TAFILET

BERBER VILLAGE IN THE VALLEY OF THE GHADAT.

TAFILET

THE NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY OF EXPLORATION IN THE
ATLAS MOUNTAINS AND THE OASES OF THE
NORTH-WEST SAHARA

BY
WALTER B. HARRIS, F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF
‘A JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN,’ ‘THE LAND OF AN AFRICAN SULTAN
TRAVELS IN MOROCCO,’ ‘DANOVITCH, AND OTHER
STORIES,’ ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY MAURICE ROMBERG
FROM SKETCHES AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXCV

All Rights reserved

TO
CLEMENTS R. MARKHAM, Esq.,
C.B., F.R.S., F.S.A.,
PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY,
This Book
IS DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE.

Very few words of preface are necessary for this book.

To three friends I owe hearty thanks for assistance toward the successful accomplishment of my journey—namely, to Alexander Peckover, Esq., D.C.L., F.L.S., F.R.G.S., &c.; James Mason, Esq.; and R. G. Haliburton, Esq.

To the Proprietors of the ‘Illustrated London News’ I am gratefully indebted for the use of the drawings made from my original sketches and photographs, which have been most generously placed at the disposal of my publishers and myself.

WALTER B. HARRIS.

November 1895.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS

[(Large-size)]

SKETCH MAP OF MOROCCO,
Showing Mr W. B. Harris’s Routes to and from Tafilet.

Author’s route

TAFILET.

CHAPTER I.
PREPARATIONS AND START.

It had long been my intention to make a journey of exploration into, and if possible beyond, the Atlas Mountains; and though on several occasions my plans had been already formulated, I had been obliged, almost at the last moment, to abandon the idea.

However, the close of the year 1893 offered an opportunity which could not be neglected; but before entering upon the description of my journey, a few words must be said as to what not a little helped it toward success.

Mulai el Hassen, the Sultan of Morocco, had been meditating for some years an expedition into the southern regions of his dominions, toward that indefinite frontier which divided his country from the wastes of the Sahara desert. Until, however, the spring of the year 1893 he had been so occupied with summer expeditions, organised to crush petty rebellions and intertribal strife, that he had found no favourable opportunity of making any protracted absence from the seat of his Government; for so miserable are the means of communication in Morocco, that, once across the Atlas Mountains, he was practically as distant from his capital—and still more from the residence of the European Ministers accredited to his Court, who reside at Tangier—as Kamskatka is from London.

However, during the summer of 1892 the tribes had been so punished for their many rebellious offences, and so heavily taxed in consequence, that his Majesty felt but little anxiety in carrying out his projected visit to his trans-Atlas dominions.

But there were other questions almost as serious to be considered—first, his relations with foreign Powers; and, secondly, the reception that might await him in those far-off corners of his realm.

With regard to the former, while avoiding all political questions, one or two words must be said. First, it must be understood that Mulai el Hassen, the late Sultan, was not only an autocratic ruler, but his own Minister of Foreign Affairs; and a great difficulty therefore arose as to who, in the case of sudden foreign complications, should be directed to fill his place. No one knew the temperament of his Ministers and Viziers better than the Sultan, and probably no one could trust them less; for although their patriotism might be all that was desired, it was very possible that this same over-zeal might lead them into difficulties. For this reason the relations of his country with the European Governments were temporarily put into the hands of a council, in which the acting Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sid Fadhul Gharnit, held but only an equal voice with the rest; while the powers vested in Sid el Haj Mohammed Torres, the Vizier-resident at Tangier, were more fully specified and amplified, for alone of all the members of the Sultan’s Government this man could be said to possess the confidence both of the European Ministers and his master.

Having announced the manner in which all questions of foreign affairs were to be regulated during his absence, there was to be considered the second serious difficulty of the enterprise—the reception he would receive. For the purpose of ensuring success in this respect, long before his Majesty started from Fez for the south, influential members of his family, already acquainted with the tribes in question and their attitude toward the Sultan, were sent out to bully and bribe. Of the two, the latter did the most toward ensuring his Majesty’s safe passage through the Berber tribes, and by March 1893 everything was prepared for a start to be made.

It is usual for the rulers of Morocco to change their residence from year to year, spending the winters in one of the larger cities, either Fez, Meknas, or Marakesh, and during the summer and autumn to make the long marches from the north to the south of the empire, or vice versa. The enormous retinue accompanying the Sultan, the quantity of baggage to be transported, to say nothing of the insufficiency of all commissariat arrangements and the entire absence of roads, renders these royal progresses matters often of several months’ duration.

None can have known better than the Sultan the difficulties—even dangers—of the journey before him; for, although he possessed no personal knowledge of the country to be traversed, he was well informed as to the climatic changes that would have to be endured, as to difficulty in finding food for his troops, and still greater difficulty for his horses and mules, and as to the physical aspect of the country, which presented, along the proposed routes, not only the heat and cold of the desert, but the passage of mountain-passes, one alone of which reaches an altitude of over 8000 feet above the sea-level,—and this amongst subjects who, by birth a different and a semi-conquered nation, would provide nothing or little for his welfare, and whose reception, if hearty enough in words, would lack any real enthusiasm.

