Tafilet

A few words must here be written regarding the country now about to be traversed—that is to say, from Ghresat, the spot where we emerged from the valley of the southern slopes of the Atlas Mountains, as far as Dads. Not only does my sojourn in the latter place make it a fit opportunity for my description of the road, but the physical features of the country before us also render it expedient, for it is immediately to the east of Dads that the watershed lies that separates the rivers flowing south and west to the Draa, more especially the Wad Dads itself, and those the course of which is east, and which form the basin of the western tributaries of the Wad Gheris. This river, after uniting with the Wad Ziz at Tafilet, is eventually absorbed by the desert at the marsh of Dayet ed Daura, to the south of that oasis. This long strip of country lying between the great range of the Atlas Mountains and Jibel Saghru, or the Anti-Atlas, consists of a plain some sixty miles in length and averaging about thirty wide, rather more at Ghresat and somewhat less at Dads. This plain, with an elevation of roughly 4800 feet at Ghresat and 4700 at the southern extremity of the tribe of Dads, near Aït Yahia, slopes slightly from north to south and from east to west, the rivers which leave the Atlas flowing mostly almost due south until they meet either the Idermi or the Dads, where these two streams have an easterly and westerly course respectively, before uniting near Mesgita to form the more important Wad Draa.

The soil of this plain consists for the most part of sand strewn with small stones of almost black colour, with here and there large boulders, sometimes of limestone, at others of black igneous formation. The peculiarity, however, of this strip of desert—for, with the exception of the immediate river banks and oases, it consists of little else—is the manner in which the river beds are sunk below the level of the surrounding country. Usually on approaching a river one first perceives a flat-topped range of low hills crossing the plain from north to south. These hills passed, one comes, generally from half a mile to a mile farther on, to a steep descent, leading to the bed of the river in question, the same formations being found on the opposite side. At Dads and in other spots the cliffs that have to be descended before the bed of the river is reached are of considerable altitude, and the number of the population of all the districts hereabouts varies according to the breadth of the valleys between the cliffs, for on this depends the amount of land that can be put under irrigation and cultivated, and accordingly the quantity of life the soil can support by its products.

The effect is a curious one, for often when one is approaching a settlement on the river-banks, the fact that the watercourse and its cultivated surrounding land is far sunk below the level of the plain renders it invisible until one reaches the very edge of the decline. Up to that point one’s eye ranges from the level plain on which one is to where it commences again beyond, its barren appearance and uniform colouring presenting the effect that both join, and it seems impossible that a large colony with gardens and irrigated lands can exist in the neighbourhood. It is easy to see that the whole formation of the country is due to the streams poured down from the greater Atlas, which, flowing south as far as the parallel range of Jibel Saghru, are there obliged to seek a common outlet by following the direction of the mountains as far as Mesgita, where the united force of the rivers has formed a passage through the range.

All the ksor of Ghresat are situated upon the east bank of the river, and at some height above it, while the west bank is occupied by a few gardens, where fig and almond trees seem to thrive well. The stream is clear, and even in this dry season we found a couple of feet of water in the ford, which was perhaps some sixty yards across. The river-bed is stony, with larger boulders of limestone strewn here and there, no doubt carried to this position from the mountains above.

Several of the ksor are handsome buildings, one, just above the ford, being particularly so, the decoration and turreted towers giving it a most imposing effect. The inhabitants, like those of Agurzga, are a subdivision of the Imerghan tribe of Berbers, who are continually at war, not only with the surrounding tribes but also amongst themselves. Sometimes a feud arises between neighbouring ksor within easy range of one another, when a strict watch is kept from the roof of each, and shots exchanged whenever the opportunity presents itself. We were pointed out two ksor where this unsatisfactory state of affairs was progressing, both in a sad state of disrepair from constant attack, and from the fact that no opportunity could be found to reconstruct the damaged portions on account of the builders being fired upon by their neighbouring enemy. The only parallel case we can well imagine would be a blood-feud between two houses exactly opposite one another in a street. While a bullet from the tiles would lay low the footman who answered the door on the one side, the host returning from an evening party would be struck in the back on the other, and so on until possibly no male member remained in either family.

