on the tables were flowers and mirrors. The effect was

very strange. There was something of the air of church decorations, and

something of the ballroom and the theatre; artificial, but very pretty

and graceful, and the distribution of light and arrangement of colors

were very effective.

[Illustration: Marriage Procession in Tangiers.]

Some moments were spent in salutations and vigorous grasps of the hand,

and we were then invited to visit the bridal chamber. It was a long,

narrow, and lofty room, opening on the court. At the end, on either

side, stood the two beds, decorated with a rich, dark red stuff, with

coverlets of lace; thick carpets covered the pavement, and hangings of

red and yellow concealed the walls. Between the two beds was suspended

the wife’s wardrobe: bodices, petticoats, drawers, gowns of unknown

form, in all the colors of the rainbow, in wool, silk, and velvet,

bordered and starred with gold and silver; the trousseau of a royal

doll; a sight to turn the head of a ballet-dancer, and make a columbine

die with envy. From thence we passed into the dining-room. Here also

were carpets and hangings, flowers, tall chandeliers standing on the

floor, cushions and pillows of all colors spread against the walls, and

two gorgeous beds, for this was the nuptial chamber of the parents. The

table stood all prepared near one of the beds, contrary to the Arab

custom, which is to put the dishes on the floor and eat with the

fingers; and upon it glittered an array of bottles, charged, to remind

us, in the midst of a Moorish banquet, that Christians existed. Before

taking our places at table, we seated ourselves cross-legged on the

carpets, around the master’s secretary, who prepared tea before us, and

made us take, according to custom, three cups a-piece, excessively

sweetened, and flavored with mint; and between each cup we caressed the

shaven head and braided tail of a pretty four-year-old boy, Mahomet’s

youngest brother, who furtively counted the fingers on our hands, in

order to make sure that we had the same number as a Mussulman, and no

more. After tea we took our seats at table, and the master, being

entreated, seated himself also; and then the Arab dishes, objects of our

intense curiosity, began to circulate. I tasted the first with simple

faith. Great heaven! My first impulse was to attack the cook. All the

contractions that can be produced upon the face of a man who is suddenly

assailed by an acute colic, or who hears the news of his banker’s

failure, were, I think, visible on mine. I understood in one moment how

it was that a people who ate in that way should believe in another God,

and take other views of human life than ours. I cannot express what I

felt otherwise than by likening myself to some unhappy wretch who is

forced to satisfy his appetite upon the pomatum pots of his barber.

There were flavors of soaps, pomades, wax, dyes, cosmetics—every thing

that is least proper to be put in a human mouth. At each dish we

exchanged glances of wonder and dismay. No doubt the original material

was good enough—chickens, mutton, game, fish; large dishes of a very

fine appearance, but all swimming in most abominable sauces, and so

flavored and perfumed that it would have seemed more natural to attack

them with a comb rather than with a fork. However, we were in duty bound

to swallow something, and the only eatable thing seemed to be mutton on

a spit. Not even the famous _cùscùssù_, the national Moorish dish, which

bore a perfidious resemblance to our Milanese _risotto_, could we get

down without a pang. There was one among us who managed to taste of all;

a consolatory fact which shows that there are still great men in Italy.

At every mouthful our host humbly interrogated us by a look; and we,

opening our eyes very wide, answered in chorus, “Excellent! exquisite!”

and hastened to swallow a glass of wine to revive our drooping courage.

At a certain moment there burst out in the court-yard a gust of strange

music that made us all spring to our feet. There were three musicians

come, according to Moorish custom, to enliven the banquet: three

large-eyed Arabs, dressed in white and red; one with a theorbo, another

with a mandolin, and a third with a small drum. All three were seated on

the ground in the court-yard, near a niche where their slippers were

deposited. Little by little, our libations, the odor of the flowers, and

that of aloes burning in carved perfume-burners of Fez, and that strange

Arab music, which, by dint of repetition, takes possession of the fancy

with its mysterious lament, all overcame us with a sort of taciturn and

fantastic dreaminess, under the influence of which we felt our heads

crowned with turbans, and visions of sultanas floated before our eyes.

The dinner over, all rose and spread themselves about the room, the

court, or the vestibule, looking into every corner with childlike

curiosity. At every dark angle stood an Arab wrapped in his white mantle

like a statue. The door of the bridal chamber had been closed by a

curtain, and through the interstices a great movement of veiled heads

could be seen. Lights appeared and disappeared at the upper windows, and

low voices and the rustle of garments were heard on all sides. About and

above us fermented an invisible life, bearing witness that though within

the walls we were without the household; that beauty, love, the family

soul, had taken refuge in the penetralia; that we were the spectacle

while the house remained a mystery. At a certain moment the Minister’s

housekeeper came out of a small door, where she had been visiting the

bride, and, passing by us, murmured, “Ah, if you could see her! What a

rosebud! What a creature of paradise!” And the sad lamenting music went

on, and the perfumed aloe smoke arose, and our fancies grew more and

more active, more so than ever, when we issued forth from that air

filled with light and perfume, and plunged into a dark and solitary

alley, lighted only by one lantern, and surrounded by profoundest

silence.

