On passing from one country into another, one instinctively expects the change in sovereignty to be signalized by some distinctive and dramatic landmark, natural or artificial, such as the Statue of Liberty, the International Bridge across the Rio Grande, the Iron Gates on the Danube, the Simplon Tunnel, the Pass of Roncesvalles, or, at the very least, the black and yellow posts bearing the sign of the double eagle which marked the Muscovite frontiers in the days of the czars. But there is nothing distinctive or dramatic about entering Morocco. A few miles after leaving Lalla Maghnia we saw a red-white-and-blue striped sentry-box, and, just beyond it, a small, low, whitewashed building over which flew an unfamiliar flag, a green triangle on a scarlet ground. Tomine brought the car to a halt; a native official wearing a voluminous cape and a fez scrutinized our passports, glanced perfunctorily at our luggage, then waved us on, and we shot across a surveyor’s line into the Shereefian Empire.

Nine miles more brought us into Oujda, an important garrison town because it guards Morocco’s eastern gate. Like most frontier cities it is clean, drab, and quite uninteresting, architecturally at least, for those who dwell in close proximity to international boundary lines seldom indulge in buildings of much magnificence, on the theory, I suppose, that boundaries can be moved by bayonets and that to-morrow they may find themselves in another country and under another rule. As history shows, this certainly holds true of Oujda, which, during the long series of wars between the sultans of Fez and Tlemcen, changed hands many times. Still, it is a well kept place, with broad, tree-planted thoroughfares and substantial public buildings, which makes on the visitor a favorable if not a very lasting impression. The Riffian campaign was in progress when we were there, and the town was so packed with troops that my memory harked back to the days of the Great War, the rumble of cannon-wheels and the measured tramp of troops sounding beneath our windows all night long.

From Oujda onward to Taourirt, Taza, and Fez the road was chock-a-block with soldiery—cloaked and turbaned spahis perched above their wiry little ponies in high-peaked saddles of red leather; tirailleurs in dust-brown khaki (did you happen to know that khaki is the Hindustani word for dust?); infanterie coloniale, bearing on their collars the anchor which is the distinguishing badge of the corps; tall, slim riflemen from Senegal, with the thinnest legs in the world, their black faces smiling cheerily under their high tarbooshes at the prospect of fighting; a battalion of the IIme Etranger, swinging along beneath their heavy packs at a steady three miles an hour, the sun-bronzed men lustily roaring the chorus of “La Casquette du Père Bugeaud”; chasseurs d’Afrique, their small, active horses laden with pretty much everything save the kitchen stove; battery after battery of field-artillery, the muzzles of the lean soixante-quinze hooded with canvas against the day when they should speak to the Riffi with the voice of France; machine-gun companies, guns and ammunition neatly packed on sturdy little mules; génie with picks and shovels strapped to their knapsacks, ready to build roads, to construct bridges, or to dig trenches; creaking pontoon-wagons hauled each by a dozen horses; field-kitchens, steam rising from the caldrons of soup and coffee; gray staff-cars filled with officers in pale-blue uniforms and gold-laced képis; ambulances with staring red crosses painted on their canvas sides—all these told us that the torrential winter rains were over and that the big spring push against the harkas of Abd-el-Krim was about to begin. Though of this war I was but a spectator, and an unofficial one at that, it was good to see once more the slanting lines of steel, to sniff again the smell of sweat-soaked leather, to hear the bugles go. For he who has once marched with armies never fully recovers from their spell.

After Oujda the road was paralleled, a little way off, by the line of narrow-gage railway which links the standard-gage Algerian system with Fez. The miniature trains were jammed with troops, and it was noticeable that the fortified stations were in a state of defense, with sentries posted at their gates and the muzzles of machine-guns peering from the loopholes in their walls. If one is willing to put up with delays and discomforts, it is now feasible to travel by rail right across Morocco, from the Algerian frontier to Fez and Casablanca and thence southward to Marrákesh. But it is not a form of transportation which I should advise at present. We met two Americans who were traveling in a Rolls-Royce en prince, sending their maid and valet ahead by rail so that in each town at which they stopped everything might be ready for them on their arrival, their tea waiting, their baths prepared, and fresh clothes laid out. For the employers it was a most comfortable, nay, luxurious arrangement, but it was scarcely so enjoyable for the employed. I asked the valet, an Englishman, how he had found railway travel in Morocco. He said that, barring the slowness of the trains, which average about twelve miles an hour; the crowded condition of the carriages, in which Moroccans, Algerians, Arabs, Sudanese, Jews, and Europeans are packed indiscriminately; and such minor discomforts as poor ventilation, suffocating dust, clouds of cinders from the engine, and swarms of fleas, it was no worse than the London tubes on a bank holiday.