After following the course of the river for perhaps half a mile, the road takes a more easterly direction, and one enters upon fifteen miles of stony desert, which extends, without water at this period, as far as the Wad Mdri, the easternmost of the rivers of Askura. This strip of dreary country is known as the “Sebaa shaabat,” or “seven undulations,” from the fact that such exist. No vegetation was to be seen but bunches of wild thyme, a few thorny bushes—the sidra of the Arabs—and a little dry rank grass, and the latter only where there were signs of water collecting in the rainy season.

The absence of animal life was most noticeable, and scarcely a bird was seen. From the summit of the Atlas this had been so, and a few red-legged Barbary partridge, a magpie or two, and a couple of ravens, were all I had come across. Of four-legged beasts still less, for though both gazelle and muflon are to be found, we saw neither, and I can remember having perceived no other signs of animals than a couple of jerboa.

Anything more dismal than the scene which presented itself could not be imagined. The two parallel ranges of mountains that bounded the plain on either hand were clearly visible, though here, I daresay, some thirty miles apart. The Great Atlas presented an appearance of grandeur certainly, but of little or no beauty, merely an unbroken line of immense limestone peaks, here and there capped in snow, while the Anti-Atlas, more broken and fantastic in character, loomed up to the south, a forbidding series of black and dark-red rocks. Nor did the country we were travelling through provide any relief to the eye, for what little vegetation there was to be seen was stunted and sun-dried.

A pleasure, indeed, it was to descend by a rocky path to the valley of the Wad Mdri, the easternmost of the rivers that water the large and important oasis of Askura, and enters the gardens that line the bank of the stream. Here the palm-tree, which we had not seen since leaving Morocco, again appeared, adding an additional charm to the scene, which boasted, against a background of blue sky and snow-peaks, a number of betowered and decorated ksor of great size, the largest and most ornamental we had as yet come across. The gardens, however, showed signs of being neglected, and the rough walls of loose stone had in many places half tumbled down. Again an ascent, and again another four miles or so of dreary stone-strewn desert; but over the latter portion of this we were cheered by the sight of the long line of palm-trees ahead, that marked the commencement of the larger portion of the Askura oasis and our night’s resting-place.

We pushed on quickly, tired though we and our poor animals were, and an hour or so before sunset entered the groves of palm-trees, which commence quite suddenly, so that in a minute or two one has lost sight of the desert and is threading one’s way amongst a forest of trees. For an hour we passed through the oasis before arriving at the spot where we were to camp. Often our road led us amongst gardens, above the top of the walls of which appeared palms, pomegranate, apple, pear, peach, and other fruit-trees, while clusters of roses and jasmine spoke of the love of the natives for flowers. A tree we had not as yet come across, and which I here noticed in large quantities, was the tamarix (senegalensis), which attains a very considerable size and has a handsome appearance. Large fields, skilfully irrigated, now and then took the place of the gardens, in which the natives rear crops of wheat, barley, and maize, the latter especially. Through these openings one could catch glimpses of the great ksor of the place, some of which are not only of great size, but also possess a most imposing appearance, with their decorated upper storeys and tapering towers. Everything seemed in excellent repair, which spoke not only for the agricultural character of the people, but also of their wealth—for, comparatively speaking, Askura is one of the richest, if not quite the richest, of the oases in Morocco south of the Atlas Mountains.

We forded two more rivers, the Wad bu Jhila—“father of madness,” so called on account of its floods and swift current after rains in the mountains—and the large Wad Askura, from which the oasis takes its name. Both these rivers contained, at the time of our passing through, a plentiful supply of water, flowing in many channels over wide stone-strewn beds. In the centre of the easternmost—the Wad Askura—on what was at the dry period an island, a weekly market is held, which in winter is removed to another and more sheltered spot, for the island is often flooded. The object of its situation is that the spot is the only one clear from the forest, and therefore attack and fighting is less likely to occur than would be the case amongst the palm-groves; for, ignoring their constant wars with the Berbers of the surrounding country, the tribes and even villages of Askura are continually fighting amongst themselves.