One evening we received the not unexpected intelligence that the next

day the _Aissawa_ would enter the city. The _Aissawa_ are one of the

principal religious confraternities of Morocco, founded, like the

others, under the inspiration of God, by a saint called

Sidi-Mohammed-ben-Aissa, born at Mekïnez two centuries ago. His life is

a long and confused legend of miracles and fabulous events, variously

related. The _Aissawa_ propose to themselves to obtain the special

protection of heaven, praying continually, exercising certain practices

peculiar to themselves, and keeping alive in their hearts a certain

religious fever, a divine fury, which breaks out in extravagant and

ferocious manifestations. They have a great mosque at Fez, which is the

central house of the order, and from thence they spread themselves every

year over the provinces of the empire, gathering together as they go

those members of the brotherhood who are in the towns and villages.

Their rites, similar to those of the howling and whirling Dervishes of

the East, consist in a species of frantic dances, interspersed with

leaps, yells, and contortions, in the practice of which they grow ever

more furious and ferocious, until, losing the light of reason, they

crush wood and iron with their teeth, burn their flesh with glowing

coals, wound themselves with knives, swallow mud and stones, brain

animals and devour them alive and dripping with blood, and finally fall

to the ground insensible. The _Aissawa_ whom I saw at Tangiers did not

go to quite such extremities, and probably they seldom do, but they did

quite enough to leave an indelible impression on my memory.

The Belgian Minister invited us to see the spectacle from the terrace of

his house, which looked over the principal street of Tangiers, where the

_Aissawa_ generally passed on their way to their mosque. They were to

pass at ten o’clock in the morning, coming in at the Soc-de-Barra. At

nine the street was already full of people, and the tops of the houses

crowded with Arab and Jewish women in all the colors of the rainbow,

giving to the white terraces the look of great baskets of flowers. At

the given hour all eyes were turned toward the gate at the end of the

street, and in a few minutes the leaders of the procession appeared. The

street was so thronged with people that for some time nothing could be

seen but a waving mass of hooded heads, amid which shone out a few

shaven skulls. Above them floated here and there a banner; and now and

then a cry as of many voices broke forth. The crowd moved forward

slowly. Little by little a certain order and regularity in the movement

of all these heads became visible. The first formed a circle; others

beyond a double file; others again beyond another circle; then the first

in their turn broke into a double line, the second formed in a circle,

and so on. But I am not very sure of what I say, because in the eager

curiosity which possessed me to observe single figures it is possible

that the precise laws of the general movement escaped me. My first

impression as they arrived below our terrace was one of pity and horror

combined. There were two lines of men, facing each other, wrapped in

mantles and long white shirts, holding each other by the hands, arms, or

shoulders, and, with a rocking swaying motion, stepping in cadence,

throwing their heads backward and forward, and keeping up a low eager

murmur, broken by groans, and sighs, and sobs of rage and terror. Only

“The Possessed,” by Rubens, “The Dead Alive,” by Goya, and “The Dead Man

Magnetized” of Edgar Poe, could give an idea of those figures. There

were faces livid and convulsed, with eyes starting from the sockets, and

foaming mouths; faces of the fever-stricken and the epileptic; some

illuminated by an unearthly smile, some showing only the whites of their

eyes, others contracted as by atrocious spasms, or pallid and rigid,

like corpses. From time to time, making a strange gesture with their

outstretched arms, they all burst out together in a shrill and painful

cry, as of men in mortal agony; then the dance forward began again, with

its accompaniment of groans and sobs, while hoods and mantles, wide

sleeves and long disordered hair, streamed on the wind, and whirled

about them with snake-like undulations. Some rushed from one side to the

other, staggering like drunken men, or beating themselves against walls

and doors; others, as if rapt in ecstasy, moved along, stiff and rigid,

with head thrown back, eyes half closed, and arms swinging; and some,

quite exhausted, unable any longer to yell, or to keep on their feet,

were held up under the arms by their companions, and dragged along with

the crowd. The dance became every moment more frantic, and the noise

more deafening, while a nauseous smell came up from all those bodies

like the odor of a menagerie of wild beasts. Here and there a convulsed

visage turned upward toward our terrace, and a pair of staring eyes were

fixed on mine, constraining me to turn away my face. The spectacle

affected me in different ways. Now it seemed a great masquerade, and

tempted me to laugh; then it was a procession of madmen, of creatures in

the delirium of fever, of drunken wretches, or those condemned to death

and striving to deaden their own terror, and my heart swelled with

compassion; and again, the savage grandeur of the picture pleased my

artistic sense. But gradually my mind accepted the inner meaning of the

rite, and I comprehended what all of us have more or less

experienced—the spasms of the human soul under the dread pressure of the

Infinite; and unconsciously my thoughts explained the mystery: Yes; I

feel Thee, mysterious and tremendous Power; I struggle in the grasp of

the invisible hand; the sense of Thee oppresses me, I cannot contain it;

my heart is dismayed, my reason is lost, my garment of clay is rent. And

still they went by, a pallid and dishevelled mass, raising voices of

pain and supplication, and seeming in their last agony. One old man, an

image of distracted Lear, broke from the ranks, and tried to dash his

head against a wall, his companions holding him back. A youth fell head

foremost to the ground, and remained there insensible. Another, with

streaming hair and face hidden in his hands, went by with long steps,

his body bent almost to the earth, like one accursed of God. Bedouins

were among them, Berbers, blacks, mummies, giants, satyrs, cannibal

faces, faces of saints, of birds of prey, of Indian idols, furies,

fauns, devils. There were between three and four hundred, and in half an

hour they had all gone by. The last were two women (for they also belong

to the order), looking as if they had been buried alive, and had escaped

from their tomb,—two animated skeletons dressed in white, with hair

streaming over their faces, straining eyes, and mouths white with foam,

exhausted, but still moving along with the unconscious action of

machines; and between them marched a gigantic old man, like an aged

sorcerer. Dressed in a long white shirt, and stretching out two bony

arms, he placed his hands now on one head, now on the other, with a

gesture of protection, and helped them to rise when they fell. Behind

these three spectres came a throng of armed Arabs, women, beggars, and

children; and all the mass of barbarism and horrid human misery broke

into the square, and was dispersed in a few minutes about the city.

