Tafilet

I had already several times visited Marakesh, or Morocco City, and had therefore no difficulty in finding my way all over the town, through the streets of which, ruinous as they are, it is always a pleasure to pass; for all kinds and species of human beings congregate in this southern capital of the empire, from the fair mountaineer to the swarthy negro from Timbuctu and the Sudan, from the rich merchant of Fez to the lithe shy Berber of the snow-clad peaks of Mount Atlas.

But before I speak of the inhabitants and the strange sights to be seen within the city, some general description of the place must be given.

Marakesh shares with Fez and Meknas, both lying far to the north, the title of a capital, and it often forms the residence of the Sultans of Morocco for considerable periods at a time, the royal palace here being one of the largest in the country. The city lies in a wide plain, formed by the valley of the Wad Tensift, some fifteen miles to the north of the foot-hills of the great Atlas range, at an altitude of some 1600 feet above the level of the sea, from which it is distant about a hundred miles. A wall from 20 to 30 feet in height surrounds the city, which covers a very large extent of ground, though no inconsiderable portion of the enclosed extent is composed of gardens. This wall is defended at intervals of 120 yards by towers, some of which are formed of stone, but most of native concrete or tabia, and without lime being employed. Seven gates give entrance and exit to and from the town, but none presents any remarkably handsome features, being more attractive from their yellow colouring and general picturesqueness than from any architectural beauties. On almost all sides the city is surrounded by luxuriant groves of date-palms, stretching for some miles to the north, but more scanty on the south. These are irrigated and the water-supply brought from the Wad Tensift, which flows to the north of the city, and in which there is, summer and winter, a considerable volume of water.

Approaching Morocco from almost every direction except the south, the place lies hid behind the forest of palms until one is close upon it, and even then little is to be seen but the dull yellow walls with their square towers, above which rise the many minarets of the form common to Morocco. These do not in the least resemble those of the East, being of far more solid construction and form, and are almost universally square, though now and again octagonal or sexagonal. Often decorated in gorgeous green tiles, they add, wherever they are met with, a glimpse of colour and form to a city that is otherwise but gloomy,—its buildings and soil, its inhabitants and their clothing, seeming to be all more or less tones of one colour, a greyish yellow. Such is Marakesh as seen from without the walls.

As soon as one has entered its gates the state of dilapidation in which the city now is becomes apparent. Surrounded by ruinous houses and mosques are large open spaces of ground, as often as not filled with the refuse of the city. From these the streets give entrance into the more habitable quarters, where some pretensions to comfort, though few to cleanliness, are to be found.

The streets are wider, as a rule, than in Fez, though many are narrow enough; but the size of the houses bears no proportion to those of the northern capital, being for the most part of one storey in height, except in the thoroughfares and quiet back-streets in which the richer portion of the population live. The smaller one-storeyed buildings all more or less adopt the same form of construction, being built round an open court. Tabia—concrete, or rather consolidated soil—is the material in use, with here and there mud bricks. Only two stone buildings, I believe, exist in the whole city.—the handsome gate leading into the “Kasba” near the Government mosque, and the still more handsome minaret of the “Kutubía.”

Some little signs of prosperity, however, are apparent in the bazaars, which are large and well supplied. The new “Kaiseríeh”—parallel arcades arched overhead and lit by open skylights—are of by no means contemptible size or construction, and in good repair. They present of an afternoon, when the goods are for sale by auction in the arcades and by retail in the many box-like shops that line them, a picturesque and lively scene. All manner of goods can be purchased here—from the newest design in Manchester cottons to old silver daggers and brass candelabra. As in nearly all oriental cities, the different trades possess their separate bazaars, one whole street being given up to the attarin, or sellers of sugar, spices, glass, and china, &c., who answer much to our grocers; another to the brass and copper workers; a third to the saddlers; and the longest of all perhaps to the shoe-workers, for Marakesh is celebrated for its leather. The merchants and inhabitants generally of the city are very different in type and character to those of Fez. Whereas the latter are fair, and generally most fanatical, the native of Marakesh is a good fellow, smiling and cheery, with far more of the traits of the negro than of the Moor of the north. In colour, too, he is much darker than the Fezzi, and many show more or less remote signs of negro blood, owing, no doubt, to their proximity to the darker tribes, and the fact that the slave-trade of entire Morocco filters through this city.

