Chapter III: Part 3

The door of our promised abode looks like the outlet of a sewer or the entrance to a pig-sty. And Haj, who has buoyed up our hopes with descriptions of the palace we were soon to occupy in Fez, receives reproachful glances. We fear his "palaces" no more deserve their name than did his "forests" and his "lakes" and "rivers," for to him a clump of half a dozen trees was a "_forêt magnifique!_" a muddy pool "_un lac superbe_," and a slimy streamlet, "_une rivière claire et belle_." And now his "_palais splendide_" bids fair to be—a dirty prison.

But the arrival of our pack-mules leaves us no time for reproaches or complaints. The caravan completely blocks the circulation of the neighborhood. The pack-mules, too broadly loaded, get stuck fast in the narrow street, and we are compelled to back them out and discharge the cargoes at a neighboring street-intersection. Our folding beds and chairs, our gaily-colored rugs and cushions, our kitchen outfit, and our photographic kit are heaped up in the public thoroughfare, pending the disappearance of the animals. But happily, owing to the blockade, there are no passers-by; else the major portion of our goods might also disappear. A sound of rushing water fills the air, for one of the rapid canals that irrigate the gardens and turn the flour-mills of Fez, here flows beneath the street. It makes a music very grateful to the ears of those who are new come from the torrid prairies of the provinces. Truly, it will be pleasant to rest for a few days and listen to that music, no matter how distasteful our abode may prove to be. Let us, then, with resignation crawl through our dingy door and make ourselves at home.

Accordingly, we stoopingly grope through a low dark passage, then—stand erect and gasp with pleasure! Aladdin, when for the first time he rubbed the magic lamp, could not have been more thoroughly delighted or surprised. Before us is a dainty villa, snowy white; around it a delicious garden, more than an acre in extent. The fact that everything is purely Moorish, that no hint of European occupation can be seen, and the conviction that our home differs in no important detail from the dwellings of our aristocratic neighbors, gives added charm to our abode, added delight to the thought of sojourn here in this exotic atmosphere. It is resolved that we shall occupy the upper story, that our men shall find lodgings in the lower rooms, while for the noonday nap, the promenade, or a quiet hour with a book, our pretty garden offers us its shady depths. It is redolent with the perfume of orange-blossoms and jasmine. Beneath the leafy branches of the lemon and pomegranate, fig- and olive-trees, there is even at noon a coolness as of evening. The hum of insects, the subdued roar of tumbling waters in the adjacent garden, and the trickling murmur of tiny canals fill the air with a restful symphony.

We have forgotten the rudeness of our welcome; we have shut out the grim, hostile city; we are at last at home in Fez. We are as safe as if shut up in jail. In fact, like all foreign visitors, we, too, must record among our sensations that of being prisoners while within the walls of Fez; but we are very willing prisoners, and when the hour of dinner is announced, we cheerfully climb the tiny spiral stairway to our roomy cell, and with this first meal begin the routine of our daily home life in the Sultan's city.

We have simply pitched camp in the great upper chamber of the house, spread out the rugs, set up the beds, the chairs, and tables, and made ourselves as comfortable as possible. The windows are merely huge openings in the wall, unglazed, with metal bars and heavy wooden shutters. The floor is neatly tiled, the walls are whitewashed, and the ceiling is of wood. Our five attendants have taken possession of the lower floor. There also Haj has installed his little cuisine, and is industriously encouraging a tiny charcoal fire with a fan. Sitting near, intently observing his culinary operations, is a young Jewish woman, who brought a recommendation from the British Vice-Consul, and was engaged to act as maid-of-all-work, to help five helpless men to bring order and comfort out of the chaos that reigns here on the day of our arrival. That she does not lack for occupation is proved by the aspect presented by our courtyard during the painful period of installation in our exquisite Moorish home. Pack-baskets, bedding, blankets, furniture, and dishes had been dumped there in confusion; but through the efforts of our Hebrew housekeeper, all things are quickly put to rights, the court resumes its wonted air of Oriental languor, the little fountain sings on its uninterrupted song, and the atmosphere of romance once more envelopes house and court and garden. To fill our cup of happiness, a messenger arrived, bringing a bulky packet of letters from America; for a courier of the British consul, who left Tangier one week after our departure, has arrived in Fez the day of our arrival, having run on foot the entire way, one hundred and seventy miles in four days' time; while we, encumbered with a baggage caravan, have been eleven days upon the way.