Another fine spectacle that we had at Tangiers was that of the festival

of the birth of Mahomet; and it made the greater impression upon me that

I saw it unexpectedly. Returning from a walk on the sea-shore, I heard

some shots in the direction of the Soc-de-Barra. I turned my steps in

that direction, and at first found it difficult to recognize the place.

The Soc-de-Barra was transfigured. From the walls of the city up to the

summit of the hill swarmed a crowd of white-robed Arabs, all in the

highest state of animation. There might have been about three thousand

persons, but so scattered and grouped that they appeared innumerable. It

was a most singular optical illusion. On all the heights around, as upon

so many balconies, were groups seated in Oriental fashion, motionless,

and turned toward the lower part of the Soc, where the crowd—divided

into two portions—left a large space free for the evolutions of a

company of cavalry, who, ranged in a line, galloped about, discharging

their long guns in the air. On the other side an immense circle of Arab

men and women were looking on at the games of ball-players, fencers,

serpent-charmers, dancers, singers and musicians, and soldiers. Upon the

top of the hill, under a conical tent open in front, could be discerned

the enormous white turban of the Vice-Governor of Tangiers, who presided

at the festival, seated on the ground in the midst of a circle of Moors.

From above could be seen in the crowd the soldiers of the Legations,

dressed in their showy red caftans, a few tall hats, and European

parasols, and one or two artists, sketch-book in hand, while Tangiers

and the sea formed a background to the whole. The discharge of musketry,

the yells of the cavalry, the tinkle of the water-sellers’ bells, the

joyful cries of the women, the noise of pipes, horns, and drums, made up

a fitting accompaniment to the strange and savage spectacle, bathed in

the burning noon-day light.

My curiosity impelled me to look everywhere at once, but a sudden scream

of admiration from a group of women made me turn to the horsemen. There

were twelve of them, all of tall stature, with pointed red caps, white

mantles, and blue, orange, and red caftans, and among them was a youth,

dressed with feminine elegance, the son of the Governor of Rif. They

drew up in a line against the wall of the city, with faces toward the

open country. The son of the Governor, in the middle, raised his hand,

and all started in full career. At first there was a slight hesitation

and confusion, but in a moment the twelve horsemen formed but one solid

serried line, and skimmed over the ground like a twelve-headed and

many-colored monster devouring the way.

Nailed to their saddles, with heads erect, and white mantles streaming

in the wind of their career, they lifted their guns above their heads,

and, pressing them against their shoulders, discharged them all

together, with a yell of triumph, and then vanished in a cloud of smoke

and dust. A few moments after they came back slowly and in disorder—the

horses covered with foam and blood, their riders bearing themselves

proudly, and then they began again. At every new discharge, the Arab

women, like ladies at a tourney, saluted them with a peculiar cry, that

is a rapid repetition of the monosyllable _Jù_ (or in English _yù_) like

a sort of joyous trill.

We went to look at the ball-players. About fifteen Arab boys and

men—some of the latter with white beards—some with sabres, some with

guns slung across their shoulders, were tossing a leathern ball about as

big as an orange. One would take it, let it fall, and send it into the

air with a blow of his foot; all the others rushed to catch it before it

fell. The one who caught it repeated the action of the first; and so the

group of players, always following the ball, were in constant movement

from one point to another. The curious part of it was that there was not

a word, nor a cry, nor a smile among them. Old men and boys, all were

equally serious and intent upon the game, as upon some necessary labor,

and only their panting breath and the sound of their feet could be

heard.

At a few paces farther on, within another circle of spectators, some

negroes were dancing to the sound of a pipe and a small conical drum,

beaten with a stick in the shape of a half moon. There were eight of

them—big, black, and shining like ebony, with nothing on them but a long

white shirt, bound round the waist by a thick green cord. Seven of them

held each other’s hand in a ring, while the eighth was in the middle,

and all danced together, or rather accompanied the music, without moving

from their places, but with a certain indescribable movement of the

hips, and that satyr-like grin, that expression of stupid beatitude and

bestial voluptuousness, which is peculiar to the black race. Whilst I

stood looking on at this scene, two boys, about ten years of age, among

the spectators, gave me a taste of the ferocity of Arab blood. They

suddenly—and for some unknown reason—fell upon each other, and clinging

together like a couple of young tigers, bit, clawed, and scratched, with

a fury that was horrible to see. Two strong men had as much as they

could do to separate them, and they were borne off all bloody and torn,

and struggling to attack each other again.