The residential part of the town is divided into several districts, separated from each other by open spaces, or by streets of shops. Just as in Europe, there are the fashionable and unfashionable quarters, the “Medina” or city being perhaps the most sought after. So largely does fashion hold sway over the people, that the rents of houses of equal size only a few hundred yards away from one another vary often fifty per cent, a palace in the district of “Bab Dukala” not bringing anything like so large a sum as a minute house in the “Medina.” It was in the latter that I resided during my stay, in the house of Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui, who owns very considerable property all over the city, and particularly in this neighbourhood. The houses here are high, and, like most Moorish residences, have but few windows looking towards the street, one and all possessing central courts on to which the rooms open. But even in respect of windows Morocco City is different to Fez, for whereas

in the latter from the streets one sees but few, and those generally closely barred, in Marakesh they are in considerably larger numbers, though, as I stated above, by no means general.

After the “Medina”—the trading quarter—the “Kasba” is the most important. This district, the residence of the Government, and which contains the palace, is separated from the remainder of the town by walls, much resembling those that encircle the city, but higher and in better repair. Nor do the houses reach to this wall, for between the city proper and the “Kasba” are large open spaces and many gardens, adding a most picturesque effect to this quarter. These gardens for the most part are walled, and as a rule only the tree-tops, amongst them the handsome cypress and date-palm, are visible, while the minarets beyond cap the scene.

One enters the “Kasba” through the handsome stone gate of which I have already made mention, and of which tradition says the stones were brought from Spain, and after passing a smaller and less important gateway, one emerges opposite the large “Jumma el Makhzen,” or Government mosque, with its handsome minaret of stone and tiles, and its huge modern courtyard, opening on to the street by large gates. With the exception of the tower, now fast falling into decay, it presents no particular features of architectural beauty, though its courts and green tiles and turreted walls are by no means despicable. A long straight road with one-storeyed houses on both sides, for the most part quarters of soldiers and employés in the Government service, leads on to another series of walls, those of the Sultan’s palace.

As in all the Moorish cities, the great courtyards of the palace are public thoroughfares, though they can be closed any moment by the strong gates which are found in every direction, and one of the principal entrances and exits of the city is through the royal squares that lie between the palace and the great park, or “Agdal,” of the Sultan. These squares, three in number, are surrounded by high walls of modern construction and in good repair, and open into one another by handsome gateways, decorated in colour-tiles and painting,—the latter an art peculiar almost to this portion of Morocco, and though met with here and there elsewhere, it is known throughout the country as a Marakesh fashion. For the most part it consists of red and black designs upon a ground of yellow ochre, and has by no means a bad effect, especially when employed under the overhanging roofs of green tiles in the palaces and mosques.

Although it covers a very considerable amount of ground, the palace at Marakesh, as seen from the outside, does not present any very particular features of beauty, though the pointed roofs of brilliant green and highly glazed tiles, capped with globes of gold, are picturesque enough. The interior it is impossible to see, and the one or two courtyards which I had visited on a previous occasion were in bad repair, noticeable only for their size and absence of decoration. Probably, however, in the portion of the palace put aside for the private use of the Sultan and his many women, there exists a great deal that

is beautiful in the way of architecture and decoration, though the constant love of the Sultans for pulling down and rebuilding has no doubt destroyed much of the older work, which in all probability was the best. It must by no means, however, be denied that even the modern architecture of the Moors, as exemplified in the finer houses of Fez, is excellent. It is the custom of writers on Morocco to detract in every way from the present state of the country and its inhabitants, especially as regards architecture; but this is no doubt owing to the fact that they have no opportunity during their stay in the towns of entering the houses of the official and richer classes, for the Moors are very shy of strangers, and it requires a long acquaintance with the language and the people before they will admit one, as a rule, into the interior of their abodes, and then generally not unless the native costume is adopted, for fear of falling into bad repute if “Christians” are seen to enter. I have myself not only had many opportunities of seeing the finest houses of Fez, but have resided in them for several periods of no little time, and can vouch that some of the dwellings of the richer men are little short of the Alhambra in beauty. The one great drawback to their modern architecture is the entire absence of marble pillars, in place of which much heavier work is erected, usually richly decorated in tiles. Beautiful as they often are, the airiness and lightness so apparent in the Alhambra, for instance, is entirely wanting. The mosaics of finely cut tiles to-day being worked in Fez surpass in design and skilful application any I have seen in Spain. However, I have wandered rather far from Morocco City, for there but little if any great beauty is to be seen, the inhabitants being, as a rule, much poorer than those of the northern capital, while the materials used in the construction of their houses are not nearly so good or so lasting.