Now that the trouble in the Riff is at an end, however, the French are making rapid strides in the improvement of the Moroccan railway service, and before this book is off the press most of the main lines probably will have been broadened to standard gage, thus permitting the operation of through trains between points in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. The distance by rail from the Algerian frontier to Marrákesh is 614 miles, and at present the journey occupies about four days, as the trains do not run at night. But during the summer of 1925 a service of well equipped rapides was established between Rabat, the seat of government, and Casablanca, and steps were being taken to extend it to Marrákesh, the southern capital. The pacification of the Spanish zone will also permit the completion of the line to Tangier, which, while providing another means of access to Morocco, will have the effect of decreasing very materially the large number of visitors who now enter the country through Casablanca.

The highway system of Morocco, which is due wholly to French initiative, though not as extensive as that of Algeria, is on the whole admirable. Great trunk roads connect Oujda with Fez, Mequinez, Rabat, Casablanca, and Marrákesh; and from Marrákesh secondary roads radiate to the coast towns of Mazagan, Safi, and Mogador, and across the Atlas to Agadir, the seaport and chef-lieu of the Sus. From Mequinez a comparatively little used highway runs south through Azrou to Timhadit, on the Middle Atlas plateau, where begins the ancient Imperial Road to Tafilalt, the ancestral home of the shereefian sultans. There is also a road, none too good, from Mequinez to Tangier, but that part of it lying within the Spanish zone has hitherto been none too safe because of the danger of attack by Riffian tribesmen. The trunk roads of Morocco are paved with round-headed stones, known as têtes-du-chat, which, while somewhat rough, obviate the danger of slipping in wet weather; but the pistes aménagées, a network of which covers the country, are little better than trails. I have spoken elsewhere, I believe, of the novel road-signs in Morocco. These are really sections of whitewashed wall, nearly ten feet in height and quite indestructible, the names of the towns, the distances, and direction-signs being visible at a great distance.

Taza, seventy-five miles to the east of Fez, is a considerable trading-center and a military post of vital importance, because it commands the broad pass, through which run both road and railway, which forms the only entrance from Algeria to the Land of the Farthest West. It has been a bone of contention between rival dynasties and factions for centuries. On the north side of the pass the terrain runs back in steadily rising foot-hills which thirty miles away merge into the great range of the Riff; on the south it rises more abruptly, in a series of terraces which form the buttresses of the Ghiata mountain group, the home of a warlike Berber tribe which has long been a source of trouble and anxiety to the French. This explains why Taza bristles with guns and bayonets, for once let the fierce Ghiatas swarm down from their mountain fastnesses to join hands across the pass with their fellow-Berbers of the Riff and Morocco’s doorway on the east would be closed.

Built on a series of terraces, which rise to a height of two thousand feet or more, Taza occupies a peculiarly picturesque and romantic situation. On a narrow shelf above the valley, through which run the road, the railway, and the River Innaouene, is the fortified camp of the French garrison, with numerous large barracks for the housing of the troops. Two hundred and fifty feet above this first shelf rises another, its edges bordered by sheer cliffs, on which is built the native town, a dirty, ill kept place of narrow tortuous streets and mud-walled houses, while high above all, dominating town, camp, and pass alike, is the great citadel built in the sixteenth century by one of the Abbaside sultans.

Taza is one of the last places on earth where one would expect to find a good hotel, so imagine our astonishment when Tomine swung the car sharply between the gate-posts of a white-walled compound, swept up a winding drive, and came to a halt before the door of one of the most charming little hostelries that we found in all North Africa. Another example of the Transatlantique’s enterprise, of course. Though the luncheon hour was long since past, for we had been delayed by a stretch of atrociously bad road near Taourirt, we were expected, it seemed, for word of our impending arrival had been telephoned on from Oujda, and a delicious déjeuner was on the table. Curious, is it not, how one remembers a good meal, particularly when it is unexpected, long after more important things have been forgotten?

Like many other Oriental cities, Fez from a distance appears more attractive than it really is. It is beautifully situated in a deep and winding valley, through which meanders the little stream known as the Wad Fas, dividing the city into two parts: El Bali, the old town, and El Djadid, the new. Up and down the opposing hill-slopes, which form a natural amphitheater, run massive, crumbling, pink-brown walls, hoary with antiquity, broken at frequent intervals by lofty towers and pierced by numerous imposing gates. Though the grandeur of certain other Eastern cities is wholly lacking, there is something undeniably impressive in the sight of that vast expanse of white-walled, flat-roofed habitations, broken here and there by the tile-incrusted domes and graceful minarets of the mosques and bordered by a broad fringe of vivid verdure. In fact, the whole city is embowered in foliage—a diamond set in jade—for the flanks of the hills which surround it on all sides save the south are covered with the bright green foliage of orange-groves and the gray green of the olive-gardens.