We remain a day and night in our new abode before venturing out into the streets. We shall now cautiously commence a series of expeditions—one cannot call them strolls or promenades—across and round about the town. The objective-point of our first expedition is the office of our banker. We descend from the high-lying Garden Region, and enter the ruinous streets of the Medina. We are accompanied by Haj, for without a guide we should soon go astray. We are followed by Kaid Lharbi, our military escort, it being most imprudent for the foreigner to walk abroad unaccompanied by a guard. To photograph in the streets of Fez is difficult to the verge of impossibility. First, there is the Mohammedan prejudice against picture-making, the reproduction of the likeness of living things being prohibited by the Koran, which says: "Every painter is in hell-fire, and Allah will appoint a person at the day of resurrection for every picture he shall have drawn, to punish him; and they will punish him in hell. Then, if you must have pictures, make them of trees and things without souls." Had the photographer existed in Mohammed's day, he would undoubtedly have had a special verse in Scripture devoted to his case; as it is, the faithful call the camera a "painting-machine," and class its manipulator with the impious artists whose instruments of crime are brushes. Even though this difficulty may be overcome by cunning, the very streets and structures conspire with the people to foil the eager camerist. Many of these streets are vaulted tunnels, illuminated only here and there by bands of light; others are roofed by vine-covered trellises, that give them the appearance of interminable arbors, through which faint squares of light flitter and fall upon the unpaved ground; still others are so narrow and cut between such tall dark walls, that never by any chance do rays of sunshine illuminate their depths. Street life in Fez is vividly suggestive of subterranean existence. There is a dark-cellar-like coolness, which, combined with the ghostly stride and costume of the inhabitants, gives us the impression of being in the catacombs among resuscitated men in their shrouds. Ghostly indeed is the dress of the rich old men in Fez,—a dress that gives its wearers the dignity of Roman senators. What a superb figure for the ghost of Hamlet's father one well-remembered old gentleman would make! He is, however, Haj's uncle, and greets our guide, his nephew, very cordially. Haj, rascal that he is, knowing that we care more for snap-shots than for introductions, always arranges when he meets a friend or relative to detain him in conversation, in the best illuminated portion of the street, thus giving us invaluable opportunities for secret portraiture. Then, after he has heard the "click!" that comes from what appears to be an innocent brown paper parcel under my right arm, Haj, with many complimentary phrases, presents us to our visitor, introducing us as men of great distinction from America.

Presently we emerge from the dim bazaars, and find ourselves in a small, deep, public square. On one side is a semi-ruinous water fountain, roofed with tiles and decorated with mosaics. Before us is a stately portal, the entrance to a commercial exchange, a headquarters for the better class of merchants. It dates from the time when Fez was the commercial center of a rich and very prosperous empire, when the merchandise of the world found here a profitable market. The building now is sadly out of repair, like almost every other building in the city. To make repairs in Fez is sacrilegious. If a structure crumbles and decays, the owner with resignation folds his hands and murmurs, "It is the will of Allah; it is written," and forthwith, grateful for this mark of divine favor, hies him to the mosque and prays.

The Mohammedan strictly fulfils his religious observances. During the hour of prayer the quarter is deserted; an hour later business is resumed, and the wheels of metropolitan commerce, released for a short space from the religious brake, again revolve with many a squeak and crunch, clogged as they are by superstition and neglect. Yet for the artist or lover of the picturesque, it would be difficult to find a more attractive crowd of business men. And these Moorish archways, fountains, tiled roofs, and age-eaten arabesques are still most beautiful, even in dilapidation more beautiful, perhaps, than when in all their freshness they were the pride and admiration of generations of Fassis, long since gathered into Paradise. We are informed that our banker, who is also the consular agent for the United States, has offices within a certain mediæval business block; and as we are in need of funds, and also desirous of meeting our representative, we push through the trading throng and enter the patio, a spacious inner court four stories deep. Four tiers of galleries rise about us, all richly finished in old woodwork, elaborately carved, but sharing in the slow decay of the entire building. Our consular agent, whose office door stands open on the left, is (as we have been told) a native Jew, by name, Benlezrah; by occupation, a merchant, broker, and money lender; and by nationality, thanks to the "protection" system prevalent in Morocco, an American citizen. Benlezrah admits that his consular duties are not engrossing, nor are they profitable; for he receives no pay except in the form of infrequent fees; but he holds to his office most tenaciously because the United States has power to naturalize all its servants in Morocco, and to grant them what are called "protection papers." Were he not thus protected by some foreign power, the Sultan's assessor would, he assures us, soon strip him of his comfortable fortune gained in commerce. A few days later we visited Mr. Benlezrah at his home in the Jewish quarter, where we find him surrounded by his family. A high sepulchral bed, something between an Oriental shrine and the proscenium of a Punch and Judy theater, is the dominating feature of his drawing-room. During our call our host tells us more about the protection system. It appears that all rich men in Morocco are subject to the most barefaced robbery by the Sultan and his ministers. When in need of funds, the government notifies its chosen victim that a large contribution for the coffers of the sacred Sultan will assure the giver of the imperial favor, and that a refusal to obey the hint will be followed by imprisonment or confiscation, or both. But men protected by foreign powers cannot be imprisoned or punished until tried for their offenses before the consular court in Tangier, and are therefore practically insured against the cupidity of corrupt imperial officials. Thus every Moor or Jew, possessed of wealth, desires the protection of a foreign nation. Protection being such a boon, abuses have naturally attached themselves to the granting of it.

The Moorish government has complained that consuls of the European nations, yes, even of the United States, have been guilty of selling for cash the protection of their respective flags to wealthy Moors and Jews. To the Jew, protection is indeed a special blessing, since it gives him the right to ride on horseback or muleback through these streets, where other Jews must walk. It permits him to pass the doorways of the mosques without stopping to remove his shoes, while other Jews must bare their feet each time they near the sacred gates.