On the opposite side of the three squares to the palace are the walls of the “Agdal,” the great enclosed park of the Sultan. On a previous visit to Marakesh I had been allowed to wander at will in these gardens for hours at a time, and though, according to our ideas, they have fallen into a state of ruin, they are still very beautiful. Water runs in every direction; and at one spot is a huge tank, or reservoir, reached by a handsome flight of steps, and of such dimensions that a steam-launch plies upon its waters. As for the gardens, they are a forest of olive and palm and orange trees, half smothered in many places in dense creepers, while the soil is covered with a thick undergrowth of shrubs and flowers, that shelter not only the partridge and the hare, but even foxes and jackals. The Sultan, in spite of the dilapidated state of his gardens, draws no small revenue from the sale of its fruits, which are put up to auction annually, and sold when still on the trees, the purchasers having to pluck and send them to the market, as well as to guard them against theft.

There are several fine mosques in the Marakesh, one surpassing all the others in its magnificent minaret, which may be said to be almost the sole existing example in the whole country of the remarkable existence. This

mosque and minaret are known as the “Kutubía,” or “Mosque of the Library,” from its having contained at one period a vast collection of manuscripts. The tower, built of squared stone, is 280 feet in height, and is surmounted by a smaller minaret, which again is capped with a dome. On the summit of this dome are three gold globes, one above the other and decreasing in size. On the summit of the lower tower is a parapet of Moorish design. The whole building is of a dull red colour, and the niches of the windows and the centres of its faces are carved in a very pure style of Arabic design. Originally tilework filled most of these niches, but a great quantity of this has fallen away, though a broad band of green and black encircles the whole immediately below the parapet. Just as in the two sister towers,—the Ghiralda of Seville and the Hassan tower at Rabat, the latter uncompleted,—a sloping incline takes the place of steps within, on account of this forming an easier ascent for the beasts of burden that carried the stones during its construction. The architect of all three of these towers is said to have been a certain Fabir, who worked in the employ of the Sultan El Mansur, in whose reign the Kutubía was completed. The mosque beneath, though covering an enormous extent of ground, is in by no means just proportion to the great minaret, being built of brick, and white-washed, while the roof is tiled. Below the flooring is said to exist a great cistern excavated by the Sultan El Mansur. The pillars supporting the roof of this mosque are all of marble, and the courts are paved in the same stone and coloured tiles.

From whatever point Marakesh is looked at, the great tower of the Kutubía is the first object to catch the eye, and it forms an excellent landmark in steering one’s way over the bewildering plain that surrounds the city on all sides. I was told when crossing the Glawi Pass, on the fourth day after leaving Marakesh for Tafilet, that from a point near the road this great work, the sole reminder of the genius of the old-day Moors, was visible.

Although the largest mosque, and possessing the handsomest minaret, the Kutubía seems much deserted as a place of worship, possibly from its being somewhat removed from the more inhabited portions of the city. Two shrines have annexed all the veneration of the townspeople and the surrounding tribes,—those of Sid bel Abbas, the patron saint of the city, and Mulai Abdul Aziz. A pretty story is told about the first, which, though common amongst the Moors, I have never seen quoted. Sid bel Abbas arrived outside the walls of the town, a beggar in rags; but although his poverty was apparent, he had a great reputation for sanctity. Before entering he sent to the Shereefs living within to ask their permission to be allowed to reside in the city, a course that much perturbed the said saints; for up to that moment they possessed the monopoly of the business—in Morocco a most lucrative one—of demanding and receiving alms on account of their descent from the Prophet. Wishing, however, to avoid an abrupt refusal, they resorted to delay, during which Sid bel Abbas took up his residence on the summit of a rocky barren hill—Jibel Glissa—which rises amongst the palm-groves to the west of the walls, and on which a little mosque to-day commemorates the event. At length, seeing that some answer must be sent, the Shereefs filled a bowl to the brim with water and sent it out to him. The bowl represented the city and the water themselves, and the bowl was full, which said pretty plainly, “Business already overstocked—much rather you wouldn’t come.” However, they gave him an opportunity of getting over their device, for the message they sent was couched in more poetical language. “If you can add,” they said, “to a bowl of water already full, enter.” Thereupon the saint plucked a rose and held it in the sun until its stalk thirsted for moisture, when he gently laid it in the bowl. The water displaced was drunk up by the thirsty flower. In this manner he sent the bowl back—but with no answer. When, however, the Shereefs saw that he had succeeded, and also paid such a pretty compliment to himself as to liken them to the water and himself to the rose, they withdrew all opposition, and the saint entered the city, and, judging from the reverence paid to his bones, must have entirely monopolised the business.