By reason of its peculiar situation, rather than of any attempt at sanitation on the part of its inhabitants, Fez has a drainage system superior to that of most Moroccan towns. When the accumulations of filth become intolerable, when the stench of garbage grows overpowering, the lids of the conduits are opened and the ordinary exits closed, so that the overflowing waters sweep down the steep streets in a miniature flood and cleanse the pavements. With that utter disregard of the principles of hygiene so characteristic of Orientals, the Fasis drink the muddy and contaminated water of the river in preference to that of the pure springs which abound in certain quarters of the town. That they do not perish by the thousands from epidemics is due, I suppose, to the fact that they have become immune to zymotic diseases by having defied for generations the elementary principles of hygiene. The town is by no means free from malaria and typhoid, however, as is betokened by the unhealthy pallor of its inhabitants, but sallowness is considered a mark of distinction by the Fasis, as small moles are by Frenchwomen, a ruddy complexion being a sign that its possessor is not of the ancient aristocracy of Fez.

The first stone of the city is supposed to have been laid in 808 by the son of Mulai Idris, the founder of Moslem Morocco, whose sacred banners are preserved in the Great Mosque, whence they are brought out and their folds reverently kissed by the sultan on the occasion of great religious festivals. Though the city has a turbulent and bloody history, having been besieged no less than eight times in the first five centuries of its existence, it only once knew foreign masters—when the Turks held it for a short time in 1554—until the coming of the French. The population is probably not greatly in excess of seventy-five thousand, of whom perhaps five per cent are Europeans, though it appears much larger. It is one of the four capitals of the empire—the others are Mequinez, Marrákesh, and Rabat—and the sultan usually passes some months there each year.

Fez, or, more properly, Fas, which is the correct spelling and pronunciation, means “hoe” in Arabic, but it has also given its name to the round red cap worn by millions of Mohammedans, of whose manufacture the city had, until quite recent years, a virtual monopoly; for it was supposed that the dye which imparts to these head-coverings their dull crimson color could be obtained nowhere else. The dye is obtained from a berry which grows in profusion in the vicinity, and is also used in coloring the red Moroccan leather for which the city is famous.

Tomine, as I have already remarked, had no head for direction, and we circled the whole city three times before he succeeded in finding the city gate nearest to the Palais Jamaï, the magnificent palace, formerly the residence of a rich native dignitary, which the Transatlantique people have transformed into a most picturesque and luxurious hotel. The Palais Jamaï is superbly situated, its gorgeously painted and tiled façade rising above a bewilderment of marble-paved terraces and orange-planted courtyards from the steep hill-slope at the extreme eastern end of the winding valley in which nestles the town. It is at some distance from the souks and other points of interest, however, and somewhat difficult of access; and the other Transatlantique hotel, situated in the very heart of the city, though far less attractive, would perhaps be more convenient for those whose visit is limited to a few days.

Because of the narrow and tortuous character of the streets, it is impossible to reach the Palais Jamaï by car, which must stop outside the nearest city gate, nearly a quarter of a mile away, whence the guest perforce makes his way to the hotel on foot through a bewildering labyrinth of high-walled, roughly paved, foul-smelling lanes, courtyards, and passages, followed by a throng of whining beggars and shrieking children, while a small army of bare-legged porters descend upon the traveler’s luggage, over which they wrangle like pirates over booty, each man eventually bearing a single piece, no matter how small, off to the hotel on his head. The hotel, while modernly furnished, is not particularly comfortable as European hostelries go, for the interior arrangements of a Moorish palace are not adapted to the requirements of Americans, who demand an amplitude of bath-rooms, closet space, heat, air, and light. We, however, being old travelers, gave scant heed to such minor inconveniences particularly as we found that the rooms reserved for us had been those formerly occupied by the pasha’s favorite wife, the door opening upon a fascinating little walled garden, where all day long the waters of a marble fountain splashed pleasantly amid masses of pink and crimson roses and orange-trees heavy with their golden fruit. In such surroundings, with a bevy of comely damsels in diaphanous garments to help while away the hours and negro slaves to supply every want, one could remain in Fez indefinitely, “the world forgetting and by the world forgot.”