It must be remembered that the current calendar in Fez is not that of A. D. 1901; but it is for the year 1319, after the Hegira of Mohammed, and the Moors are just 582 years behind the times!

These Mohammedans of Fez not only do not permit the Jew to pass the mosque with shoes upon his feet, but they do not permit any infidel to enter their sacred places; they do not permit Jew or Christian to pause to look in at the doors, and there is one mosque, the Shrine of Mulai Idrees, the founder of Fez, so holy that no unbeliever is permitted even to approach it. Across the streets leading thither barriers are placed; the Moors stoop and pass under them; the Christian and the Jew, on pain of death, must go no farther. Then across other streets bars are placed to mark the point beyond which men are not allowed to pass at certain hours.

One portion of the cool cellar-like bazaar is sacred to the women, who, temporarily embarrassed, bring hither objects that they wish to sell. Apparently they are not eager to attract purchasers, for they hide whatever they may have beneath their haiks; but now and then a man approaches, and an embroidered vest, a piece of silk, a jewel or a ring is reluctantly brought forth and passed across the barrier in exchange for silver coins; then one white, shrouded figure rises and fades away amid the ghostly throng. To us, newcomers to this land of mystery, it is as disconcerting to face a crowd of these women, as for the soldier to stand unmoved before masked batteries. We are conscious that two score of bright, black eyes are leveled at us, but we cannot read the message they project—the faces that would make the message legible are veiled. Are the lips curled in scorn of the infidel? Are smiles of ridicule excited by his strange foreign dress, so pitifully convenient and unpicturesque, so tight, so graceless, when compared to the splendid sweep of the Moorish costume? Or, in some faces, is there written a deep, bitter yearning for knowledge of the outside living world,—the world of to-day, of which we stray moderns come here as reminders? But as we wander ever through the bazaars, meeting everywhere the same impassive, uncurious expressions on the uncovered faces of the men, we are inclined to believe that to the Moor, Morocco is the world,—that for him, outside its borders, geographically or intellectually, there is nothing worthy his consideration. A few progressive Moors, so we were told, evince a shadowy interest in the universe at large by subscribing for a daily paper. This paper is not printed in Fez, where journalism is unknown, it comes from far-off Cairo on the Nile, and reaches its eager Moorish readers after a voyage of seven days by sea and eight by land.

Remembering these things, it is difficult to believe that Fez is, in the eyes of the Mohammedans, an important seat of learning, but so it is; for does not the famous university and mosque, known as the Karûeeïn stand in the very heart of Fez? The Karûeeïn, a sort of inner "holy city" is, next to the mosque of Mulai Idrees, the most sacred inclosure in Fez: As we approach it, we are warned by Haj that Christians are not permitted even to pause and glance into its courts when passing any of its many portals. The imperfect pictures that will reveal to you vague glimpses of its dark corridors and sunlit patios are the result of oft-repeated efforts, risks, and subterfuges. The entrances are jealously guarded by the faithful; the Jew or Christian who lingers on the threshold is rudely jostled by the passers-by, and if he does not take the hint, a sudden surging of the crowd sweeps him away. Three mornings were devoted to vain attempts to bring the camera to bear upon those gates. But finally a fourth attempt, aided by strategy, met with success. Opposite every gate are groups of beggars, crouching in the narrow street. Strolling with ostentatious carelessness, the camera, wrapped like a paper parcel, under my arm, I pause before the beggars, my back turned to the sacred entrances, and fumble in my pocket for stray coppers. No one sees any reason for interfering with the charitable stranger; but, mingled with the chink of the coins dropped into the outstretched palms, there might have been heard the clicks of a photographic shutter, fired almost at random, and these pictures here shown are the rewards of my charity, so hypocritically bestowed. I had had faith in my ability finally to accomplish my sinful task; I had been buoyed up for the hope of success, but while I had not charity, my efforts did not profit me.

The Karûeeïn is the greatest educational institution of western Barbary. Nor must we smile to hear it called by so proud a name. Its past entitles it to the respect of the world. It ranked with the great colleges of Moorish Spain—with Cordova itself—as a seat of learning, and hither came not only Moslems, from all corners of Islam, but also noble gentlemen from England, France, and Spain, to complete their educations. Yes, as we glance into another patio, where a green tiled kiosk recalls the Court of the Lions of the Alhambra, we must not forget that here philosophy once flourished, here astronomy, mathematics, and medicine once were more fully developed than at any other place in the contemporary world. In the inaccessible library of the Karûeeïn, the lost books of Euclid are said to be moldering, also many classics, fragments for which scholars have been seeking. But these things will not be brought to light until the death-knell of Morocco's independence shall have sounded. The Karûeeïn to-day stands here in the heart of Fez, as the center of resistance to all progress, as the embodiment of slumber; yet here are gathered even in our day more than a thousand students, four hundred of them supported by an endowment fund dating from the twelfth century. That is, their food is provided for them gratis, their lodging costs them nothing, for they sleep under the arcades of the Mosque or in its spacious courts. They are taught by wise men—"Taleebs"—men who are intellectual mummies. They learn to repeat the Koran word for word; they learn to hate the unbeliever, to scorn his science and inventions, to turn their backs upon all things that are new; they are encouraged to cling to the old dream of Islam, and to worship the God of their fathers in this holy mosque. They are taught the forms and simple ceremonials of the Moslem faith; to wash the feet at the fountain before entering the sanctuary; to leave their yellow, heel-less slippers in the court; to kneel, or rise, or prostrate themselves at proper intervals; to pray five times each day; to turn their faces while they pray toward the sacred city Mecca in the East; to drink no wine, to eat no pork, to keep with cruel rigor the long fast of the Ramadan, when for forty days they may not touch food, drink, or tobacco between the rising of the sun and the going down of the same. As for their secular teaching, it is refreshingly original. A map of the world, the use of which is sanctioned by the faculty, throws much interesting light upon the Moorish geographic point of view. An examination of the map shows that Tangier, although a Moorish port, is placed on the north side of the Mediterranean, while Spain, apparently, is next door to Morocco, on the coast of Africa. The results of Stanley's explorations are outlined with remarkable angularity and distinctness around the sources of the Nile and the Mountains of the Moon. England, though not named, is represented by one of the islands just north of India and Thibet; moreover, the latest Moorish expedition to the north pole has evidently reported that Gog and Magog abide amid the frozen seas, for they figure on the map.