The “Zauia” of Sid bel Abbas forms a sort of almshouses, and food and money are distributed there to the poor. An entire quarter of the city—the extreme north-west—belongs to the zauia, and it owns enormous tracts of palm-groves and agricultural land in the surrounding plain. These possessions have been offerings from the faithful, or bequests at death, and in some cases purchases made with the constant flow of money that pours into the coffers of the mosque.

Another almost equally holy spot is the shrine of Mulai Abdul Aziz, which lies either in or just on the borders of the “Medina” quarter. A very handsome building covers the tomb, like that of the rival saint, gorgeously decorated, and full of lamps and candlesticks of precious metals. But of all the treasures stored in these sanctuaries, clocks are the most numerous. When this invention began to penetrate into Morocco—that is to say, in comparatively late years—they were naturally looked upon as the most valuable and wonderful things, and a fashion promptly set in to bestow them upon the ashes of the dead saints. Every one who could afford it gave a clock, and often in talking of local saints I have heard Moors say, “Ah! he was a saint indeed, God’s mercy upon him; and there are four clocks in his tomb!” It is said that the burial-place of Mulai Idris at Fez presents a bewildering scene of clocks, great and small, half going, and all wrong. I myself have had opportunities of visiting one or two tombs in Morocco, and have listened, bewildered, to the ticking of fifty or sixty of these much-reverenced presents. Most seem to be tall “grandfather” clocks, made in England, and dating from about the end of the last century. Some are remarkably fine, with silver dials, showing the quarters of the moon, &c. Even to-day the natives adore the great, loud, ticking horrors manufactured for the native market in Algeria—monstrosities of gaudy decoration and painted wood—and no good house is considered complete without one or more. I have dined in houses at Fez where there have been six or seven in one room.

None of the other mosques of Marakesh calls for much remark, though those of Ibn Yusuf, El Mansur, and El Muiz are large, the former possessing a very handsome, though more modern, minaret, rich in green tiles. As is customary all through Morocco, no Christians are allowed to enter the sanctuaries, and even whole districts, zauias, are sacred. One or two streets near the tomb of Mulai Abdul Aziz are crossed with chains, marking the boundary of town and saintly property, and within these limits even the assassin is safe from arrest, for they answer the purpose of marking the boundary of the refuge. The result is that all the zauias are full of refugees of all classes, from political prisoners to the pilferer of the stalls in the markets.

Two large markets are held weekly, one outside the Bab (gate) el Khamis—as its name implies, on Thursdays—and the other within the city walls in the square of Jumma el fanar. Both collect large crowds of the country-people, as well as the natives of the town, and the trade is considerable in native produce. The more picturesque of the two is without doubt that of the “Khamis,” for the great open space that serves as the market-place is surrounded on two sides by the palm-groves, and on the other two by the long straight line of the city walls. A few cypress-trees and a white-domed saint’s tomb add not a little to form a fit background to the strange grouping of figures and animals that are crowded together in the market. Here herds of oxen, cows, and calves are for sale, tended by the long-robed Arabs from the plains; there camels, goats, and sheep. Mules occupy a spot to themselves, and one at a time is mounted by the auctioneer to show its paces; while a professional rider gallops to and fro, shouting as he goes, upon the various horses, for which he yells for bids. All classes and kinds of people congregate in the market—from rich Shereefs, accompanied by slaves, and riding great fat mules with crimson saddles, to the ragged hungry soldier; from the timid Berber of the Atlas peaks, in his black cloak, to the gamin of the streets; from the respectable grain-merchant to the most disreputable of Jew money-lenders. Here, too, the shoesmith has his tents, and women sell baskets and embroideries, pots and pans of earthenware, and wooden dishes, embroidered kuftans and woollen girdles. All the city seems to adjourn of a Thursday morning to the great level space outside the Bab el Khamis to buy and sell or look on.

The Jews, as in nearly all Moorish cities, possess a quarter to themselves—the “Mellah,” or salted place. In Marakesh it lies quite close to the “Kasba,” and almost adjoins the Sultan’s palace. If anything this division of the town is dirtier than any other, while the ever-present smell of mahia—the strong spirit made in the place—adds a nauseating aroma to the many already emitted by the offal and filth thrown out into the street. There are many well-to-do Jews in Marakesh, and one or two possess nice houses, scrupulously clean within, but with manure-heaps, several feet in height, at the door-step—the refuse of the place, which they merely throw there and leave to rot.