The fencers made me laugh. They were four, fencing in couples, with

sticks. The extravagance and awkwardness of this performance are not to

be described, In other cities in Morocco I afterward saw the same thing,

so it is evidently the native _school_ of fencing. The leaps,

contortions, attitudes, and waving of arms, were beyond words, and all

done with a self-satisfied air that was enough to make one fall upon

them with their own sticks and send them flying. The Arab spectators,

however, stood about with open mouths, and frequently glanced at me, as

if to enjoy my wonder and admiration, while I, willing to content them,

affected to be much delighted. Then some of them drew aside that I might

see them better, and I presently found myself surrounded and pressed on

all sides by the Arabs, and was able to satisfy in full my desire to

study the race in all its more intimate peculiarities. A soldier of the

Italian Legation, seeing me in these straits, and thinking me an

involuntary prisoner, came to my rescue, rather against my will, with

fist and elbows.

The circle of the story-teller was the most interesting, though the

smallest of all. I arrived just at the moment when he had finished the

usual inaugural prayer, and was beginning his narrative. He was a man of

about fifty, almost black, with a jet-black beard and gleaming eyes,

wearing, like all of his profession in Morocco, an ample white robe,

bound round the waist with a camel’s-hair girdle, giving him the

majestic air of an antique priest. He spoke in a high voice, and slowly,

standing erect within the circle of listeners, while two musicians with

drum and hautboy kept up a low accompaniment. I could not understand a

word, but his face, voice, and gestures, were so expressive that I

managed to gather something of the meaning of his story. He seemed to be

relating a tale of a journey. Now he imitated the action of a tired

horse, and pointed to a distant and immense horizon; then he seemed to

seek about for a drop of water, and his arms and head dropped as if in

complete exhaustion. Suddenly he discovers something at a distance,

appears uncertain, believes, and doubts the evidence of his senses—again

believes, is re-animated, hastens his flagging steps, arrives, gives

thanks to Heaven, and throws himself on the earth with a long breath of

satisfaction, smiling with pleasure in the shade of a delightful oasis.

The audience meanwhile stood without breath or motion, suspended on the

lips of the orator, and reflecting in their faces his every word and

gesture. The ingenuousness and freshness of feeling that are hidden

under their hard and savage exterior became plainly visible. As the

story-teller became more fervent in his narrative, and raised his voice,

the two musicians blew and beat with increasing fury, and the listeners

drew closer together in the intensity of their interest, until, finally,

the whole culminated in one grand burst; the musicians threw their

instruments into the air, and the crowd dispersed, and gave place to

another circle.

There were three performers who had drawn a large audience about them.

One played on a sort of bagpipes, another on a tambourine with bells,

and the third on an extraordinary instrument compounded of a clarionet

and two horns, which gave forth most discordant sounds. All three men

were bandy-legged, tall, and with backs bent into a curve. Wrapped in a

few rags, they stood side by side close together as if they had been

bound one to the other, and, playing an air which they had probably

played for fifty years or more, they marched around the square. Their

movement was peculiar—something between walking and dancing,—and their

gestures so extraordinary, made as they were with mechanical regularity

and all together, that I imagine them to have expressed some idea

founded in some characteristic peculiarity of the Arab people. Those

three, streaming with heat from every pore, played and marched about for

more than an hour in the fashion I have described, with unalterable

gravity, while a hundred or so of lookers-on stood, with the sun in

their eyes, giving no outward sign either of pleasure or of weariness.

The noisiest circle was that of the soldiers. There were twelve, old and

young, some with white caftans, some in shirts only, one with a fez,

another in a hood, and all armed with flint muskets as long as lances,

into which they put the powder loose, like all their fellows in Morocco,

where the cartridge is not in use. An old man directed the manœuvres.

They ranged themselves in two rows of six each, facing one another. At a

signal, all changed places with each other, running and putting one knee

to the ground. Then one of them struck up, in a shrill falsetto voice, a

sort of chant, full of trills and warblings, which lasted a few minutes,

and was listened to in perfect silence. Then suddenly they all bounded

to their feet in a circle, and with an immense leap and a shout of joy,

fired off their guns muzzle downward. The rapidity, the fury, and

something madly festive and diabolically cheerful in the performance,

are not to be described. Among the spectators near me was a little Arab

girl about ten years old, not yet veiled, one of the prettiest little

faces I saw in Tangiers, of a delicate pale bronze in color, who, with

her large blue eyes full of wonder, gazed at a spectacle much more

marvellous to her than that of the soldiers’ dance: she saw me take off

my gloves, which Arab boys believe to be a sort of second skin that

Christians have on their hands, and can remove at pleasure without

inconvenience or pain.

I hesitated about going to see the serpent-charmers, but curiosity

overcame repugnance. These so-called magicians belong to the

confraternity of the Aissawa, and pretend to have received from their

patron, Ben Aissa, the privilege of enduring uninjured the bite of the

most venomous beasts. Many travellers, in fact, most worthy of belief,

assert that they have seen these men bitten severely, until the blood

flowed, by serpents that a moment before had shown the fatal effect of

their venom upon some animal. The Aissawa whom I saw gave a horrible but

bloodless spectacle. He was a little fellow, muscular, with a cadaverous

and stern countenance, the air of a Merovingian king, and dressed in a

sort of blue shirt that came down to his heels. When I drew near he was

engaged in jumping grotesquely about a goat-skin spread on the ground,

upon which was a sack containing the serpents; and as he jumped he sang,

to the accompaniment of a flute, a melancholy song that was perhaps an

invocation to his saint. The song finished, he chattered and

gesticulated for some time, trying to get some money thrown to him, and

then kneeling down before the goat-skin, he thrust his arm into the sack

and drew out a long greenish snake, extremely lively, and carried it

round, handling it very carefully, for the spectators to see. This done,

he began to twist it about in all directions, and generally use it as if

it had been a rope. He seized it by the neck, he suspended it by the

tail, he bound it round his head like a fillet, he hid it in his bosom,

he made it pass through the holes in the edge of a tambourine, he threw

it on the ground and set his foot upon, it, he stuck it under his arm.