Every spring the students of the Karûeeïn, who are called "Tholbas," go forth from Fez, and pitch a great camp in the plain. They elect one of their number "Sultan of the Tholbas," and to him all must pay reverence. Even the veritable Sultan himself must ride out in state and call upon Student Sultan in the Tholbas' camp, treating him as an Imperial brother. The expenses of this scholastic picnic are paid by contributions exacted by the Tholbas from the citizens of Fez.

Returning from our visit to this camp, we make our way once more into the official quarter of New Fez, through which we passed so hurriedly the day of our arrival. The same grim walls are there, the frowning towers, and the air of desolation. To our great regret we have learned that the Imperial Master, Mulai El Hasan, Sultan of Morocco, will not return to Fez until long after our departure. He is at present on the march across the southern deserts, returning from a journey of eighteen months' duration to the rebellious province of Tabilet, on the border of the Great Sahara. Small wonder that the New Fez appears deserted; for when his Imperial Majesty goes upon a journey, he is followed by no less than a quarter of the population of Fez, 30,000 people,—officials, soldiers, servants, and wives and slaves. But we are, nevertheless, to see a remnant of his retinue, for suddenly a crowd appears as if by magic, and the square takes on an air of life and animation.

First comes a squad of soldiers, marching to the beating of a drum. They wear the hideous modern uniform of the new Moorish army—an army that has been created within the past few years by a foreign officer on the Imperial staff, a Scotchman, Kaid Maclean, who has transformed the ragged unkempt hordes of his Imperial Master into an army with some pretensions to discipline and equipment, although to us it appears almost grotesque. The uniform chosen gives the private soldier the aspect of a simian pet of an organ-grinder, a little overgrown. Judging by their appearance we are prepared to see these warriors doff their caps and pass them around for coppers; but this is less the fault of the soldiers than of the military tailor; the same men robed in long flowing garments would, in all probability, appear as dignified as the civilians. We had the curiosity to examine their weapons, and we were rewarded by discovering several muzzle-loading rifles, bearing the inscription, "Springfield, Massachusetts, 1865."

The first awkward squad is followed by another and another, until the great square, bisected by a long procession of those red-coated fighters, appears like a ravine through which there flows a river of blood. Meantime, from the portal of the palace there emerges with solemnity and slowness a stately company of white-robed Moors, some mounted upon superbly harnessed mules, followed by spotlessly arrayed dignitaries and courtiers on foot; and in the midst of these rides the Viceroy of Fez. We dared not raise our cameras as he passed, for the crowds regarded us with hostility, and the picture we secured shows only his retreating form, towering above the heads of his attendants.

The procession enters the huge "Gate of Justice." On the left we discern a line of crouching figures, those who have come to make or answer charges before the autocratic tribunal. There is no appeal from the instantaneous decisions given by the old Vizier of Justice. Happy the citizen who, thanks to the protection afforded him by a foreign consul, is exempt from being dragged to this bar of so-called justice!

The only Anglo-Saxon representative in Fez is His Britannic Majesty's Vice-Consul, Mr. MacIver MacLeod. For downright pertinacity commend me to this man, who, in the face of an entire nation's opposition, planted himself in Fez, established a vice-consulate, and stuck to his post until the Moors gave up the fight and resolved to tolerate his permanent presence in their holy city. With Mr. MacLeod we enjoy frequent excursions roundabout the city, to the nearer mountain crests, and to the abandoned forts upon the hill-tops, whence splendid views of Fez are to be had. One day, finding no practicable doorway to one of those deserted strongholds, we entered boldly through the embrasure where years ago the noses of old cannon had breathed threatenings above the once-rebellious city. Affrighted at our daring, my youthful camera-bearer dropped the case and fled.

There are orchards and gardens in the environs of Fez, and there are trails that are almost roads, radiating in all directions. We are invariably accompanied by an escort when we ride forth from Fez; the country roundabout is not safe. The British Vice-Consul always brings his followers, and insists that we shall order out Kaid Lharbi, our picturesque old soldier-chaperon, every time we venture beyond the crumbling walls.