Drunkenness seems very common in the streets of the mellah, and it is this fact that gave rise to the recent complaints as to the persecution of the Jews. As far as the Sultan is concerned, they can get as drunk as they like in their own quarter, for they are under a Sheikh of their own; but he naturally objected to them selling mahia to the soldiery, for whose crimes he was responsible. However, in spite of the fact that the Jews are, or ought to be, almost all Moorish subjects, the Sultan has not been able to prevent this nuisance, for the cry of persecution at once arises. I was asked on the last two occasions that I visited Marakesh to make inquiries as to the state of the Jews there, and had opportunities of speaking with, and consulting, the leading and most respectable of the Israelites. They one and all made light of the complaint of general persecution, but mentioned that individual cases did exist where Jews had been hardly treated on insufficient evidence. However, such is far more often the case with Moors. I have met with much kindness on my travels from the Jews of the interior, and also at times with no little show of fanatical hatred; and I think that the most respectable of their tribe in all the towns acknowledged that the cry of persecution was more an attempt to become exempt from taxation than for justice for wrongs done. There can be no doubt, however, that in former times the Jews were cruelly used; but the late Sultan, Mulai el Hassen, was a broad-minded man, and never refused to listen to their petitions. No one mourned his death more sincerely than the peace-abiding members of that tribe, whose wrongs he was ever ready to redress, though only naturally he put opposition in the way of those who, taking advantage of European protection or his own leniency, practised nefarious usury with his subjects.

The population of Marakesh to-day does not probably number more than some 40,000 souls, though it is said that within a hundred years of its founding by Yusuf in 1062 A.D. it contained some 700,000 inhabitants. There is no doubt, though this figure is probably an exaggeration, that it was at one time a city of great importance and learning, for even Europe sent its sons to be educated at the great colleges that existed there at that time.

I have written but little as to Marakesh. It is a city that has so often been described by other travellers, that it has been my purpose here merely to sketch its peculiarities and to give a general

impression of the place. Briefly, it presents a maze of yellow streets, leading, here, between the crumbling walls of tottering houses; there, through narrow dimly lit bazaars with their tiny boxlike shops; and here, again, amongst the high white walls of the residences of the richer class. Then out into great open dusty spaces, surrounded by half-ruined mosques with tiled minarets, or gardens above the walls of which appear the tops of palms, olive, and orange trees, and the straight stems of glowing cypresses. Then perhaps one turns a corner and comes face to face with a drinking-fountain of exquisite tilework and carved wood, to stumble, as one gazes at it, into a manure-heap or a hole in the road, broken in the roof of some aqueduct. And beyond the wonderful range of white snow-peaks, rising some 12,000 feet above the level of the city, the silent majesty of the great Atlas Mountains.

On the afternoon of November 1 a start was eventually made for our journey of exploration. My party consisted of the same men as had accompanied me from Saffi, with the addition of a dull and lazy negro, whom I had taken into my employ on the recommendation of a native of Tafilet to whom I had confided my plan. He turned out to be worse than useless, complained the entire route of the hardships of the journey, and insisted upon riding the whole distance, while I had to go most of the way on foot, gaining his point by constant veiled threats of exposing my identity. I had to humour him as long as we were upon the road, for fear of his making known the fact that I was a European in disguise; but on my return to Marakesh he paid the price of his impertinence and perfidy in a manner more in use in Morocco than in England—for on my making a statement to his master of his conduct, which was amply corroborated by all my men, he received, without my knowledge, though I do not think I should have objected, the flogging he deserved. His presence was a constant cause of anxiety and danger during the whole journey; and his coarse impertinent manner, his threats, his treatment of my other men and myself, so exasperated me, that on one or two occasions I felt that I could have ordered him to be flogged myself, and enjoyed the sight of it. While every one else was making light of the cold and our hunger, he would be cursing at me for having brought him, and stealing, if he could get it by no other means, the share of food belonging to the rest of the men. The least remonstrance brought a threat that he would inform the natives of my disguise, and thereby ensure my death. On one occasion it was only by an effort that I succeeded in restraining my men from murdering him, which was their intention during some night. Fear of discovery there was none, and their moral code certainly would allow of the taking the life of a man whose presence caused danger to every other soul in camp, and who used this power to obtain everything procurable that he set his heart on, caring little whether the rest of us fell by the wayside from fatigue so long as he could ride, or died of starvation so long as he could obtain his fill of food. I have no pity even now when I think of the salutary hiding he got when he returned to Marakesh, for a worse villain never, I believe, existed.