The horrible beast erected its head, darted out its tongue, twisted

itself about with those flexible, odious, abject movements that seem the

expression of perfidious baseness; and all the rage that burned in its

body seemed to shoot in sparkles from its small eyes; but I could not

see that it ever once attempted to bite the hand that held it. After

this, the Aissawa seized the serpent by the neck, and fixed a small bit

of iron in its mouth, so as to keep it open and display the fangs to the

spectators; and then taking its tail between his teeth, he proceeded to

bite it, while the beast went through violent contortions; and I left

the place in horror and disgust.

At that moment our _chargé d’affaires_ appeared in the Soc. The

Vice-Governor beheld him from the hill, ran to meet him, and conducted

him under the tent, where all the members of the future caravan, myself

included, speedily assembled. Then came soldiers and musicians, and an

immense semi-circle of Arabs formed itself in front of the tent, the men

in front, the gentle sex in groups behind; and then began a wild concert

of songs, dances, yells, and gunshots, which lasted for more than an

hour, in the midst of dense clouds of smoke, the sounds of barbaric

music, the enthusiastic shouts of the women and children, the paternal

satisfaction of the Vice-Governor, and our great amusement. Before it

was over, the _chargé d’affaires_ put some coins into the hand of an

Arab soldier, to be given to the director of the spectacle, and the

soldier presently returning, delivered the following odd form of thanks,

translated into Spanish:—“The Italian Ambassador has done a good action;

may Allah bless every hair of his beard!”

The strange festival lasted until sunset. Three water-sellers were

sufficient to satisfy the needs of all that crowd, exposed all day to

the rays of the sun of Africa. One _marengo_ was perhaps the utmost of

the sum that circulated in that concourse of people. Their only

pleasures were to see and hear. There was no love-making, no

drunkenness, no knife-play,—nothing in common with the holidays of

civilization.

[Illustration: Moorish Husbandman.]

The country about Tangiers is not less curious to see than the city.

Around the walls extends a girdle of gardens, belonging for the most

part to the ministers and consuls, and rather neglected, but rich in

luxuriant vegetation. There may be seen long files of aloes, like

gigantic lances bound up in sheaves of enormous curved dagger blades,

for such is the shape of their leaves. The points, with the fibre

attached, are used by the Arabs to sew up wounds. There is the Indian

fig—in the Moorish tongue, _kermus del Inde_—very tall, with leaves an

inch in thickness, and growing so thickly as to obstruct the paths; the

common fig, under whose shadow ten tents could be erected; oaks,

acacias, oleanders, and shrubs of every sort, that interlace their

branches with those of the highest trees, and with the ivy, the vine,

the cane, and the thorn, form a tangled mass of verdure under which

ditch and footpath are entirely concealed. In some places one has to

grope one’s way, and pass from one enclosure to another through thick,

thorny hedges, over prostrate fences, in the midst of grass and flowers

as high as one’s waist, and no living creature to be seen. A small white

house, and a well, with a wheel by means of which the water is sent

flowing through little trenches dug for the purpose, are the only

objects which indicate the presence of poverty and labor. Sometimes, if

the captain of the staff, who was a clever guide, had not been with me,

I should have lost my way in the midst of that wild vegetation; and we

often had to call out, as in a labyrinth, to prevent our losing each

other. It was a pleasure to me to swim amid the greenery, opening the

way with hands and feet, with the joyous excitement of a savage returned

from slavery to his native forest.

Beyond this girdle of gardens there are no trees, or houses, or hedges,

or any indication of boundaries; there are only hills, green valleys,

and undulating plains, with an occasional herd of cattle pasturing and

without any visible herdsman, or a horse turned loose. Once only did I

see any tilling of the ground. An Arab was driving an ass and a goat,

harnessed to a very small plough, of a strange shape, such as might have

been in use four thousand years ago, and which turned up a scarcely

visible furrow in the stony, weedy earth. I have been assured that it is

not unusual to see a donkey and a woman ploughing in company, and this

will give an idea of the state of agriculture in Morocco. The only

attempt at manuring is to burn the straw left after the grain is

gathered; and the only care taken not to exhaust the earth, is to leave

it every third year to grow grass for pasture, after having grown grain,

and buckwheat or maize, in the two preceding years. In spite of this,

however, the ground becomes impoverished after a few years, and then the

husbandman leaves it, and seeks another field, returning, after a time,

to the old one; and so but a very small part of the arable land is under

cultivation at one time, whereas if it were even badly cultivated, it

would return a hundred-fold the seed thrown in it.