The Vice-Consulate is in the old Medina, in the heart of Fez; but Mr. MacLeod lives in the garden region. A pretty Moorish villa has been transformed into an English home, presided over by the Vice-Consul's mother, who has exiled herself from England to spend her days with her courageous son in Fez.

"But I am not the only Christian woman in Fez," Mrs. MacLeod assures us, in reply to our remark that she must sorely miss the companionship of people of her own race and religion. "If you will dine with us on Sunday, you will meet the five Tabeebas." We accepted the invitation, and met the "five Tabeebas," each one a study for a statue of Lot's wife after she had so unwisely looked over her left shoulder. Pillars of salt they look, and in truth they are the salt of this cruel Moorish land. They are Christian women, angels of mercy, missionaries,—but not ordinary missionaries,—theirs is a _medical_ mission,—a mission through which no energy is wasted, against which no criticism can be urged.

Among them are three English women, members of the Church of England; one Irishwoman, who is a Catholic, and one Scotch lassie, who is a Presbyterian; and yet in perfect harmony they work together. Their work is, of necessity, with the bodies, not with the souls of those they seek to aid; for they realize, as every sane-minded Christian must, that to Christianize Moorish Mohammedans is an impossibility.

The dress of these women is but another expression of their innate tact. If they insisted upon going abroad in the streets with uncovered faces, they would immediately lose the respect and confidence of the people who have learned to love them for their numberless good works. They occupy a large house in the densely populated quarter, a home which is by turns a school or a hospital. Here they teach Moorish girls many useful things; here every day they receive and treat, free of charge, as many patients as present themselves. One afternoon while we were taking tea with the Tabeebas, they were repeatedly called from the room to dress a wound, apply an ointment, or give advice to some poor sufferer. Of course we were not permitted to see the Moorish girls who come to the Tabeebas school. To secure a photograph of them my camera was lent to one of the Tabeebas, who secretly made an exposure from behind a door that stood ajar. Did the parents of these young girls know of the making of the picture, there would be no pupils here upon the morrow. The faces in the group are faces on which no man may look, unless he be the father, brother, or husband.

Let us steal away through the mysterious, fascinating streets and byways that lead us, with a hundred puzzling turns, back to our peaceful villa.

It is needless to say that our neighbors have not called upon us, nor indicated by any sign that they are conscious of our presence in this aristocratic precinct. Walls from fifteen to twenty feet in height surround our garden, cutting us off completely from the public streets and from the garden of our next-door neighbors. Our curiosity concerning that adjoining garden and the family that dwelt therein increased from day to day. Apparently an interminable picnic is in progress there; for three days past we have been hearing the shouts of children at play and the strange shrill cry peculiar to Moorish women, a piercing tremolo, to which they give utterance in token of joyfulness. It might be called the "college yell" of these Oriental wives—pupils in the school of submission.

Finally we can resist no longer; we must learn what is passing there on the other side of that high wall. But how? We dare not show our heads for fear some jealous Moor may smash them. We resolve to make a cat's-paw of the faithful camera to snatch curiosity-satisfying chestnuts out of the fire of Moslem exclusiveness. We climb a ladder, lift the camera, upside-down, above the wall, take aim by looking up into the inverted finder, fire, and withdraw precipitately. The result was worth the risk and effort. The plate revealed a scene from private family life in Fez,—the picture of a rich Moor's wives and children attended by black slaves, taking their ease in the absolute seclusion of their garden, brewing and drinking Moorish tea, as they sit on a tiled platform that surrounds a bathing tank. The foreshortening of the figures may be at first a trifle puzzling; remember we are looking, or, rather, the camera is looking down upon the group from over a garden-wall that is not less than twenty feet in height.

Fortunately, the attention of the family had been attracted by something occurring just out of our range of vision, though we knew nothing of this at the time. The negative was not developed till we reached America, so the camera recorded a scene which we ourselves have never looked upon. Encouraged by the silence following our first attempt, we chose another section of the wall and repeated our manœuver. Unfortunately a preliminary click was heard by our sitters, whose startled expressions, faithfully registered, prove that they have seen the guilty lens and shutter winking at them from the summit of the wall. Some have already hid their faces, others are apparently crying out in protest; even the dog, like a good Mohammedan, turns his back to the "painting machine." The unique picture tells us what manner of women is concealed by the shroudlike garments, which are worn in the streets and which make women, be they young, old, rich, poor, beautiful, or ugly, appear as like, one to another, as are bales of woolen cloth. Street life in Fez is for women a perpetual masquerade, a lifelong domino party. But in these high-walled gardens all the participants unmask, throw off their haiks, and during the home hours regain an individuality of visage, form, and dress. This revelation of the inner life of Fez makes the city seem more human to us, less like a city of specters, ghosts, and animated mummies. Nevertheless these people seem not quite real to us, for we did not actually see them, nor did they see us, face to face. Next day two huge black men-slaves came to notify us that if any more mysterious boxes appeared over the garden-wall their master, now absent, should be informed, and our departure hastened.