A steep bank brings one to the eastern bank of the second river, and a mile farther on, still amongst palm-trees and gardens, we pitched our tent for the night in a square tabia enclosure, used as a caravanserai. But though tolerable immunity from plunder was secured by the walls around us, a number of the natives crowded into the place, and it was only owing to our continual vigilance that we did not lose articles of our baggage. I found the elevation of our camping-ground to be 4200 feet above the sea-level.

De Foucauld, whose extensive travels south of the Atlas did not bring him to Askura, merely mentions the place under the name of Haskura; but, as in the case of all names, I obtained the word written by native scholars in their own language, and I found none who placed an aspirate before the word, in all cases the spelling being identically as I write it here.

It is impossible to give any estimate, except the vaguest, as to the population of the place or the extent of the oasis; for on both points great divergence of opinion and universal exaggeration appeared to exist. Probably, roughly speaking, the total population is from 25,000 to 30,000 souls, and the extent of cultivated soil some 20 miles long—i.e., north and south—with an average of 10 wide, giving the result of some 200 square miles, the whole of which appears to be irrigated and under palm-cultivation. The dates are not nearly so fine as those of Tafilet, but are largely exported to Marakesh, as are also almonds.

Four tribes of Arabs inhabit the district; respectively—(i.) Kabyla el Ostia, (ii.) Kabyla Mzuru, (iii.) Ulad Yakub, and (iv.) Ulad Magil. Each is governed locally by a sheikh, under the jurisdiction of the Kaid of Glawa, Sid Madani, whose kasba at Teluet we had so carefully avoided.

It is curious to find here, in a country almost entirely populated by Berbers, so large and important an Arab tribe, and I could discover no tradition extant as to how they came to have remained at this spot, or whether it was conquered by them at any comparatively recent date. The most probable solution of the question seems to be that they are the descendants of the original invaders of North Africa, amongst whom the name of Ulad Magil, still a tribe of Askura, is found. Certain it is that the deadly hatred still existing between the two races is keenly alive to-day, and were the Arabs less strong, or their position more open to attack, there is no doubt that they would have been ousted long ago from so fertile and rich an oasis. However, being surrounded as they are on all sides by desert has added much to their security; added to the fact that every man of means—that is to say, every man who can by

honest, or dishonest if necessary, labour scrape together the money—possesses a horse and a gun, while almost without exception the Berber tribes are mountaineers, and in this part of the country own very few horses. An attack upon the place is thus almost an impossibility, the Berbers on foot having no chance against the mounted Arabs, who, by scouring the desert plains, can easily cut off all retreat.

The inhabitants appear to be well-to-do, and many were handsomely dressed in spotless haiks of wool. The men are, as a rule, small of stature and wiry, with keen hungry eyes and fine features, and form a strange contrast in their appearance of cupidity and rascality to the honest open countenances of the Berbers. The odds being so vastly unequal in open warfare, the latter race have almost desisted from attacking the place—though the innate hatred of the two peoples finds ample scope in plundering one another’s caravans. Yet, rascals as are the Arabs of Askura, one cannot help admiring the immense labour with which they have dug the thousands of canals that irrigate the gardens, and the excellent manner in which these are kept in repair. The love of gardening is found all over Morocco; but the temperament of the race for sudden fits of economy, or laziness, puts a stop on all progress in this direction, and on many occasions I have known Moors sink wells and build irrigating canals, plant fruit-trees and hedges, only to allow the whole to fall into a state of ruin as soon as completed; and where one year I have seen flourishing gardens, the next the orange-trees are dried up from want of water and attention, and cattle are feeding on the leaves of the young fruit-trees. But there is also another reason for the constant ruined gardens one is continually passing when travelling in Morocco—namely, the fact that after the death of the owner the property is divided, according to the sherá or native law, amongst his heirs, who each singly wish to reap the entire benefit without sharing in the expenses of keeping the place in repair. I knew one most beautiful garden, not twenty miles from Tangier, which was once the pride of the neighbourhood, and which from the above cause is to-day a barren field, with here and there the dried trunks of what were once orange-trees appearing from the soil. At Askura, however, things are different, and the excellent state of the gardens, the walls, and means of water-supply was astonishing, and none the less creditable to the hardy desert-people.