As this makes no pretensions to be a guide-book, I have no intention of enumerating at any length the various sights of Fez, but there are two or three which should on no account be overlooked. The city’s most important building is, of course, the Karueein, celebrated as the largest mosque in Africa, though it is by no means the most magnificent. As in the case of all the mosques of Morocco, its sacred precincts may not be profaned by the feet of unbelievers, even when slipper-shod, but, by refraining from conspicuousness and by the judicious bestowal of bakshish, one may obtain glimpses of portions of its interior from the roofs of adjoining buildings. Because of the vast area which it covers, the roof, supported by 366 stone pillars, appears very low. The enormous chandelier which hangs above the central nave is said to weigh more than three quarters of a ton and to have upward of half a thousand lights, though they are very seldom lit, as they require a dozen gallons of oil for a single filling. Attached to the Karueein mosque is a mederseh, or college, attended by theological students who come hither from all parts of North Africa, though in steadily decreasing numbers. They pay no tuition nor rent, but buy the keys of the tiny rooms in which they sleep from the last occupants, selling them again on leaving.

In the early days of Moslem rule in Morocco, Fez was the seat of learning and the empire’s pride. Its schools of theology, philosophy, and astronomy enjoyed an enviable reputation not only throughout the world of Islam but in southern Europe as well, and were even attended by Christians. On the expulsion of the Moors from Spain at the close of the fifteenth century, thousands of refugees flocked to Fez, bringing with them some knowledge of the arts, sciences, and industries which had been developed in the peninsula, and thither also went large numbers of students to make use of the extensive libraries, which were surpassed in Africa only by those of Cairo. But its glories were not of long duration, and though still “the university town” of Morocco, Fez retains but a shadow of its one-time greatness.

The mosque of Mulai Idris, built by the founder of Fez about 810, is considered so sacrosanct that before the coming of the French the streets which approach its entrance were forbidden to Christians, Jews, or four-footed beasts, all three being included in the same category. This prohibition is no longer in force, but the sanctity of the shrine still draws great crowds of the faithful, whose fanaticism makes it highly inadvisable for an unbeliever to linger in the immediate vicinity over long. Across the way is a home for friendless or impoverished sherifas, as the female descendants of the Prophet are called.

Three minutes walk from the Hôtel Transatlantique—the one in the town, I mean—is the museum, established by the French in a former palace. It contains the usual collection of antiquities, wood-carvings, faiences, plaster-work, illuminated manuscripts, embroideries, carpets, saddlery, and arms, and in the courtyard a number of ancient cannon of all kinds and calibers, Spanish, Portuguese, and corsair. But the most interesting object in the museum, to my way of thinking at least, is a stoutly built cage, about four feet square, of wood and iron. In this cage, scarcely large enough to contain a good-sized dog, was confined for a year the pretender, Bou Hamara—“the man on a she-ass”—or El Roghi, as he was commonly known. Miss Sophie Denison, an English medical missionary who has lived in Fez for more than a third of a century, told me that she witnessed the entry into the city of the captive atop a swaying camel—a miserable, long-haired, unkempt, half-starved creature clinging to the bars of his cage. After being exhibited for weeks in the public market-place, the wretched man was shot by order of Mulai Hafid and his body thrown to the sultan’s lions, which, however, refused to touch it. Of Bou Hamara’s followers, twenty-four had their hands and feet cut off by butchers, the occasion being celebrated as a public holiday. Though the stumps were plunged in boiling fat to check the bleeding, only one of the victims gratified the cruelty of the sultan by surviving. You may see him for yourself, almost any day—a miserable creature, half-man, half-beast, shambling through the narrow streets or crouching beside the door of a mosque pleading for alms. All this, you will bear in mind, was not back in the Dark Ages, when such tortures were commonplaces, but only a few years ago—in 1909, to be exact—when William H. Taft sat in the White House and Andrew Carnegie was preaching the doctrine of universal peace and brotherhood. That Bou Hamara’s cage should now be an object of curiosity in a museum of the very city where it filled its dreadful purpose less than two decades ago, in itself provides convincing proof of what the French have done to bring justice and decency to Morocco.

The souks of Fez, though not so extensive as those of Tunis or Marrákesh, are places of endless variety, interest, and delight. Shopping or sight-seeing in the native city is tiring work, however, for the majority of the streets are much too narrow to permit the use of cars or carriages and hence can be visited only afoot or astride a mule. As the houses are high and in many cases all but meet above the narrow footways, the latter are often not much more than damp and gloomy tunnels; but the bazaar streets are usually shaded by awnings, canopies of palm-leaves, or growing vines, through which the sunlight sifts to dapple with ever-changing patterns the worn stone pavement and the walls of the old, old houses. Most of the buildings in Fez are built of wooden beams, rough stone, and plaster, so that the city as a whole does not present that ruined, half-decayed appearance so common in other Moorish towns where a sort of stucco made from mud is the material principally employed.