The prettiest excursion we made was that to Cape Spartel, the

_Ampelusium_ of the ancients, which forms the north-western extremity of

the African continent, a mountain of gray stone, about three hundred

mètres in height, rising abruptly from the sea, and opening underneath

into vast caverns, the larger of which were consecrated to Hercules:

_Specus Herculi sacer_. Upon the summit of this mountain stands the

famous lighthouse erected a few years ago, and maintained by

contributions from most of the European States. We climbed to the top of

the tower, where the great lantern sends its beneficent rays to a

distance of five-and-twenty miles. From thence the eye embraces two seas

and two continents. There can be seen the last waters of the

Mediterranean and the horizon of the Atlantic—the sea of darkness,

_Bar-el-Dolma_, as the Arabs call it—beating at the foot of the rock;

the Spanish coast, from Cape Trafalgar to Cape Algesiras; the African

coast, from the Mediterranean to the mountains of Ceuta, the _septem

fratres_ of the Romans; and far in the distance, faintly outlined, the

enormous rock of Gibraltar—eternal sentinel of that port of the old

continent, mysterious terminus of the antique world, become the “_Favola

vila ai naviganti industri_.”

In this expedition we encountered but few persons, for the most part

Arabs on foot, who passed almost without looking at us, and sometimes a

Moor on horseback, some personage important either for his wealth or his

office, accompanied by a troop of armed followers, who looked

contemptuously at us as they passed. The women muffled their faces even

more carefully than in the city, some muttering, and others turning

their backs abruptly upon us. Here and there an Arab would stop before

us, look fixedly at us, murmur a few words that sounded as if he were

asking a favor, and then go on his way without looking back. At first we

did not understand, but it was explained that they were asking us to

pray to God for some favor for them. It seems that there is a

superstition much in vogue among the Arabs, that the prayers of a

Mussulman being very grateful to God, He generally delays granting what

they ask for, in order that He may prolong the pleasure of hearing the

prayer; whilst the prayer of an infidel dog, like a Hebrew or a

Christian, is so hateful to Him, that He grants it at once, _ipso

facto_, in order to be rid of it. The only friendly faces we saw were

those of some Jewish boys who were scampering about on donkeys, and who

threw us a cheerful “_Buenos dias, Caballeros!_” as they galloped by.

In spite, however, of the new and varied character of our life at

Tangiers, we were all impatience to leave it, in order to get back in

the month of June, before the great heats began. The _chargé d’affaires_

had sent a messenger to Fez to announce that the embassy was ready; but

ten days at least must pass before he could return. Private notices

informed us that the escort was on its way, others that it had not yet

started. Uncertain and contradictory rumors prevailed, as if the

longed-for Fez were distant two thousand miles from the coast, instead

of about one hundred and forty miles; and this, from one point of view,

was rather agreeable, because our fifteen days’ journey thus assumed in

our fancy the proportions of a long and adventurous voyage, and Fez

seemed mysteriously attractive. The strange things, too, which were

related by those who had been there with former embassies, about the

city, its people, and the dangers of the expedition, all combined to

excite our expectations. They told how they had been surrounded by

thousands of horsemen, who saluted them with a tempest of shots, so near

as almost to scorch their skins and blind them, and that they could hear

the balls whistle by their ears; that in all probability some of us

Italians would be shot in the head by mistake by some ball directed

against the white cross in our flag, which would no doubt seem an insult

to Mahomet in Arab eyes. They talked of scorpions, serpents, tarantulas,

of clouds of grasshoppers and locusts, of spiders and toads of gigantic

size that were found on the road and under the tents. They described in

dismal colors the entrance of the embassy into Fez, in the midst of a

hostile crowd, through tortuous, dark streets, encumbered with ruins and

the carcases of animals; they prophesied a mountain of trouble for us

during our stay at Fez—mortal languors, furious dysenteries and

rheumatisms, musquitoes of monstrous size and ferocity compared with

which those of our country were agreeable companions, and, finally,

homesickness; apropos of which, they told us of a young Belgian painter

who had gone to Fez with the embassy from Brussels, and who, after a

week’s stay, was seized with such a desperate melancholy, that the

ambassador was obliged to send him back to Tangiers by forced marches,

that he might not see him die under his eyes; and it was true. But all

this only increased our impatience to be off, and our delight can easily

be imagined when Signor Soloman Affalo, the second dragoman of the

Legation, one day presented himself at the door of the dining-room, and

announced, in a sonorous voice—“The escort from Fez has arrived.”

With it came horses, mules, camels, grooms, tents, the route laid down

for us by the Sultan, and his permission to start at once. Some days,

however, had to be allowed for men and beasts to take a little rest.

The animals were sheltered at the Casba. The next day we went to see

them. There were forty-five horses, including those of the escort, about

twenty mules for the saddle, and more than fifty for baggage, to which

were afterward added others hired at Tangiers; the horses small and

light, like all Morocco horses, and the mules robust; the saddles and

packs covered with scarlet cloth; the stirrups formed of a large plate

of iron bent upward at the two sides, so as to support and enclose the

whole foot, and serving also as spurs, as well as defences. The poor

beasts were almost all lying down, exhausted more from hunger than from

fatigue, a large part of their food having, according to custom, found

its way, in the shape of coin, into the pockets of the drivers. Some of

the soldiers of the escort were there, who came about us, and made us

understand by signs and words that the journey had been a very fatiguing

one, with much suffering from heat and thirst, but that, thanks to

Allah, they had arrived safe and sound. They were blacks and mulattoes,

wrapped in their white capotes, tall, powerful men, with bold features,

sharp white teeth, and flashing eyes, that made us consider whether it

would not be well to have a second escort placed between them and

ourselves in case of necessity. Whilst my companions conversed in

gestures, I sought among the mules one with a mild expression of

generosity and gentleness in its eyes, and found it in a white mule with

a crupper adorned with arabesques. To this creature I decided to confide

my life and fortunes, and from that moment until our return the hope of

Italian literature in Morocco was bound to her saddle.