Our passage through the oasis, though I felt nervous lest amongst Arabs my foreign accent should lead to my detection, was a delightful relief after the weary days of barren mountain and still more barren plain. Leaving the spot where we had camped before daylight, we fell, just outside the caravanserai, into the hands of thieves; and although the presence of the old Shereef saved our personal property, the caravan of Dadsmen suffered considerably, and we left them behind trying to regain possession of their stolen mules and merchandise.

Just as some fifteen miles of desert separate Askura from Ghresat on the west, so some twelve miles more intervene between the oasis and the next spot where water is to be found—namely, Imasin. Like the Wad Mdri, the Imasin, from which the district takes its name, is sunk considerably below the level of the plain, and bounded east and west by a low range of flat-topped hills. Here again we were amongst Berbers, the inhabitants belonging to the tribe of Imerghan, a division of the same tribe as are found at Agurzga and Tiurassín. This same people own a large territory along the lower portion of the Wad Dads, from the south-west corner of Aït Yahia almost to Mesgita, near which the Dads, uniting with the Idermi, becomes the Draa. Although entirely Shelha-speaking people, the inhabitants of Imasin claim to be Shereefs—that is, descendants of the Prophet Mohammed, and therefore of Arab origin. One is constantly coming across these so-called Berber Shereefs, and a few words are necessary to explain the incongruity. When first the descendants of the Prophet reached Morocco, either at the same time as the first invasion, or later with Mulai Idris, the founder of the original dynasty of Sultans, they spread themselves over the country, settling down amongst the Berbers, who, with the exception of the Arab invaders and their children, were the sole inhabitants. These Shereefs, or “nobles,” as the word implies, soon became much respected, the more so as Islam spread, though no doubt their superior education and surroundings of civilisation had much to do with it. However it may have been, they in time became the arbitrators in cases of dispute, the propounders of the new faith, and as such, with but little difficulty and objection, married into the Berber families. The result of this is apparent. Separated from Arab people and brought up solely amongst Berbers, their children and descendants forgot the language of the forefather’s country, and spoke solely that of the people amongst whom they lived. Every circumstance led to their living the lives of Berbers, while still professing the religion of Islam. Their wives were taken from the tribes-people of their mothers, and to all practical purposes they lapsed back into Shloh tribesmen. Still the blood of the Arab ancestor had instilled into their veins the strain of the Prophet, and the male descendants, according to the rights of Islamic law, which recognises only paternity in this respect, still continued—as they had

every possible authority to do—to call themselves Shereefs; and many of these “noble” Berber families, to whom Arabic is an unknown tongue, possess probably no more than the original Arab blood of their first Shereefian ancestor. In the same way many of the Berber tribes south of the Atlas are tainted with Arab blood, and the most powerful of all, the Aït Atta, are proud of claiming descent from the tribe of the Koreish, which gave to the world the Prophet Mohammed.

The principal and best known Berber Shereefian families are without doubt the descendants of Sid Ben Nasr of Tamgrut, on the Wad Draa, and those of Mulai Brahim, and Mulai Abdullah Ben Hoseyn of Tamslot, to the north of the Atlas, and some ten to fifteen miles south of Marakesh. In each, too, are visible the traces of the effect their surroundings has had upon them; for both in appearance and dialect the Shereefs of Tamgrut resemble the Haratin population of the Draa, amongst whom they reside, while those of Tamslot bear a greater resemblance to the northern Atlas Berbers. The zauias, or sanctuaries, of both attract a large number of pilgrims, that of Tamslot being of course far more accessible, and therefore much richer. Mulai Brahim, who lies buried on the northern slopes of the Atlas, above Agorgoreh, shares with Sid bel Abbas, the local saint of Marakesh, the title of patron saint of southern Morocco; and the present representative and head of the family, Mulai el Haj ben Said, is one of the best known and richest men in that part of the country. His palace at Tamslot is a large place, and though sadly wanting in repair, is still a building of considerable magnificence, while his stable of horses is certainly the finest in the south.