As is the case in all Oriental cities, the souks of Fez consist of a labyrinth of exceedingly narrow lanes and passageways, lined on either side by hole-in-the-wall shops, most of which are so small that there is no room for customers, who have to do their bargaining from outside. Though improved means of communication have deprived the city of the eminence it once held as the greatest center of the caravan trade in western Barbary and as a market for Oriental goods of all kinds, it is still noted for the manufacture of certain characteristic wares, including haiks of wool and silk, women’s embroidered sashes, handkerchiefs of silk and cotton, silk cords and braids, curved knives with hilts of gold or silver and beautifully damascened blades, long-barreled Moorish rifles, their stocks inlaid with ivory or set with semiprecious stones, native musical instruments, rude painted pottery, hammered brassware, which, however, cannot compare with that produced in Damascus, the glazed tiles so universally used in Moorish architecture, and, of course, innumerable articles—slippers, book-covers, belts, pouches, saddlery—made from the celebrated Moroccan leather. This leather is dyed in every color, though the most satisfactory tints are yellow, pomegranate, and a gorgeous vermilion, but in purchasing articles made from it one should be careful to see that he gets the genuine goatskin instead of split cowhide. During my stay in Morocco it amused me to buy a leather cushion-cover in every city which I visited, all different in color and each bearing in silk embroidery a design characteristic of the town from which it came. Few visitors leave Fez without purchasing a pair or more of the heelless Moorish slippers, but it should be remembered that only the yellow ones are worn by men, those in other colors and often gorgeously embroidered in gold or silver thread being intended for women’s use. Perhaps the most attractive articles to buy in Fez, and not to be found elsewhere in Morocco, are the exquisitely hand-tooled portfolios and book-covers, which in richness of design and delicacy of workmanship compare very favorably with the finest work of the Florentine craftsman. Really fine examples are expensive, it is true, but they are generally worth the prices demanded, which can, moreover, generally be reduced if one has the patience and knows how to bargain. I remember with regret one superb portfolio for which the maker demanded the equivalent of twenty dollars. Some months later I saw the same portfolio, or one identically like it, in Washington, where it was priced at exactly five times the sum for which I could have bought it in Fez.

When we were in Fez in 1924, and again in 1925, we were made to feel very much at home by the warm welcome which we received from the commander of the French troops, General Vicomte de Chambrun, a grandson of the Marquis de Lafayette, and from the general’s American wife, who is a sister of Nicholas Longworth, speaker of the House of Representatives. They occupy a charming Moorish palace, surrounded by lovely gardens; and some of my pleasantest recollections are of the luncheons and dinners which we had there, the long table lined by beautifully gowned women and by officers whose rows of campaign ribbons showed that they had lived more stories than Kipling or Conrad could invent. After dinner we would sit on the terrace beneath the stars, enveloped in the fragrance of the soft African night, the momentary flare of a match as some one struck a cigarette serving to light up the pale-blue uniforms of the men and the white shoulders of the women. The conversation was more fascinating than any book of fiction—narratives of adventure in the world’s dark corners, of skirmishes with the masked Touareg of the Sahara, of the secret plans of the great Senussi Brotherhood, of lion-hunts in Somaliland and tiger-hunts in Cambodia, of life in the penal colonies of New Caledonia and Devil’s Island, of encounters with slave-traders and gun-runners, of the plots of German spies and Moorish rebels and Syrian malcontents and Islamic emissaries, of broken noblemen who had found refuge in the Legion and of erring women who had found their way into Mohammedan harems, of little wars all over the world which had never found their way into the history-books, story succeeding story, “Now I remember” following “That reminds me of,” until the crescent moon swung low to the morn, and the soldier servants brought our wraps, and we made our way to the hotel through dark deserted ways which echoed noisily our footsteps.

Smoking a last cigar at night on the terrace of the Palais Jamaï, my curiosity was aroused by the shrill, quavering cries, half-calls, half-chants, which rose at regular intervals from the sleeping city. At first I assumed that they came from night-watchmen, making their lonely rounds, or from a muezzin summoning the faithful to some form of midnight prayer, but I found on inquiry that they were the voices of the Companions of the Sick, a most curious and interesting organization. Long years ago, it seemed, a pious and wealthy resident of Fez left upon his death an enormous diamond with a provision in his will that it be disposed of and the income from the proceeds used to employ a number of readers with good voices, who, it was specified, were to chant suras from the Koran at half-hour intervals throughout the night from the mederseh so that the sick might have the consolation of religion. Though I rather imagine that the income from the sale of the great diamond has long since been exhausted, the custom has been continued for many years, and all through the night the voices of the unseen readers rise from the darkness to remind the ill and wakeful that they shall attain paradise who believe in Allah and follow the teachings of his Prophet.

