Part 2

If we follow this splendid _miserable_, we shall presently lose sight of him in the confusion of the be-draped, be-hooded crowd surging through the upper gate that opens toward the greater market-place, or "Soko," on the high ground behind the city. The women are closely veiled and buried in the smothering folds of the white woolen "haik." All rich men wear the colored caftan, or the white burnoose, and some are draped in muslin veils; the poor men wear the rough brown jelaba, a sack-like garment with a pointed hood. On feet that are not bare are yellow slippers; on the heads, a red fez, a white turban, or a monkish-looking hood.

The Soko on Thursday or on Sunday (local market-days) is a sight to be remembered. The market-place itself is, literally, out of sight; during the night and early morning, living things, from men to mules, from women to camels, and things inanimate, from eggs to beef and mutton, from oats to olive oil, have been gathered together, spread out, heaped up, forming a mass that moves and gives forth cries and odors. Twice every week the sun looks down upon a scene like this. Here in the Soko is the true frontier between the Christian and the Moslem worlds. Here is the borderland of the real Africa; here couriers from Fez and from the desert region farther south meet the postmen of the European provinces; here surges the murky tide of African humanity; here breaks the last sun-crested wave of continental civilization; here top-hats and turbans mingle; here Europe ends and Africa begins.

From the windows of the legation of a European nation which open upon the Soko, there are wafted lively measures of piano melody; and these are almost drowned by the prayers of beggars, the vociferations of the trading throng, and the incantations of half-crazy conjurors. Conquering our first emotion of aversion, almost of fear, we press through the ill-smelling, yelling crowd, and work our way to the front rank of a magician's audience. The conjuror welcomes us with curses, and refuses to continue his performance until our cameras have been lowered, and our offering of money has been cast into the ring of spectators. Then, muttering strange prayers, he gathers from the ground a handful of straw, calls on his god, and on the generosity of the onlookers, and blowing upon the straw causes it miraculously to burst into flames, which instantly consume it. More offerings are then demanded, more prayers are said, and more unflattering remarks are made concerning us; for to curse and to insult a Christian is a pious deed. Another trick is performed: A youth is (supposedly) hypnotized, and while he seems unconscious, a long bodkin is thrust through the flesh of his throat and the ends left protruding, while the old fakir takes up the most successful collection of the afternoon. Because we do not give more silver coins instead of Moorish coppers, the holy wonder-worker exhausts his stock of anti-Christian expletives, much to the edification of his sympathetic congregation. So great is the hatred of Christians on the part of the lower classes that even the beggars return curses instead of thanks, atoning for the sin of receiving unclean Christian money by calling down the wrath of heaven, not only upon our heads, but also upon the heads of all who are dear to us, or related to us, even unto the fourth and fifth generation of those who have preceded us and are responsible for our existence. One simple and popular anathema is, "May Allah burn your grandmother!" Another expresses the wish that the wife of your great-grandfather may enjoy perpetual torridity in the nether world.

The blind mendicants beg in little companies of six or eight. One sightless horrible, standing, cries aloud for charity in the name of his companions. These are not pleasant sights, but no true impression of Tangier can be imparted if we leave out of the picture the rags, the beggars, and the dirt. One more sad spectacle must suffice—that of an old beggar, shriveled by age, baked by the cruel sun, bent beneath the burden of many hopeless years, not even clad in rags, but merely covered with a mat of straw—a superlative expression of Moroccan misery.

Here we may recall the story of the English clergyman, who, touched at the sight of all this misery and ignorance, resolved to tell the gospel-story to the people of Tangier—to make a public exhortation in the market-place. With the greatest difficulty he secured a capable interpreter, for most of the hotel guides feared to assist him in his rash and dangerous crusade. When the pious preacher began his sermon in the market-place, he was not only surprised, but thoroughly delighted at the reverence with which his glowing words, translated by his guide, were received by the attentive throng of Moslems. When he had finished, he was even urged to speak again. Undoubtedly the good man carried away a soul filled with joy because of the good seed he had planted here. One English newspaper chronicled the marked interest shown by the heathen in the words of Christian truth; but it is to be hoped that the good man will never learn that while he stood in the center of this meeting place and spoke, his diplomatic interpreter and guide not only held the respectful ears of the crowd, but possibly saved the missionary's life by cleverly turning the orthodox sermon into one of the favorite romances from the "Arabian Nights."