We had one neighbor, however, who was more sociable; in fact, he became painfully familiar. He lived at a street corner where he enjoyed a squatter-right, for he had been squatting there without intermission for five years or more. The man is crazy. He invariably greets us with loud howls, and insists upon it that we are "his mothers!" Then, like a whining child, he teases for matches with which to light a fire. He has a mania for collecting brushwood, building fires, and then extinguishing them by calmly sitting down upon the flames, much to the detriment of his cuticle and raiment. When his clothes are burned completely off, he counts upon his prudish neighbors for a new garb. Altogether, he is decidedly eccentric even for a madman; and he must be very mad, for he either refuses money, or, when it is thrust upon him, tosses it away to other beggars who are always crouching near.

Toward the close of our visit we managed to scrape acquaintance with the servants of another neighbor. One was a veiled woman, who would smile at us through her mask, and another a fat negress slave, as unctuous and good-natured as any Mississippi mammy. "And are there really slaves in Fez?" some one may ask. There are; and every day in a certain remote and cheerless market-place young negresses are sold at auction. Seldom, however, does a stranger witness this trafficking in human flesh. At his approach, buyers and sellers, slaves and auctioneers, mysteriously vanish. Thrice we found the market-place deserted. Twice, owing to the skillful manœuvering of our guide, we surprised the market in full swing, and saw six little negro girls, fresh from the barbarous regions of the south, purchased by solemn white-robed citizens at prices varying from eighty to two hundred dollars.

But do not think because our neighbors do not call upon us that we receive no social courtesies whatever. On the contrary, the Minister of Finance, the Moorish Secretary of the Treasury, one of the highest and by a curious coincidence one of the richest dignitaries in Morocco, one day, invited us to dinner. The invitation was delivered through the British vice-consul, who promised to accompany us and to see that we made no _faux pas_. We were not rude enough to take a camera with us, knowing the prejudices of the Moors, and therefore I have no picture of the gorgeous palace into the courtyard of which we were ushered by a group of slaves. Our host resembled the rich men we see daily in the streets, being princely in bearing, haughty and reserved. Contrary to Moorish custom, we sat at a table and on chairs, instead of on the floor. There were no other guests. As soon as we were seated, Mr. MacLeod took from his pocket a paper parcel and opened it, displaying three pairs of knives and forks.

"I always carry these when I dine out with the Moorish swells; they don't have any," he explained; "and they like to have me bring them when they are entertaining foreign guests."

"But how do they eat?" we asked.

"Watch his Excellency, and you'll soon understand."

At this moment there appeared a huge round platter, three feet in diameter, on which has been erected a pyramid of chickens. To each of us an entire bird was given. Then our host, with deft fingers, tore his portion very neatly into shreds, picked out the choicest morsels of the chicken and passed them to us. Then followed pyramids of pigeons, then huge chunks of mutton, then sausages on spits; and that those sausages were not less than two inches thick and one foot long I am positively certain, because we each were compelled to take a whole one, and I remember my vain efforts to get it all upon my plate, three inches of protruding sausage threatening the table-cloth on each side. And every course was carved by our host, who used nothing sharper than his finger-nails, and every time he came upon a morsel of especial daintiness, he courteously offered it to one of us. We were almost stuffed to death, for the consul warned us that to refuse the proffered tidbits would be a great affront. There were no sauces, no vegetables, nothing but meats roasted underground by slow fires that had burned all night.

We had nothing with which to wash down this "all too solid" food except sickly lukewarm rosewater. And not content with stuffing us and forcing us to drink that perfumed liquid, our host would every now and then give a signal, whereupon the servants would spray stronger rosewater down our backs and in our ears. Never was anything more welcome than the tiny cups of Turkish coffee that at last were brought to end our tortures. I could not blame my friend, when, on our return to our own house, he declared that he had had enough of Oriental luxury, exclaiming as Haj brought the "antidotes," "Let me be an American for a minute!"

The table was served by two slaves, and by a young man whose bearing told us that he was no servant. He was, in fact, the eldest son of our host. Custom commands that the son should wait upon the father's guests. Imagine this custom introduced at Washington, and picture the sons of a cabinet-official passing huge finger-bowls around the banquet table!

As for our conversation, it turned first upon the only modern institution in the city, the Arsenal and Rifle Factory of the Sultan. The secretary spoke of course in Arabic, the vice-consul acting as interpreter. Then we were questioned regarding the city whence we come, Chicago; and, being native-born Chicagoans, no urging was required to wring from us the story of the great phœnix city on the shore of the American inland sea. We described "skyscrapers," elevators, cable-cars, and trolleys. Then we told of the World's Fair, visited in one day by seven times more people than reside in Fez, and then with a keener interest the secretary listened to the incredible figures relating to the movements of wheat and corn and to the shipments of beef and mutton. Next, as a climax, we launched enthusiastically into pork statistics, but our spokesman checks us with the caution: "Hush! Don't shock his Excellency; remember his religious prejudices. Don't say a word about the pigs. You know the Moslem eats no pork." Therefore we leave our host unenlightened regarding the pet industry of our western metropolis.