From the Casba we proceeded to the Soc-de-Barra, where the principal

tents had been placed. It was a great pleasure to us to see these canvas

houses where we were to sleep for thirty nights in the midst of unknown

solitudes, and see and hear so many strange things: one of us preparing

his geographical maps, another his official report, another his book, a

fourth his picture; forming altogether a small Italy in pilgrimage

across the empire of the Schariffs. The tents were of a cylindrical

conical form, some large enough to contain about twenty persons, all

very high, and made of double canvas bordered with blue, and ornamented

on the top with a large metal ball. Most of them belonged to the Sultan;

and who knows how often the beauties of the seraglio had slept under

them on their journeys from Fez to Meckinez and Morocco! In one corner

of the encampment was a group of foot-soldiers of the escort, and in

front of them a personage unknown, who was awaiting the arrival of the

Minister. He was a man of about thirty-five, of a dignified appearance,

a mulatto, and corpulent, with a great white turban, a blue capote, red

drawers, and a sabre in a leathern sheath with a hilt of

rhinoceros-horn. The Minister, arriving in a few moments, presented this

gentleman to us as the commandant of the escort, a general of the

imperial army, by name Hamed Ben Kasen Buhamei, who was to accompany us

to and from Fez back to Tangiers, and whose head answered to the Sultan

for the safety of ours. He shook hands with us with much grace and ease

of manner, and his visage and air reassured me completely with regard to

the eyes and teeth of the soldiers whom I had seen at the Casba. He was

not handsome, but his countenance expressed mildness and intelligence.

He must know how to read, write, and cipher—be, in fact, one of the most

cultured generals in the army—since he had been chosen by the Minister

of War for this delicate mission. The distribution of tents was now made

in his presence. One was assigned to painting; among the largest, after

that of the ambassador, was the one taken possession of by the commander

of the frigate, the captain of the staff, the vice-consul, and myself,

which afterward became the noisiest tent in the encampment. Another very

large one was set aside as a dining-room; and then came those of the

doctor, the interpreters, cooks, servants, and soldiers of the Legation.

The commander of the escort and his soldiers had their tents apart.

Other tents were to be added on the day of departure. In short, I

foresaw that we should have a beautiful encampment, and already felt

within me the beginnings of descriptive frenzy.

On the following day the _chargé d’affaires_ went with the commander of

the frigate and the captain to pay a visit to the representative of the

imperial Government, Sidi-Bargas, who exercises what may be called the

office of Minister of Foreign Affairs in Tangiers. I begged permission

to accompany them, being very curious to see a Minister of Foreign

Affairs who, if his salary has not been increased within the last twenty

years (which is not probable), receives from his Government the sum of

seventy-five francs, or fifteen dollars, a month, which includes the

fund for the expenses of representation; a magnificent stipend,

nevertheless, compared with that of the governors, who receive only

fifty francs. And it is not to be said that their charge is a sinecure,

and may be entrusted to the first comer. The famous Sultan

Abd-er-Rahman, for instance, who reigned from 1822 to 1859, could find

no man so well adapted for it as one Sidi-Mohammed el Khatïb, merchant

in coffee and sugar, who continued while he was Minister to traffic

regularly between Tangiers and Gibraltar. The instructions which this

Minister received from his Government, although very simple, are such as

to embarrass the most subtle of European diplomatists. A French consul

has set them down for us with much precision—viz., to respond to all

demands of the consuls with promises; to defer to the very latest moment

the fulfilment of these promises; to gain time; to raise difficulties of

every kind against complaint; to act in such a way that the complainants

will get tired, and desist; to yield, if threatened, as little as

possible; if cannon are introduced, to yield, but not until the latest

moment. But it must be acknowledged that after the war with Spain, and

especially under the reign of Muley-el-Hassan, things have very much

changed.

We went up to the Casba where the Minister lives; a line of soldiers

kept guard before the door. We crossed a garden and entered a spacious

hall, where the Minister and the Governor of Tangiers came to meet us.

At the bottom of the hall was a recess or alcove, with a sofa and some

chairs; in one corner, a modest bed; under the bed, a coffee-service;

the walls white and bare; the floor covered with matting. We seated

ourselves in the alcove.

The two personages before us formed an admirable contrast. One,

Sidi-Bargas, the Minister, was a handsome old man, with a white beard

and a clear complexion, eyes of extraordinary vivacity, and a large

smiling mouth, displaying two rows of ivory-white teeth; a countenance

which revealed the finesse and marvellous flexibility demanded of him by

the very nature of his office. His eye-glasses and snuff-box, together

with certain ceremonious airs of head and hands, gave him something of

the look of a European diplomatist. Plainly a man accustomed to deal

with Christians; superior, perhaps, to many of the prejudices and

superstitions of his people; a Mussulman of large views; a Moor

varnished with civilization. The other, the Caid Misfiui, seemed the

incarnation of Morocco. He was about fifty years of age, with black

beard and bronze complexion, muscular, sombre, and taciturn; a face that

looked as if it had never smiled. He held his head down, his eyes fixed

on the ground, his brow bent; his expression was one of strong

repugnance. Both men wore large muslin turbans and long ample robes of

transparent stuff.