We split up our little party and left Morocco City by different gates, so that in case any information had reached the ears of the native officials there would be less chance of their being able to arrest our progress; but nothing occurred, and an hour after bidding adieu to my host, Sid Abu Bekr, our united caravan of men, three mules, and a couple of donkeys, had entered the palm-groves and was threading its way toward the open plain.

Before us lay the Atlas, blue and white in the sunshine, and seeming to bar all farther progress in that direction, of so equal an altitude are the snow-peaks. The scene was a charming one—the constant peep of the glistening snow seen through groves of palms. But the forest, which to the west and north of Marakesh extends to a great distance, does not to the east protrude far into the plain; and in an hour or so we had left the last palm-tree behind and entered the open level country, which stretched away to where the unbroken line of mountains rises from the plain.

At a small nzala, the merest collection of thatch huts with the usual zareba of thorn hedge, we spent the night, crowding into the little tent, before which our animals were hobbled; and soon our tin kettle was boiling, while the black slave-girl unpacked the tiny glass tumblers that take the place of tea-cups, and the old Shereef made a brew of the favourite beverage of Morocco, green tea with piles of sugar and mint.

Every one was in the best of humours. At length all delays were over, and we were started upon our adventurous journey, in the success of which all, with the exception of the negro, felt a common interest; and as we squatted round the tent we talked and laughed together, as cheery a little band of men as could be found anywhere.

Before dawn on November 2 a start was made. Impatient as I was to reach country where I should be safe from the interference of the Moorish Government, it was decided that our pace must be very slow, for a long and weary road lay before our pack-animals, and their strength must be husbanded for the climb over the mountains. So it was that we pushed on quietly, seldom travelling over three miles an hour at this part of the road, although the soil was good and the country level.

Our course took us in an east-by-south direction across the plain of Misfiwa, which forms one of the large bashaliks, or governorships, of Southern Morocco. There were many signs of cultivation on both sides of the road; but the dry summer had turned the soil to a light yellow hue, which rendered it no easy matter to see how much was agricultural land and how much merely used for grazing. That crops are largely raised in this part is a well-known fact, yet judging from the appearance of the soil at this season of the year it looks poor enough. The villages are few and far between, and although mostly inhabited by the Berbers, the original inhabitants of Morocco before the Arab invasion, their dwellings had not as yet begun to show the neater and superior style of building we were so soon to notice. However, as we proceeded and forded the Wad Urika, placing a longer distance between us and the city, the improvement in the habitations became visible, and instead of the thatch nuail, or huts, of the villages that we had been passing, we found houses built of tabia with flat roofs, which, though possessing no particular appearance of comfort or size, were greatly superior to the others.

Two rivers were passed before we left the plain to enter one of the valleys of the Atlas Mountains, at Imin Zat. These were, namely, the Wad Urika, which I have already mentioned, and the Wad el Melha, or salt river, which owes its name to its brackish waters. Both rise in the Atlas Mountains,—the Urika in the valley above Akhliz, which I had visited some five years previously; and the Wad el Melha farther to the east, issuing from the hills by a narrow valley a few miles to the east of that of the Urika. Although such of the last winter’s snow as disappears in summer had already melted, and the fresh fall had not as yet taken place, there was a considerable body of water in both streams, a sure sign that while we had been parching in the sun-dried plains heavy rains had fallen amongst the mountains. The water of both is largely used for purposes of irrigation, although that of the Wad el Melha is salt, and a considerable amount of labour and time has been expended in banking up the small canals which carry the precious liquid to the fields far removed from the actual course. After flowing some ten miles into the plain from the Atlas foot-hills, these two rivers unite in the province of “Uidan”—“the rivers”—and finally empty themselves into the Wad Tensift some six or seven miles to the north-east of Morocco City, near the zauia and tomb of Sidi Abdullah ben Sessi.

The plain at this point presents the appearance of an almost dead level, though, in fact, it ascends to the east, until the termination of the Tensift valley is reached, some thirty-five miles higher up, where a concourse of smaller streams flowing from the north-east and south unite to form the main river, which supplies with water the entire country round Marakesh, and the city itself, finally to reach the sea between Mogador and Saffi on the Atlantic coast.