The next day we devote to the Jewish quarter, a distinct and separate city, called the "Mellah." We approach it through the Hebrews' burial ground, a place of whited sepulchers, dwellings for the dead, and dingy huts, temporary abodes for living men and women; for there are two populations in the Jewish cemetery, a fixed population of the wealthy dead, a passing population of the living poor. You must remember that in these Moorish cities the Jews are still compelled to dwell apart from true believers. Their houses are confined in the restricted Mellah, where no provision was originally made for an increase of population. Therefore the poorer and the weaker Jews have been squeezed out of its gates and have found refuge here in the city of the dead, where they have built crude huts and begun life anew. The streets or passageways are, however, far cleaner than those of the inner Mellah, and we cannot but agree that residence in the freer atmosphere of this city of the dead is preferable to living on the other side of yonder walls, where every inch of space is occupied, where the atmosphere is heavy with bad odors, and where sunshine and fresh air are things almost unknown.

A poor old Jew, a man with a large dependent family, serves as our guide. He tells of the misery of his people, begs me to repeat in my own land the story of their woe. It is not the Sultan, he says, who is most cruel to them; it is the rich men, the elders and the rabbis of his own tribe whom he accuses of injustice.

The right to build these shelters in the cemetery was granted by the Sultan to the poor, when the overcrowding of the Mellah proper became a menace to the public health. Nevertheless, no poor man is permitted to take up his abode among these cast-out members of the tribe until he has paid certain fees to the headmen of the quarter. He says that the oppression of Jew by Jew is harder to bear than the much-talked-of oppression to which the children of Israel have been subjected by the Sons of Ishmael. The statements of our pauper guide surprised us, but what he said was confirmed by every poor Jew with whom we talked. They all declared that the rich elders and the rabbis of their own tribe were their hardest masters. A wealthy man, with whom we discussed the question later, assured us that his class had almost impoverished itself with charities, that the cause of all the evil lay in the decrease of commerce and the rapid increase of the Jewish population. The poor, undoubtedly, are very poor; and though the rich live in apparent luxury and comfort, it cannot be true that Fez is the only city in the world where the rich Jews abandon their own people to starvation and distress. The noble Jewish charities throughout the world argue the contrary, and even in Fez the philanthropy of European Jews is manifest in the excellent school established here in this very Mellah by the French branch of the Israelite Alliance.

We can assure all those who have given pecuniary support to the Alliance that the money is here spent conscientiously, and that the work now doing among the Moorish Jews is nobly done and worthy the sympathy and encouragement of every lover of humanity. But in spite of the educational and civilizing influences of the school, many reforms in customs remain to be effected, and it is to be hoped that in the future, a daughter of the Mellah will not be given in marriage at the age of ten and, like one girl we saw, be mother of a family at fourteen years of age, and become at twenty-five a hideous old woman. Let us hope that in another generation girl-children who at fourteen are still unmarried will not be regarded, as they are to-day, in the light of hopeless spinsters.

As for the sanitary reforms demanded in the Mellah, you have but to enter the crowded streets to be convinced that they are numberless. Here Jews are packed like live sardines in greasy boxes. Pierre Loti describes the Mellah as "an airless huddle of houses squeezed together as if screwed in a compress, and emitting all sorts of stifling odors." Again he tells of finding here "moldy smells in varieties that are not known elsewhere." But how is it possible to expect cleanliness on the part of people who are denied a sufficiency of space and air and light and water, who are not permitted to remove the refuse from their streets, lest the Moorish scavenger should lose his fee; people who are despised by their Moslem fellow-citizens, called "dogs," and forced to walk barefooted through the streets of Moorish Fez?

As a crowning indignity, the Moors have decreed that the place of deposit for dead animals, from cats to camels, shall be at the gate of the Mellah; and every night the jackals feast and sing their death chants beneath the walls of this unhappy Jewish city. We are surprised, however, to find here and there a touch of color in the dress of these unfortunate inhabitants, for black has always been the uniform imposed upon the Jew. Black is to Moorish minds the color of disgrace; hence were the Jews compelled to wear black caps and gaberdines. To-day, however, this regulation is not so rigidly enforced, although the general tone of the men's dress is very somber.

In every street we see old men, who could, without a change of raiment, step on the theatrical stage and look the part of Shylock to the life. In tiny shops, like niches bordering these streets, sit the gold- and silver-smiths, the lawyers, scribes, and money-changers; there are few idlers here. Jewish industry and thrift here rise superior to the discouraging surroundings. A few shops boast a supply of foreign merchandise. The merchants greet us with a polite "_buenos dias_," and converse in fluent Spanish; for besides Hebrew and Arabic, these people speak the language of the land from which their fathers were cruelly cast out by Spanish kings.

The commerce of the land is largely in the hands of Moorish Jews, who are forbidden by law to leave the country, lest a general exodus occur, and the trade of the entire empire, deprived of their fostering care, languish and ultimately die. Many large fortunes have been accumulated here, by usury and commerce. We made a formal call one Sabbath afternoon at the home of one of the richest Jews in Fez, old Mr. Bensimon. Magnificent, indeed, is the interior of the house, with its carved, painted doors, its stucco arabesques, immaculate tiled floors, and richly furnished rooms. The Bensimons are of the old conservatives. They speak no Spanish and have no knowledge of anything away from their immediate surroundings. The Mellah is their world; their house is one of the rare oases of elegance in the midst of a wilderness of squalor. But they are all very gracious to us; of the two pretty little girls, eleven and thirteen years of age, respectively, the elder is already married, the younger is a fiancée.