No, it is virtually impossible to turn the Moslem from the faith of his fathers. His religion forms too intimate a part of his daily life; his religious fasts and festivals are observed with a strictness that is absolute. We chanced to witness the celebration of the great feast called Aid-el-Kebir. The early morning finds us on a hillside near the market, where there is gathered a multitude of spectral forms. Here the slanting rays of the newly risen sun draw out all shadows to a grotesque length, while from the midst of the assemblage there bursts a cloud of smoke which like a veil conceals the wild tribesmen who are there performing a fantastic powder-play with old-fashioned noisy flintlocks. An hour later the populace repairs to the high-walled garden of a suburban mosque to witness the sacrifice of a magnificent ram. The ram, however, is not allowed to die in peace, for according to an ancient custom its bleeding body must be borne swiftly down through the city streets to the great mosque in the lower town, where, if it arrives living, the omen for the year is pronounced good; if dead, the wise men shake their heads and prophesy disaster. Hence are the swiftest runners employed to dash with the dying burden across the Soko, into the city gates, down abrupt alleys to the other sanctuary. Like a host of madmen they rush past us, the sheep slung in a basket dragged by four men. Thrice do the bearers stumble, thrice is the bleeding mass rolled in the dust, thrice is the mad race resumed, the people urging on the panting runners with cries, and sticks, and stones. The sacrificial ram is dead upon arriving at the mosque, yet it is given out by the authorities that it was still alive. The disorderly mob disappears through the arched portals of the town, and a dignified procession crosses the Soko. The Basha, or Governor, of the province of Tangier, with his mounted escort, is returning from the recent ceremony. Although his salary is only seventy-five dollars a month, this wise official, by strict economy, has grown very rich. He, like all the swells, rides a handsome mule; for in Morocco mules enjoy much favor and are preferred to horses for long journeys and for city promenades; in fact, for everything, save battle.

A feast is held in every house upon this sacred day, a sheep being sacrificed for each adult member of the family. We see many a woolly burden carried through the streets upon the shoulders of the purchaser. Other means also are employed for the successful home-bringing of the fatted creatures. One man will attempt to drag the balky ram by the horns; another, more clever, will seize the hind feet and shove the sheep along as one would push a wheelbarrow, the result being a wildly zigzag progress down the steep, narrow streets. Throughout the entire Moslem world this day of Aid-el-Kebir is celebrated. At Mecca, the fountain-head of the Moslem faith, a hundred and twenty thousand sheep are put to the knife at each recurrence of the festival. Even in Tangier the feast may be likened to an ovine Saint Bartholomew Massacre, a day as fatal to these woolly victims as is Thanksgiving day to the devoted gobblers of New England. The city becomes a mammoth butcher-shop; the gutters in the narrow streets run red with blood. To escape these little tragedies, we make our way up to the higher regions of the town, where the Palace of the Governor, the Treasury Building, and the Prison are found in close proximity to one another. We find the palace inaccessible, the treasury empty, and the prison full.

The prison externally is a blank, white structure, high and in sad want of repair. We enter a small vestibule, where several lazy guards are stationed; they indicate an opening in the wall, a window, protected by heavy bars and closed by a thick metal shutter. This, they say, is the unique means of ingress to the prison. No means of egress is required, for prisoners seldom come thence alive. A hasty glance through a round hole in the metal shutter reveals a filthy, spacious hall, crowded with animated mummies loosely wrapped in earth-colored tatters. We are told that no food is furnished to the prisoners save that which may be brought by pitying outsiders, friends of the unfortunates within. The government allows its victims the one privilege of reaching out through the little aperture for the bread of pity. Some of the prisoners make colored baskets, like those which hang upon the wall, and eke out an existence by the sale of these. The presence of a traveler becoming known in the den, baskets by the dozen come tumbling out to tempt him in charity to buy.

While it is difficult for a man to get out of the prison, it is absolutely impossible for a man to enter the harem of the neighboring palace of the Basha; but foreign women are sometimes presented to the Basha's wives. One feminine visitor reports that the mysterious beauties examined carefully the details of her dress. "Oh," said one to another, as she discovered that the white hands were gloved, "see!—the American lady has two skins upon her hands!" In reply to a question as to what little present might be welcome, one Oriental matron replied with much enthusiasm, "Ah, send us from your country some of those pretty little combs with the fine teeth—they are so much more useful than our coarse ones, and—we need them very much!"