Probably of far purer origin than the Berbers of the trans-Atlas portion of Morocco are those of Aït Yussi, Ghiata, and Beni Mgild, on the northern extremity of the same range, to the south and east of Fez. They seem to have lost none of their pristine fierceness, and to have adopted none of the manners and customs of their conquerors beyond their religion; for the brown tent in which they moved from place to place long before the Arab invasion is still found amongst them, and their traditions, pre-Arab, are still handed down from mouth to mouth. Inhabiting the immense forests of that district, they live a wild gipsy life, at war with all men, and paying no more than the most nominal obedience to the commands and laws of the Sultan. In the south, however, it is different; and when, after having reached Tafilet, I found myself in the Sultan’s camp, surrounded by Berber and Arab tribesmen, not only I, but natives of the country, often found it impossible to distinguish between them, so greatly did they resemble one another in feature and dress. In the other case, that of the northern Berbers, the type is quite distinct, the high cheek-bones and narrow eyes and reddish colouring distinguishing the Shleh from the Arab at once, and showing clearly his Hamitic origin.

Imasin is a poor little place enough. The few scattered ksor are all more or less in a state of ruin, and the gardens seemed uncared for and empty. Fording the river, we did not stop, but pushed on for another ten or twelve miles of desert, until a steep descent led us to the bed of the Wad Dads, at the point where the tribe of Aït Yahia is settled, and where the Imguna empties its stream into the larger river.

The tribe of Aït Yahia are a division of the Berbers of Seddrat, who, like all the other tribes, are much split up. The junction of the Wad Imguna and Wad Dads forms a triangular plain about two and a-half miles across, shut in on all sides, except on the actual course of the rivers, by high cliffs, on the summit of which stand numerous äudin or watch-towers. While the Wad Dads forms the base of the triangle, the Imguna bisects the plain, on which are to be found some four-and-twenty ksor, forming the district of Aït Yahia. The spot where the waters of the Imguna flow into the Dads is known as Tagnit bu Hammu. A few words must be said about the Wad Imguna. Rising on the southern slopes of the Atlas, near the snow-capped peak of Jibel Trekeddit, its upper valleys are inhabited by a small tribe called Aït Sakri. A few miles lower down the stream leaves the mountains, its banks at this spot being peopled by the Aït Ahmed, who in turn give place, as the river descends, to the tribe of Imguna, through whose territory for some twenty miles it flows, and from which it takes its name, or vice versa.

Choosing the village of Idu Tizi for our halting-spot, for the old Shereef had friends there, we pitched our little tent in a walled enclosure adjoining the ksar in which our hosts lived, for they had come out to meet us, and soon made us welcome. Poor though they were, they brought us an excellent supper of kuskusu and boiled turnips, the first hot food we had tasted for some days—and very welcome it was. In return we were able to entertain our host and his companions with sugar and tea, both luxuries far beyond the reach of ordinary man in this far-away part of Morocco—the carriage alone, with its physical difficulties of road, not to mention the constant plundering of caravans, rendering the price demanded for such luxuries exorbitant, even to our extravagant European ideas. The people knew but little Arabic, so I ran no fear of detection, and poured out the sweet green tea in true native fashion with great success. Askura passed—the only Arab settlement between the Atlas and Tafilet—I began to feel far more certain of the success of my journey, and thought nothing or little of my disguise. So accustomed was I becoming to my rôle that I found it no exertion to keep the part up, and became most orthodox and regular in saying my prayers, &c., with the rest of our little band. It is only fair to state that I had lived for considerable periods of time in the interior of Morocco previously, and the various customs and habits of the people had gradually become part and parcel of my life, so that I performed the necessary duties without any anxiety or mental exertion.

The gardens of Aït Yahia have a poor appearance, and the irrigating canals in many places were dry, a sure sign, as was the case, that the people were constantly at war with outside enemies and amongst themselves. The soil, too, is not suited for cultivation, for it consists entirely of patches of a poor yellow clay interspersed with rocks. Fig-trees seemed to thrive best, and even these were small and wretched, while the date-palm was absent altogether.