The _chargé d’affaires_ presented to these two personages, through the

interpreter, the commandant of the frigate and the captain. They were

two officials, and their introduction required no comment. But when I

was presented, a few words of explanation as to the office I filled was

necessary; and the _chargé d’affaires_ expressed himself in rather

hyperbolical terms. Sidi-Bargas stood a moment silent, and then said a

few words to the interpreter, who translated—

“His Excellency demands why you have such ability with your hand. Your

lordship wears it covered; your lordship will please remove your glove

that the hand may be seen.”

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

“It is not necessary,” observed the _chargé d’affaires_, “because the

faculty resides in his mind, and not in his hand.”

One would have thought this settled the question; but when a Moor gets

hold of a metaphor, he does not leave it so easily.

“True,” replied his Excellency, through the interpreter; “but the hand

being the instrument is also the symbol of the faculties of the mind.”

The discussion was prolonged for a few minutes. “It is a gift of Allah,”

finally concluded Sidi-Bargas.

[Illustration: Loading The Camels.]

The conversation continued for some time, and the journey was discussed.

There was a long citation of names of governors, of provinces, of

rivers, valleys, mountains, and plains, that we should find upon our

route; names that resounded in my ear as so many promises of adventure,

and set my fancy to work. What was the Red Mountain? What should we find

on the banks of Pearl River? What sort of a man could that Governor be

who was called “Son of the Mare?” Our _chargé_ made numerous inquiries

as to distances, water, and shade. Sidi-Bargas had it all at the points

of his fingers, and in this direction was certainly greatly beyond

Visconti Venosta, who could not for his life have given information to a

foreign ambassador as to how many springs of water and how many groups

of trees there were between Rome and Naples. Finally, he wished us a

pleasant journey, with the following formula: “May peace be in your

path!” and accompanying the ambassador to the entrance, shook hands with

us all with an air of great cordiality. The Caid Misfiui, always mute,

put out the tips of his fingers, without raising his eyes. “My

hand—yes,” I thought, as I gave it, “but not my head!”

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

The ambassador asked why Monday rather than Sunday. “Because it is a day

of good omen,” he answered, with gravity; and with another deep

salutation, he left us.

I learned later that Caid-Misfiui is accounted a man of great learning

among the Moors: he was tutor to the reigning Sultan, and is, as his

face shows, a fanatical Mussulman. Sidi-Bargas enjoys the more amiable

reputation of being a very fine chess-player.

Three days before our departure the street before the Legation was

thronged with curious lookers-on. Ten tall camels, which were to carry

to Fez, in advance of us, a part of our provision of wine, came one

after the other, kneeled down to receive their load, and departed with

their guard of soldiers and servants. Within the house all was bustle,

and the servants who had come from Fez were added to those already on

the spot. Provisions arrived at every hour in the day. It was feared, at

one moment, that we should not be able to get off on the appointed day.

But on the Sunday evening, 3d of May, every thing was ready, including

the lofty mast of an immense tricolored flag which was to float in the

midst of our encampment; and in the night the baggage mules were loaded

so that they should start early on Monday morning, several hours before

us, and arrive in the evening in time to have every thing ready for us

at the encampment.

I shall always remember with a pleasant emotion those last moments

passed in the court of the Legation just before our departure. We were

all there. An old friend of the _chargé d’affaires_ had arrived the

evening before to join us, Signor Patot, formerly Minister from Spain to

Tangiers, and also Signor Morteo, a Genoese, and consular agent for

Italy to Mazagan. There was the doctor of the caravan, Miguerez, a

native of Algiers; a rich Moor, Mohammed Ducali, an Italian subject, who

accompanied the embassy in the quality of writer; the second dragoman of

the Legation, Solomon Affalo; two Italian sailors, one orderly to

Commander Cassone, and the other belonging to the _Dora_; the soldiers

of the Legation in holiday dress; cooks, workmen, and servants, all

persons unknown to me, whom two months of life in common in the interior

of Morocco were to render familiar to me, and whom I prepared myself to

study from that moment, one by one, and to make move and speak in a book

that I had in my head. Every one of them had some peculiarity of dress,

which gave the whole a singularly picturesque appearance. There were

plumed caps, white mantles, gaiters, veils, wallets, and blankets of

every color. There were enough pistols, barometers, quadrants, albums,

and field-glasses to have set up a bazaar. We might have been setting

off on an expedition to the Cape of Good Hope, and every one of us was

quivering with impatience, curiosity, and pleasant anticipation. To

crown all, the weather was exquisite, and a delightful sea-breeze was

blowing. Mahomet was with Italy.

At five o’clock exactly the ambassador mounted his horse, and the flags

on the terrace of the Legation rose in salute. Preoccupied as I was with

my white mule, and in all the confusion and uproar of departure I

remember but little of the crowd that encumbered the street, the

handsome Jewish women peering from their terraces, and an Arab boy, who

exclaimed with a strange accent, as we issued from the gate of the

Soc-de-Barra, “_Italia!_”

At the Soc we were joined by the representatives of the other Legations,

who were to accompany us, according to custom, a few miles beyond

Tangiers; and we took the road to Fez, a numerous and noisy cavalcade,

before which waved the green folds of the banner of the Prophet.