Leaving the inhospitable palace, we descend to the one building of all Tangier, in which we are certain to receive a cordial welcome. The shield of the United States Consulate-General dispels the Moorish gloom of at least one dim thoroughfare. Here in this land of despotism and darkness it shines forth like a symbol of liberty and light. The Consul-General, Dr. J. J. Barclay, tells us with justifiable pride that his grandfather, the Hon. Thos. Barclay, negotiated the first treaty between the United States and the Empire of Morocco. He shows us two interesting documents; one, the Consular Commission signed by George Washington; the other, the Exequatur granted by the Sultan to the first Consul of the young American Republic. The following is a translation of the Exequatur, made by the official interpreter of the Consulate-General:

"In the name of God, the Clement and Merciful. There is no strength or force but in God, the High and Eternal. From Abdallah Mohammed, Ben Abdallah, in whom the Almighty deposited his confidence."

"To the great President of the American States: I salute you with empressment, and hope in God you are well. The Ambassador, Thomas Barclay, has come to us bearing a precious letter from the Spaniard Charles. We have read it, and we understand all its contents in which you asked us peace with you like the other Christian nations with whom you have made peace. We accept your demand, and peace be between us on land and sea, and according to the Treaties you demanded from us. We have written this in our letter to you, to which I affixed my Sheriffian seal, and we have ordered all our employees in my seaports to do with your vessels and merchandise that go to my seaports, as they do with those of the Spaniards, and your vessels can enter, and anchor with safety in any of my seaports you choose, from Tetuan to Wadnoon; they can also buy and sell, and do business for themselves, and they can depart. We have answered just like this to the great Spaniard Charles, who wrote me a letter on your behalf. I join with you in perfect peace and friendship. In peace.

"This is written the first day of the blessed month of Ramadan 1200 (1785-1786)."

To Dr. Barclay we confided our cherished plans for a journey into Morocco, and asked him to advise, assist, and guide us. He became most zealous in our cause; made light of the difficulty and danger said to attend the journey, spoke in glowing terms of the pleasures and surprises in store for us. Within the week all the formalities incident to our departure are complied with. The Moorish Minister of Foreign Affairs has graciously granted us permission to traverse the Empire of his Master, the Sultan of Morocco, and he has provided us with letters to many provincial chiefs, and to the Governor of Fez, the capital. He has promised us a military escort equal to our needs, and has called down blessings upon us, and has accepted the usual little token of our high esteem in the form of a pile of Spanish dollars. All this we owed to the good offices of Dr. Barclay, to whom also we owed a delightful glimpse of the gay social life led by the foreign residents and diplomats in old Tangier.

The hillsides round about the city are dotted with luxurious, palatial villas, in the drawing-rooms of which cosmopolitan gatherings discuss the latest continental news in half a dozen languages. According to an English dictum, "Society in Tangier is split into three factions,—those who will know one another, those who won't know one another, and those who must know one another, but don't like to." There are artists, musicians, and diplomats, millionaires and globe-trotters, and ex-consuls and ex-ministers by the dozen; for they say that when one has lived in Tangier, it is not possible to be contented elsewhere. Therefore many men who come hither for a few years of diplomatic service, end by purchasing hillside villas and becoming permanent residents.

Tangerine hospitality is famous for its freedom, but we have little time for social dissipations. Every moment is occupied in preparations for departure. A few days more and we are to leave this most attractive corner of Cosmopolis, bid farewell to friends, to comfort, and to civilization. The hotel will give place to the tent, the daily pony-canter on the beach to the long weary marches of our caravan over hills and mountains, in the region where there are no roads, where to-day is the same as yesterday. We are to voyage forth upon a strange expanse, where the ship of Moorish civilization, stranded upon the shoals of the religion of immutability, has lain rotting since the conquest of Granada.

It is but right that you should know something about the men upon whom our future comfort, welfare, and safety entirely depend. Let me introduce, first of all, the most faithful of guides, the most honest of dragomans, the cheeriest of companions, the cleverest of pathfinders, the best of cooks, and—the most amusing prevaricator I have ever known. His name is like all Moorish names, a mouthful, "Haj Abd-er-Rahman Salama." We see him first at the door of his dwelling, a bright young Salama at his side. We speak with him in French and Spanish, for his much-advertised command of English is monumentally inadequate. Moreover in French he speaks like a gentleman, in English like a blackguard; one language having been learned in Algiers and in Paris, the other picked up from profane sportsmen, while serving as dragoman for pig-sticking expeditions. As for his name, we forget it altogether, and address him simply as Haj, the word "Haj" being a sort of honorific prefix, meaning Pilgrim, in other words, a righteous Moslem who has made the Holy Pilgrimage to Mecca. When it was noised abroad that we were thinking of a trip to Fez, the professional guides of Tangier looked on us as lawful, tempting prey. One Jewish pathfinder proffered his services and outfit for seven English pounds a day. Then others came with other propositions, and there ensued a veritable rate-war in which tents figure in place of Pullman cars, and, in place of sixty-miles-an-hour locomotives, mules that travel only sixteen miles a day. And Haj triumphed over all competitors, not because he made the lowest bid, but because we saw in him a useful, clever man, full of resource, one of the few Moorish minds able to respond to Anglo-Saxon sympathies. He is one who has bridged the gulf between the Moslem and the Christian races, at the cost, possibly, of his orthodoxy and his hopes of heaven.