The Companions of the Sick are in reality a Moorish version of the radio-sets which our Western civilization has placed in so many hospitals and sick-rooms. It is true that they refer to God as Allah, and that instead of praising Christ they extol Mohammed, but the message of consolation, whether it be chanted from Moroccan housetops or broadcast from American pulpits, is much the same: “In the name of God the compassionate! Praise be to God, the Lord of the worlds, the Sovereign of the day of judgment! Thee do we worship and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the right way; in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious, on whom there is no wrath, and who go not astray....”

The Palace of Bou Djeloud, in which Sultan Mulai Hafid signed the treaty accepting a French protectorate over his country—the room is marked with a tablet suitably inscribed—is now occupied by the resident-general on his periodic visits to Fez. It is a low, rambling structure, not at all imposing; but the carved and gilded ceilings and the polychrome Moorish decorations of some of the apartments are very lovely, and the gardens, filled with trees and flowers and dotted with marble fountains, are places of walled delight. Like all Moorish dwellings, however, it is inadequately heated and must be very cold and damp in winter, when the streets of Fez are sometimes white with snow. Climatically, Fez is a city of extremes, the mercury often dropping to far below freezing during the winter months and in summer occasionally rising to one hundred or even more. I remember one night in late May when the thermometer showed a temperature of ninety-three degrees in our room.

In Fez, as in most Eastern cities, the houses have flat roofs, which, when the heat of the day has passed, are favorite gathering-places for the women, this being, indeed, the only hour of the twenty-four when they are permitted to appear in the open air unveiled. In consequence of this custom, the roof is virtually taboo to the male members of a household, for the dwellings are so close together that a man could easily see the face of his neighbor’s wife—a breach of Moslem etiquette not readily forgiven. In the event that necessary repairs have to be made to a roof, one of the female members of the family invariably ascends first and warns her neighbors, whereupon they disappear from sight until the work is completed and the man has taken his departure.

To this rule, however, the Palais Jamaï, whose lofty roofs command an unrivaled view of the town, is for some reason an exception, presumably on the ground that if its European guests take it into their heads to go up on the roof they will probably do it anyway, and that there is no use in making objections. We always made it a point, therefore, to ascend to the top of the battlemented tower which forms a portion of the hotel in order to enjoy the magnificent panorama to be viewed from there at close of day, when the last rays of the westering sun turn the square, dazzlingly white buildings into cubes of pearl gray faintly tinged with rose. At this hour every housetop has its little group of women, all clad in their best and gayest gowns, the splotches of inconceivably vivid colors—pink, magenta, scarlet, crimson, bright purple, pomegranate, burnt umber, pale yellow, apple green, turquoise blue, white and silver, black and gold—when seen against the background of plastered walls and roofs, looking like gorgeous nosegays tossed here and there upon a vast white sheet.

From the shelter afforded by the battlements—for it did not seem wise to defy Moslem prejudices by displaying myself in the open—I could see the features of the women on the adjoining housetops with the aid of my field-glasses quite distinctly, very much as though I were looking down from the balcony of a theater at the chorus assembled on the stage. Most of the women, it must be confessed, were quite unattractive, and I approved of their wearing veils when on the street, but some of the younger girls were really lovely, with peaches-and-cream complexions and great languishing eyes. There was one in particular, I remember, a slim and most alluring creature with a creamy skin and masses of blue-black hair. With her I carried on a long-distance flirtation for several evenings running, and there even came a time when she grew bold enough to beckon to me, but her husband must have become suspicious, for I saw a man suddenly appear upon the roof and, seizing her by the wrist, drag her from my sight. I never caught another glimpse of her. Romance would suggest that she died by poisoned coffee or the bowstring, but the truth of the matter probably is that she got off with a sound spanking. For most Moorish husbands would heartily applaud the sentiments expressed in the ancient ditty:

Rising above the sea of housetops are scores of lofty square towers—the minarets of the mosques—the ancient rose-brown brick of which they are constructed being incrusted with lustrous tiles in the marvelous “lost” shade of peacock blue. Five minutes before sunset a large white flag is broken out from the flag-staff which rises like a gallows from the summit of each of the minarets as a signal to the waiting faithful that the mosque is open for worship, so that for a brief period it looks as though the whole city were flying flags of truce. Just as the upper arc of the sun disappears in crimson glory behind the western hills, there reverberates across the city the sullen boom of the sunset-gun, whereupon white-robed muezzins appear as though by magic on the balconies of the minarets, like the carven figures which pop out of cuckoo-clocks, and intone in a high, clear key the “Haya alla Salat! Haya alla Falah!” which is the Moslems’ church-bell.

Adjoining the Palais Jamaï was the residence of a wealthy Moorish pasha, whose numerous wives, daughters, and concubines always strolled amid the flowers and orange-trees of the high-walled garden as evening drew near. From the vantage-point afforded by the roof of the hotel we could look directly down upon them. Upon sighting me, or any of the other male guests, they would disappear into the shrubbery like startled fawns, but when my daughter waved to them they timidly waved back, the wordless acquaintance thus begun culminating by their beckoning her to come down and join them. The following afternoon she disappeared and did not return until just before the dinner-hour, when she burst into the room, her arms filled with flowers, native sweetmeats, and embroideries.