The district of Misfiwa, through which we were passing, is bounded by three powerful bashaliks: on the north Rahamna, the hills of which, a continuation of the range of Jibeelet, which we had crossed between Saffi and the capital, are clearly visible; on the east Zemran, with its capital and seat of government at Sidi Rehal; on the south Urika, including the country of Beled Ersdigi, famous for its mulberry-trees and silkworms. All of these districts are governed by powerful Bashas, who may be reckoned amongst the richest and most important of Southern Morocco.

Nearly all the population of Misfiwa, although Berbers, speak Arabic in addition to their own language, Shelha,—a fact that is due, no doubt, to their constant communication with the city of Morocco, which forms their market and source of supply. Yet, in spite of the fact that Arabic is spoken amongst them almost as freely as Shelha, they are true to their traditions in their intense dislike to the Arabs. Aware previously of this trait in the character of the Berbers, I had carefully chosen the men who accompanied me, of whom one and all were by extraction Berbers, and who all spoke Shelha with the exception of my Riffi servant, whose native tongue, “Riffía,” is so much allied to it that he could gather the gist of every conversation and make himself tolerably well understood in turn. This fact, that the language of the natives was equally the language of our party, helped us not a little in obtaining the welcome everywhere extended to us by the Berber people.

A word or two must be said as to the system of cultivation and raising crops extant in this portion of Morocco. The ground is ploughed with the primitive native implement as soon as the first rains of autumn fall, and the grain, especially the barley, sown early. By May the harvest is in full swing, and the reaping and gathering of the crops takes place. The ear is merely severed from the stalk close to the top, so that long straw is left standing. The ears are carried in nets upon the backs of mules, mares, and donkeys to the nuadder, where the threshing takes place. A clear hard space of ground, puddled with clay if necessary, is left bare, and upon this the grain, still in the ear, is thrown, and over the whole are driven round in circles the mares, horses, mules, and often donkeys of the farmer, until the grain is thoroughly separated. Pitchforks of wood are then made use of, and by raising the straw and grain into the air the chaff is carried off by the wind, the seed alone remaining. This is then stored in subterranean granaries—metammer—sunk in the soil, the outlet to which is a small hole at the top closed with stones and clay. The whole is lined with a coating of stiff clay, which prevents the ingress of water. Grain remains in a good state of preservation for long periods when housed in this manner. On to the reaped fields the cattle and sheep are now turned out to graze, finding means of subsistence through the dry summer by cropping the standing straw, and at the same time manuring the soil for the next season’s crops.

It was still comparatively early morning when we reached the termination of the level ground at a spot where the Wad Misfiwa leaves the Atlas foot-hills. The Berber name for this spot is Imin Zat, the mouth of the Zat, the latter being the local title of the river. The word imin, “a mouth,” is of very common occurrence in geographical names amongst the Berbers, and corresponds exactly to the Arabic fûm, both in meaning and the term implied. It does not, as our word “mouth” geographically does, imply the estuary of a river, but any gorge or outlet by which a river or a track enters a different district or a different kind of country. In the following pages the word will be found more than once in its latter meaning.

We found the ford of the Wad Misfiwa at Imin Zat by no means an easy one. The river was not very deep, it is true, but so fast was its current and so stone-strewn its bed that the footing was insecure, and we were fortunate in crossing without any mishap, more than a wetting to two or three of our men, and a partial soaking of the pack of a donkey, which fortunately contained nothing that could be damaged. Not so, however, a party of mountain Jews who crossed at the same time, one of whom was washed completely off his legs, and both he and his donkey carried some little way down the stream before they were able to regain their footing. The water was very cold, and the sudden immersion, no doubt a rare occurrence, which the Jew obtained caused him to become a pitiful object, and he shed liberal tears of annoyance at getting wet.

Nothing prettier than the entrance to the valley of Imin Zat can be imagined. The hills slope gently down to the river’s edge, clothed in groves of olives, under which the stream flows crystal clear, leaping and dancing over the rocks and stones, and adding to the charm of the scene its sweet music. For a background rose the snow-capped peaks of the Atlas, standing out clear and defined against a sky of azure blue. The village of Imin Zat stands on the west bank of the river some little way up the hillside, and a delightful site it possesses, clinging to the slope and rising tier above tier, its deep yellow houses contrasting well with the dull green of the olive-trees and the cobalt of the mountains and sky.