A curious incident gave us an insight into the reality of their religion. To amuse our host we performed some tricks of sleight-of-hand. Producing a silver dollar, I asked the aged father to assure himself that it was a real dollar, not tampered with in any way. He seemed reluctant to pick up the coin.

"You must not urge him," said our guide. "It is the Jewish Sabbath; a Jew may not touch filthy lucre on the holy day."

Before departing we were asked to take tea with the family, and were forthwith ushered into an apartment, furnished with that crude gaudiness that is the result of Oriental imitation of Occidental fashions. Of their "European Room" they are as proud as we are of our so-called "Oriental dens." The mirrors, clocks, sofas, and chandeliers, imported from the continent, are the envy of their neighbors.

Tea-drinking in Morocco is a solemn ceremony, to the stranger almost a sickening one. A handful of tea is put in the teapot, and the pot is filled to the very top with sugar, broken from a huge cone loaf; then boiling water is poured on. Then a bouquet of mint is thrust into this saturated solution of sugar and tea. Next, half a glassful is thrown away to exorcise evil spirits, and then one glassful is boldly swallowed by the host to reassure the guests by proving that there is no intent to poison them. Extravagant as this may sound, it is a necessary bit of etiquette in a land where tea-parties are so often fatal to a rich man's enemies. Finally, little painted glasses full of mint tea are served to all, and the traditional three rounds of this abominable concoction—a sort of warm and flat mint-julep, with the true soul of a mint-julep lacking—must be drunk on pain of being thought ill-bred. If the glasses are not completely emptied every time, the residue is complacently turned back into the teapot, to which more mint and water have meantime been added, and the greater noise we make in drinking the tea, the better are our manners thought to be. The resulting sounds at a really fashionable tea-party suggest the releasing of the air-brakes on a railway train.

During the function, sticky sweetmeats and preserved fruits, that are as revolting as they are adhesive, are passed repeatedly, and every time we are expected to accept and eat. I nearly ruined my digestion in an attempt to be polite. My friend, more happily situated, is able to pour most of his tea out of the window, and deftly to drop the sticky abominations out upon the heads of the passers-by.

Escaping finally, we make another call, this time upon the little colony connected with the mission school of the French Israelite Alliance. We find it most refreshing to meet a group of educated people, with whom to talk of all the strange things we have seen. Among them are the teachers, sent from France, their wives and families, and also a number of the most progressive Jews in Fez. The boys are students of the school, and a fat one is presented as the prize pupil of the institution, the pride and admiration of his teachers who put him through his paces at a blackboard to convince us of his cleverness. He certainly did gallop through arithmetical puzzles with rapidity and ease, and answered the questions that we propounded with a facility that put us quite to shame, for we could think of nothing difficult enough to stagger him for a moment.

Then, after another infliction of mint tea and some sweetmeats that seemed like sugar-coated sausages, we take our leave, descend the narrow stairway, and pass out into the dingy little street. An avalanche of shouts and laughter overwhelms us, and looking up we see the sky-line of the house adorned with a border of kindly faces, smiling down a cheery "_au revoir_." For it has been arranged that we are all to meet again upon the morrow. These new-found friends have been invited to spend the day at our villa, to attend a picnic in our garden, to forget there in the leafy spaciousness of our temporary abode the cramped and airless houses of the Mellah.

There are no private gardens in the Mellah, lack of space forbids; nor are there public gardens in the Moorish city. Therefore the Jews must take their air and sunshine on the housetops, where level terraces, surrounded by low parapets, afford them opportunities to bake themselves in the torrid atmosphere of Africa. Needless to say, our invitation was accepted, and next morning, shortly after breakfast, a caravan of white-robed guests makes its appearance at our garden door. The women have ridden on mule-back across the city, for they are all protégés of France, and therefore are not compelled to go about on foot, like nearly all their co-religionists.

Great preparations have been made by Haj for their entertainment. He has adorned the house and court-yard with objects borrowed from unsuspecting owners. Let me explain that almost every evening when we return from rambles in the city, we find awaiting us two or three dealers in curios, rugs, old brocades, and Moorish weapons; their goods spread out in a most artistic, tempting fashion. Haj has induced the men who came the night before to leave their goods on approval until the following evening; and thus it is that we are able to give our picnic a rich Oriental setting without incurring any great expense. In the picture of the merrymakers it may be interesting to identify my friend, who sits on the extreme left, robed in a white burnoose. Then on the right is Haj, dressed in his best; near him there sits an old gray-bearded man. He is our only Moorish guest, one of the few Moors who is free from the prejudices of his race, who does not fear to sit at meat with Jews and Christians; moreover, he speaks Spanish fluently. But he is more of a good fellow than a good Mohammedan; to our knowledge he dares to disregard the rule of total abstinence imposed upon the nation, for in his home there is a secret cellar filled with wine. And, curiously, this old _bon vivant_, who to-day makes merry with us in our Moorish garden, bears the same name as he who sang the joys of the "jug in a Persian Garden" long ago; his name, too, is Omar.