“Where on earth have you been?” Mrs. Powell demanded.

“I’ve been to tea in a Moorish harem,” was the casual reply, “and I’ve had a wonderful time. The pasha himself made green mint tea for me, and his wives—at least, I suppose that they are his wives, for they seemed very affectionate with him—gave me these embroideries which they had made themselves, and the cutest little negro slave-girls passed some sort of perfumed sherbet and all kinds of sticky candies on big brass trays, and I’m invited to take tea with them again to-morrow, and to bring you with me, mother.”

“What did they say about me?” I inquired. “Am I not invited to the party?”

“You are not,” my daughter replied firmly. “I couldn’t quite make out what the pasha said about you, because his French isn’t very good, but he pointed up to the roof of the hotel and then drew his finger across his throat, which I interpreted as meaning that you had better keep out of sight while his wives are walking in the garden.”

Nearly every one who has remained for any length of time in Fez will doubtless recall having seen in the streets of the native city a slight, sweet-faced European woman clad in the snowy keffieh and burnous of a high-caste Moslem woman. This is Miss Sophie Denison, an English medical missionary who has lived in Fez for five-and-thirty years. In her little home in the crowded districts of the old city she has a clinic and a dispensary where she treats hundreds of the poor without charge, and, in cases of serious illness, visits them in their homes. She is persona gratissima in every home, be it palace or hovel, in Fez, and she is probably more closely in touch with native life than any other European, not even excepting the agents of the French intelligence service; for, being a woman, she is permitted to enter the harems, to which male physicians are refused admittance save in cases of the very gravest illness, and not always then.

One evening Miss Denison dined with us at the hotel, and so intensely interesting was her conversation that midnight had come and gone before we would permit her to take her departure. Naturally I insisted on accompanying her home, but she would not hear of it.

“I am perfectly safe in the streets at night,” she explained, “because every one knows me, but the native city is not a healthy place for a stranger to be wandering about alone after nightfall. Besides, as you do not speak Arabic, you could never find your way back alone through these tangled alleyways.”

So I accompanied her only to the compound gate and watched her until her white burnous had become a mere blur amid the purple shadows cast by the high, mysterious walls. Such as she, and not the fighting-men, are the real advance-guards of civilization.

A mile or so without the walls of the Moorish city the French, as is their custom in all their African possessions, are building a modern town, so that the two races may live apart, thus avoiding the unfortunate incidents which are certain to arise when Europeans and natives live in close proximity, as, for example, in Cairo. Here, in the ville moderne as it is called, the civil government is engaged in laying out broad, tree-planted boulevards, in erecting blocks of buildings for business purposes and rows of pleasant little villas, and in installing systems of drainage, light, and water. They do such things well, the French—not on such a lavish scale, perhaps, as we have done them in the Philippines, the Canal Zone, and elsewhere, but certainly better than anything I have seen in the British colonies.

A short distance beyond the ville moderne is the great French military camp, and, beyond that in turn, the broad expanse of the aviation field, which, when we were there the last time, was crowded with pursuit and bombing planes assembled for the campaign in the Riff, Abd-el-Krim’s advanced-posts being at that time barely twenty-five miles from the city. Had the Riffian leader succeeded in reaching Fez—and he came much nearer to doing so than the French like to admit—there is no telling what would have happened, for a certain fanatic element, stirred up by secret emissaries from the Riff, was ripe for trouble, and the wild mountain tribes on the east were eagerly awaiting an opportunity to sweep down upon the town, as they had done a dozen years before. We were reminded daily of our proximity to the actual battle-line by the bombing planes which were constantly flying over the city. Regularly, as we were sitting down to déjeuner on the terrace of the hotel, a squadron of bombers, their noses pointed toward the north, their gray wings gleaming like silver in the sunlight, would go booming overhead to drop the steel calling-cards of France on Abd-el-Krim, and, before the salad had been served, we would sight them again, black specks against the vault of blue, hastening back for more.