As from this point of our journey to its very conclusion the buildings—whether the great ksor, or walled fortresses, of Tafilet or the humble cottage of the Berber of the northern slopes of the Atlas—are all constructed of the same material, tabia, it may render more clear the constant use of the word in the descriptions of scenery and villages if I describe here the manner in which tabia is used, and of what it consists. Roughly it may be said to be cement without lime—in other words, the soil, of sand, gravel, and pebbles, beaten into a consolidated mass. The manner in which it is employed is the following. The foundations of a building are sunk and the ditch filled in; then from the level of the ground to the height of usually some 2 to 3 feet stakes are driven into the earth at each side of the ditch, and on the inside planks are arranged parallel with the soil. Quantities of loose gravel and pebbles are now brought, and the space intervening between the planks is filled up with the material, which, by means of being constantly beaten down with heavy blocks of wood at the end of poles—mrakas, the Moors call them—becomes a solid mass. Upon its drying the planks are removed and replaced above the first stratum of wall, the gravel being treated in the same manner. In this way a solid and tolerably durable material is obtained, subject to but one destroying action, that of water. On the northern slopes of the Atlas, where the rains are heavy, the walls of the houses are protected almost always by overhanging roofs, constructed on beams which project 2 feet or more over the wall. Across the beams and at right angles to them is laid a flooring of dried canes, which again is covered with brushwood. Beaten into the brushwood is a flat roof of adhesive clay, which is held firmly in its place by the twigs which intersect it in every direction. On the southern side of the Atlas range, however, the rainfall is exceptionally small, and there is no necessity for the overlapping roofs, the material being of sufficient durability and strength to withstand the rare showers that fall there.

It is a curious fact that as one proceeds south from Marakesh, while the dwellings of the natives improve, their welfare decreases; for as soon as the fertile plains are left behind one leaves the farmer class altogether and enters amongst a population dependent for its livelihood upon the scanty stock of olives and vegetables they can raise in their small gardens, and more generally upon the firewood and charcoal that they carry, often two or three days’ journey, to the capital. Many of the richest farmers of the most fertile districts of Morocco have no roof to cover them but their brown goat-hair tents or thatch huts, while almost the poorest peasant amongst the Berbers possesses a cottage of tabia, which nearly always presents an appearance of cleanliness and order. While the rich Arab of the plains is content to spend his days seated on the manure-heap in front of his hovel, the hardy and poor Berber of the mountains builds himself a little verandah on the roof of his house, where he can pass his time shaded from the sun or rain in peace and quiet.

It is almost as soon as one enters amongst the Berber people that one begins to find out how infinitely superior they are in morals and character to the Arab. Their every word and look speak of greater honesty and truth than one finds in a month amongst the Arabs. But of the Berber character I shall have more to say anon.

As soon as we had passed over the ford of the Wad Misfiwa, our road took a turn to the south, following the course of the river, a little way up the side of the hills on its east bank. Gradually ascending as we proceeded, we camped early at a miserable nzala on the summit of a steep incline, from which a fine view was obtainable both up and down the river—up, to the snow-peaks of the Atlas; down, to the plains we had now left behind and the hills of Rahamna far away beyond. Very different was the thatched nzala from the neat and trim villages that dotted the valley below, surrounded by their carefully terraced gardens of olives and vines, walnuts and almonds; but the people where we camped were evidently very poor, and eked a miserable pittance out of the small fees they collected from passers-by—for the road over the Atlas is one not often travelled, even by natives.

The change in the costume of the natives made it clear that we had left the people of the plains and entered into the country of mountaineers, for the length of their garments was much curtailed about the legs, and instead of the draggling and mud-stained skirts of the Arab there appeared the sinewy limbs of the children of the mountains. But peculiar to the Atlas we noticed here for the first time in general use the khanif or haidus, the strange black-hooded cloak with its eye-shaped pattern in yellow or red in the centre of the back, the object of which no tradition seems to make mention, and no history to hint at. All that we know for certain of this strange garment is, that while it is not found throughout Algeria, it crops up again in the mountains near Tripoli. Putting aside all speculation as to the origin of the design, it must be added that the material of which these cloaks are made is an excellent one, the closely woven black goat-hair being impenetrable to cold and rain, and therefore excellently suited to the mountaineers of the bleak heights of the Atlas range.

A few words must be said as to the general difference of costume between the Berbers and the Arabs. While the former wear the jelab, a hooded garment closed down the front, it is never found amongst the