Although up to now the direction of our road had been almost due east, we had gradually been leaving behind the main chain of the Atlas and approaching Jibel Saghru,—the Anti-Atlas,—both of which ranges, parallel to one another, take a slightly northerly direction as they proceed east; and here at Aït Yahia we found ourselves with only the river and a few miles of sloping plain between ourselves and the southern range. It is at Aït Yahia, in fact, that the Wad Dads, having flowed south from the Atlas across the plain, meeting the lower northern slopes of Jibel Saghru, alters its course to a westerly one.

Anything more unlike the Atlas than this parallel range could scarcely be imagined, for in place of the long line of limestone cliffs there presents itself a chain of peaks of no very great altitude and of every colour and shape, the whole torn and twisted by volcanic action, and of an alternately deep red, purple, and black hue. Probably none of the peaks of the range that I saw are above 2000 to 3000 feet above the level of the plain, which would give an altitude of from 6000 to 7000 feet above the sea-level, for I found that we at Aït Yahia were at an elevation of 4700 feet. In one respect only was any resemblance noticeable between the two ranges—namely, the utter absence of vegetation on each; and anything more dismal than the intervening strip of desert, shut in by grey limestone and snow-capped mountains on the north, and dreary black hills on the south, it would be difficult to imagine.

We crossed the Wad Imguna before daylight on the morning of November 9, and ascending the cliff to the level of the plain which we had left the evening before, turned slightly to the north, and for two or three hours travelled over the dreary barren plain. It was most curious to note the suddenness with which one comes into sight of, and loses again, the settlements in the wide valleys of this part of the country; for no sooner had we reached the summit of the cliff than Aït Yahia was entirely lost to view, the plain seeming to be one with the gradual slope of Jibel Saghru, on the farther side of the river. Ten minutes later not a habitation was to be seen, the äudin, or watch-towers, along the line of the valley being the only signs of any inhabitants in the dreary surroundings. Except for these we might have been in the centre of the Sahara, and even the half-ruined towers seemed the work of a long-departed people.

The news of the coming of the old Shereef and members of his family had travelled before us, and one forgot all the weariness of the landscape in the pleasant reception that awaited us. An hour or two before we arrived at Dads we caught sight of little bands of people, black specks in the bright sunlight, and as they recognised their relations they ran toward us. The old man dismounted from his mule and proceeded on foot, the better to embrace the ever-increasing flow of welcomers. It formed one of those charming pictures which one now and again comes across in travelling in Morocco,—the old man, the centre of a little crowd of men, women, and children, all laughing and singing, being escorted after years of absence back to the home of his ancestors. I came in for my share of the welcome—for was not I one of his party?—and I shook hands with, and was kissed by, a score of men and women and children, before, just as suddenly as we had lost sight of Aït Yahia, the wide valley of Dads burst into view. Here at the summit of the cliffs more friends awaited us, and as we descended, all happy that a stage at least of our journey was over, our band formed quite a caravan, the children laughing and tumbling over one another in their glee, the men alternately singing and crying out words of welcome, and the women, with their hands to their mouths, uttering the shrill cry of the zakerit.

So our little procession turned and twisted down the steep path, every moment being met by more people, one and all eager to welcome us, until, surrounded by a rejoicing crowd, we entered the narrow streets of the village of Zauia Aït bu Haddu, and reached the dwelling of the old Shereef.

It seems so long since I have found an opportunity of writing of my personal experiences, and those of the good men who accompanied me upon my journey, that it is quite a pleasure to abandon for a time things geographical, and to enter for a chapter into the less important but interesting details of my stay at Dads, where a sojourn of five days in the Shereef’s house, with innumerable kind but indigestible feasts elsewhere, allowed me to see much more of the Berber home-life than would otherwise have been the case.

The first new experience was to look upon the interior of one of these strange castles that the natives build themselves, the outsides of which had so impressed me by their size and the manner in which they are built. No sooner had we arrived at the Zauia Aït bu Haddu than the opportunity I had all along been wishing to find occurred, and on alighting from my donkey at the door of the Shereef’s house, he bade me welcome with all the grace and rhetoric that the Arabs know so well how to use.