In violent contrast to him in these respects, is our military escort: our fighting-force, assigned us by the government and consisting of one personal unit—with dignity and bigotry and decorative picturesqueness enough for half a regiment. Kaid Lharbi, for such are his title and name, belongs to the Makhazni, or corps of irregular cavalry, the most ornamental branch of the Moorish Sultan's army. No traveler is permitted to go into Morocco unless chaperoned by a Makhazni. Kaid Lharbi will be for us a sort of living passport, his presence at the head of our caravan assuring all persons that we are traveling under the protection of the Moorish government, and that offenses against us will be severely punished. Without this living token of governmental sanction for our expedition, it would be within the power of any local chief to arrest our progress, sending us back in ignominious captivity to Tangier; or, if he preferred, he could rob us with impunity. Kaid Lharbi is therefore a valuable acquisition from the standpoints both of safety and of picturesqueness. He is Moorish in the fullest sense; he thinks such thoughts and dreams such dreams as did his fathers half a thousand years ago. He carries a flintlock made in Tetuan, and is supplied with a lump of lead and a small bullet-mold, that in case of attack he may be able to cast the necessary bullets.

The sixth day of May is appointed for the departure of our caravan. It is a memorable day for us, because it marks the close of a long period of doubt and uncertainty as to the possibility of undertaking the expedition, and because it marks the beginning of a new life—the entry into a new world, which is yet immeasurably old. The pack-mules in charge of the three servants have been sent on ahead to await us in the suburbs. Kaid Lharbi, muffled in his blue burnoose, has been stationed like an equestrian statue at the door of the hotel since early morning. Haj, the guide, is here, there, and everywhere, attending to the thousand and one little details and difficulties that always arise at the last moment.

We bid adieu to our acquaintances at the hotel door. At last the start is made, we file through narrow streets, cross the crowded market-place, and on its outskirts overtake the pack-mules and the muleteers. A few necessary articles, brought at the last moment by our thoughtful Haj, who would have felt himself disgraced had he forgotten anything, are added to the already heavy burdens of the mules.

Then at a signal, our men, the skeptic Haj, and all the rest reverently turn their faces toward the East, toward Holy Mecca, while Kaid Lharbi, his head bent low over his horse's neck, intones an impressive prayer for the successful and happy termination of our journey. This pious duty done, the order for a forward march is given, and in single file our little train of men, horses, mules, and donkeys winds its way out of Tangier, every hoof-beat of the animals taking us nearer to the Middle Ages. Gradually the suburban street becomes a lane, gradually the lane fades away, becoming a mere trail, and finally the trail itself, crossing a ruined bridge, loses itself in the roadless vastness of the Moorish Empire.

Never in all my travels have I more keenly felt that oppressive sense of separation from things known and familiar than at this moment. No previous departure by train or steamer had ever seemed so definitely to break the link that binds us to our own age and our own civilization. Here, at the bridge that spans a dry and thirsty river-bed, all semblance of civilization abruptly terminates; before us lies a land without railways, without roads, without fences, hedges, trees—without dividing lines of any kind, save long low ranges of barren hills and, in the eastern distance, the crests of savage mountains. Across this roadless empire we are now to travel for many days; overhead there will hang at times a scorching sun, at times dark storm-clouds are to form our canopy; around us is to stretch a savage, silent land. Before us lies a scarcely distinguishable track, worn by the hoofs of countless caravans in years that are uncounted. But for me, in the foreground of every Moorish landscape looms the figure of Kaid Lharbi. All day I looked over my horse's ears upon Kaid Lharbi's back, his horse's tail, and his cloak of blue, his broad-brimmed hat, such as are made and worn by the women of Tetuan, its brim so broad that colored cords are required as guy ropes to sustain it. That famous hat served both as a parasol and umbrella; the image of its expansive brim, flapping gaily in the breeze, or drooping gloomily beneath an avalanche of water from the skies, will never be effaced from memory. All day I looked upon that hat; at night I saw it in my dreams; and, at the journey's end, I acquired it by purchase, and it now hangs upon my wall,—a mute reminder of a memorable ride.