It was our great good fortune to arrive at Fez in time to witness the remarkable religious ceremony known as the Great Prayer, which marks the close of the fasting month of Ramadan. It was held on a broad and grassy plain a few miles without the walls of the town, which was crowded with pious and picturesque pilgrims who had come hither for the occasion from every part of Morocco. Day broke to reveal gathered on the plain such an assemblage, at least in point of color, as I have seldom seen. Here were men representative of every district within the empire, of every class and condition: fierce-looking tribesmen who had come down from the hills on horses and others who had come up from the desert astride of camels; portly townsmen and horny-handed, sun-bronzed peasants; mullahs in snowy turbans and hadjis with the green scarfs which show that their wearers have made the pilgrimage to Mecca; pashas on curveting chargers, nomad sheikhs on méhari racing camels, wealthy merchants on richly caparisoned mules, villagers on donkeys so diminutive that the riders’ feet all but touched the ground, closely veiled women and children in screaming calicoes crowded into creaking carts drawn by plodding oxen; and thousands upon thousands of the poor but pious plodding along on foot.

In the center of the plain had been erected of whitewashed bricks a sort of pulpit, its mihrab carefully oriented toward Mecca. This was the focus of the gathering, for from it the faithful were to be addressed by the khalifa, the sultan’s brother, and toward it, as though drawn by a magnet, the dusty thousands made their way, to seat themselves cross-legged on the acres of grass matting which had been provided for the purpose, and to await the opening of the ceremony with true Eastern patience.

After an hour’s wait in the pleasant morning sunshine—a delay which passed quickly because of the curious and colorful types to be seen on every hand—there emerged from the nearest of the city gates a long and glittering procession, its stately advance across the plain heralded by a fanfare of trumpets and the boom of cannon. It was headed by a squadron of chasseurs d’Afrique resplendent in their sky-blue and scarlet uniforms, for the French are past masters in the art of flattering their Moslem subjects by showing their respect for the Mohammedan religion. After these came a cavalcade of high religious dignitaries, grave-faced, bearded, patriarchal men in snowy garments and turbans bound about with green, astride splendid black mules of the Andalusian breed, which are smoother of gait and far more costly than horses. Then a large group of caïds, emirs, sheikhs, and other native chieftains, their restive, wiry horses magnificently caparisoned, the bridles of scarlet leather heavy with gold and silver, the velvet saddle-cloths in some cases sweeping the ground. Each chieftain was accompanied by a retainer bearing aloft a great religious banner, the folds of green or scarlet silk embroidered in gold with suras from the Koran. A little interval ensued, and then, between double files of shereefian foot-guards in zouave uniforms of blue, red, and yellow, came the khalifa himself, brother and representative of the sultan—a sallow-skinned man with a thin fringe of beard along the chin, muffled in a hooded burnous of pale-blue broadcloth and mounted on a cream-colored Arab stallion. Negro slaves walked, or trotted rather, at his stirrups, and behind rode a brilliant entourage of religious and civil functionaries, caïds, pashas, emirs, sheikhs, cadis, and courtiers, wearing costumes bewildering in their variety and color.

As the cortège debouched upon the plain, a great horde of tribal horsemen, who had been massed upon the flanks of the encircling hills, suddenly set spurs to their horses and came thundering down the slopes in a torrent of barbaric color, standing in their stirrups, brandishing naked simitars and long-barreled rifles, their standards flapping in the breeze and their burnouses floating out behind them. As they rode they shouted the resonant, deep-throated battle-cry of their faith, “Ul-ul-ul-ul-ul-ullah Akbar-r-r!” which came to our ears like the growing roar of an advancing sea. It was intended as a purely peaceful demonstration, a greeting to the head of their church and state as represented by his khalifa, but there was something peculiarly significant and subtly menacing about it to our little group of Europeans, a mere islet of unbelievers lost in a Moslem sea.

Arriving at the pulpit-shrine which had been erected in the center of the plain, the khalifa, assisted by his negro slaves, dismounted, as did the other chiefs and dignitaries, while the horsemen bearing the standards ranged themselves in a vast semicircle in the rear, their green and scarlet bairags, surmounted by the golden crescent, forming a fitting background for the amazing scene. The services consisted of an interminable and impassioned sermon by some high dignitary of the church, corresponding, I presume, to the Turkish Sheikh-ul-Islam, and a rather brief address by the khalifa. Then, at a given signal, the whole vast assemblage—Berbers, Arabs, and Moors, men who had come from regions as far apart as the Riff and the Sus, the shores of the Atlantic and the edges of the Great Sahara, men of many tribes and speaking many tongues, but all bound together by the ties of a common religion—rose as one, and, with their faces turned toward the Holy City, intoned in chorus the tremendously impressive shehada, the stanzas which constitute the Moslem’s confession of his faith.... Ash hadu illa illaha ill Allah! Wa ash hadu inna Mohammed an rasool Allah! As the white-clad thousands prostrated themselves in prayer, and rose, and knelt again, their voices rising in deep-throated supplication, it seemed as though I were looking down the tossing billows of a mighty sea. And, in fact, I was, for this mighty concourse represented an arm of that Islamic ocean which has all but overspread two great continents and broken upon the shores of a third.