A stable-yard, a large enclosed space, divided the house from the street of the village, and, passing through this, a walnut-wood door, of roughly-sawn planks, gave entrance to the house. Within all was darkness, and it was only by striking a match that I could perceive we had entered a wide and dusty passage which seemed to lead nowhere. Groping along a gradual ascent, which took the place of stairs, we reached the first floor, on which most of the living apartments were situated, the remainder of the ground-floor serving as stabling, and opening by another entrance into the yard we had already passed through. Still ascending, we entered at length a large unfurnished room some 30 feet square, the whole black with smoke. Here we found a number of women, mostly accompanied by babies in arms, attending to the household affairs. Some were cooking the meal that was being prepared for our reception over fires of inferior and smoke-giving charcoal, while others were weaving on hand-looms a heavy woollen material, to serve eventually for the haidus or cloaks of the Berbers. The walls of the room were of rough tabia and the floor of plastered mud, while the ceiling consisted of trunks of walnut-trees supported on pillars of tabia, and covered with brushwood and clay above, the latter forming the floor of the next storey. A few huge copper cooking-pots and a rough unstained box or two formed all the furniture visible, together with a heap of dishes of considerable size, each a segment of the trunk of large walnut-trees skilfully hollowed out. Some of these were already filled with the steaming kuskusu and boiled turnips that were to form the staple pièce de résistance of the coming feast. Again an ascent of clay, supported on walnut beams fastened into the wall, led us to a second chamber of much the same dimensions as the first, only in place of the narrow loopholes which allowed a dim light to enter in the lower storey there were here round holes in the roof, serving at once for windows and chimneys, and decidedly unsuccessful at either, for the heavy smoke of fig-wood charcoal hung like a cloud in the air, obstructing what little light might otherwise have entered. In other respects the rooms were in every way identically the same, the walls black with smoke, and covered with cobwebs near the ceiling, but with these exceptions tolerably clean. Again we ascended, this time emerging on to the flat roof, in the centre of which stood a highly decorated room built of mud bricks, with a door of the usual walnut-wood and two or three small windows with shutters. We were a great height up, probably some 50 to 55 feet from the ground; but towers rose still higher, though their only purpose seemed to be the defence of the ksar, for they contained no rooms, but only galleries with narrow loopholes in the walls. The door of the room was thrown open, and we entered the clean and comfortable minzah and threw ourselves down on the rough rugs and carpets, delighting in being able to rest at last, and in a cool atmosphere, after the heat of our journey—and with every promise, too, of escaping the rigorous cold at night.

The old Shereef remained below in a small room, which in his younger days, when he resided at Dads, he had built himself, with plaster walls and some rough Moorish painting on the ceiling, and a horseshoe window opening on to the street, some 20 feet above the roadway. Here, no doubt, he interviewed the members of his family that he had abandoned for so long, and doubtless, too, listened to the reproaches of the wives he had deserted for nine years or so. However, all the male relations and a number of friends of the house trooped up to our quarters, and as most of them knew Arabic well, the conversation flowed cheerily enough over the excellent hot dishes of food that they brought us. Then came Moorish tea, with quantities of sugar and mint, I presiding at the tray, in the seat of honour, for I was the stranger of the party, and therefore the most honoured. A splendid handsome group of men they formed, these hosts of ours and their friends, and clean withal, which added very considerably to the pleasure of their company.

What questions they asked!—not the rude personal questions the Arab pesters one with, but as to what was going on in Morocco, and how our little party had fared on the way; and even more general than their interrogations were their protestations of welcome. Very welcome they made us too, bringing from their various houses great dishes of food—plain stuff enough, but none the less acceptable—and keeping the day as a sort of holiday.

It may seem to the reader that almost every page of this book contains references as to what we obtained to eat; but on a journey in which one tasted meat only twice in a month, and when often we walked forty miles with nothing more than dates or inferior dried figs to dine and sup and breakfast on, it is wonderful how important a souvenir de voyage is the remembrance of the rare occasions on which we satisfied our hunger, or, as on our arrival at Dads, we did more, and actually had enough to eat and to spare.

I quickly made friends with the natives of the place, and before our guests departed, so as to give us an opportunity to sleep after our weary journey,