There can be no doubt that influence was used to prevent Mulai el Hassen starting out upon this journey, the expenses of which, even to a European Government, would be enormous, while the dangers were scarcely less; but so persistent was his Majesty in carrying out his idea, that he showed little favour to those who tendered him advice, and let it be clearly understood that the matter rested with him alone.

In April a start was made from Fez, the direction being due south, and a halt of a few days was called at Sufru, a small town some sixteen miles away from the capital. Here the European officers attached to the Sultan’s suite were informed that it had been decided that they were not to accompany his Majesty, and they forthwith returned to Fez. The sole exception made was in the case of the French doctor, M. Linares, who was commanded to remain with the army, and to make the journey with the Sultan.

After weary months of hard travel and equally hard delays, Mulai el Hassen reached his goal, Tafilet, the home of his ancestors, in the first week of November.

There is no need here to recount the march from Fez to that oasis; suffice it to say that, in spite of the physical difficulties of the country, the scarcity of provisions and fodder, and the half-hearted reception of the Berber tribes, it was successfully accomplished.

It may be thought that I have already digressed too far from the purpose of my book in making these introductory remarks; but as it was owing to the Sultan’s presence in Tafilet that I was able to undertake my journey at all, and happily bring it to a successful end, I have felt constrained to briefly state the reasons that had taken Mulai el Hassen to the far-away oasis in the desert from which his dynasty originally sprung.

As to the motives of the Sultan, it is difficult to state anything with certainty. No doubt religious zeal to pray at the reverenced tomb of his ancestor, Mulai Ali Shereef, had much to do with the desire to undertake so long and trying a journey, for it could have been from no hope that by so doing any considerable sums of money could be collected or extorted, as was generally believed to be the case, for none could have been better aware than he of the poverty of the country and its inhabitants. Probably it was solely the religious point, touched with some anxious curiosity to see the home of his ancestors, that led him to empty the treasury upon an expedition from which no real, and but little moral, benefit could accrue.

I had meanwhile been carefully watching such glimpses of information as from time to time reached England as to the whereabouts of the Sultan and his army, and scanty and contradictory as they were, I was able by the beginning of September 1893 to gather that his Majesty’s journey, in spite of a general belief to the contrary, would be successful, and that Tafilet would be reached.

I therefore left England in the middle of September, and collecting the few necessaries for my journey at Tangier, reached Saffi, some 400 miles down the Atlantic coast of Morocco, in the second week of October.

The journey from Tangier to Saffi was one that presented but little of interest. The coast-steamer in which I travelled visited the various ports,—Laraiche, Rabat, Casablanca (Dar el baida), and Mazagan, all of which I knew well. The weather was rough, and we had some difficulty in communicating at more than one of the ports, lying for some twenty hours off Rabat before the lighters were able to issue from the mouth of the river—the Bu Regreg—that separates that town from Sallee, the home of the old rovers, whose depredations upon English sailing-ships were at one time so well known and so much dreaded.

However, on the fifth day after leaving, Saffi was reached, and fortunately the sea was calm enough to allow of our landing in one of the strangely built and decorated surf-boats in use at that port.

Landing in Saffi.

What a shouting and yelling there was of the boatmen, as my Riffi servant Mohammed, of whom more anon, and I, perched on the top of our little pile of baggage, were tossed to and fro by the curling seas that one after another broke along the beach! In silence the steersman watched his opportunity, and with a smooth gliding motion we were borne between rugged rocks, and our boat lay high and dry upon the beach.

Saffi has been too often described to need more than the merest mention here. It is a strange, flat-roofed, white town, reaching from the sea-beach high up the semicircle of hills by which it is enclosed, the summit capped by the windowless walls and peaked towers of the great castle, once a palace of the Sultans, now little more than a deserted ruin.

Within the town the streets are narrow and dirty. In rainy seasons the mud is almost knee-deep, and a torrent flows through the main street. The native inhabitants are poor, and accordingly but little signs of luxury or trade are to be found, with the exceptions of the large stores of the few European merchants who reside there. The town is walled, in parts of Moorish workmanship, in others the remains of the old Portuguese occupation; for Saffi, like most of the other towns of the Atlantic coast of Morocco, once formed a small colony of the “King of the Algarves.”

The few days I spent at Saffi passed pleasantly enough, for I was entertained by Mr Hunot, her Majesty’s Vice-Consul, whose knowledge of Arabic and Morocco, gained from a residence of some forty years in the country, is exceptional; and though I chafed at the delays that always meet one in dealing with Moors, he did much to render my time as agreeable as could be to a man who was intent upon nothing but in making a start.

Small as my preparations were, they caused me several days’ more delay than I liked; but before the week was out I found myself on the eve of departure, with a couple of mules, an old man who was to be my guide, philosopher, and friend, his son and his nephew, a black slave-girl belonging to his establishment, a stray Sahara pilgrim, and my Riffi servant.

Adopting the dress of the country on my departure, and mounting a pack-mule on the top of the luggage, we set out one morning, not at sunrise as I had hoped, for the old man forgot everything that he could forget, and remembered an enormous quantity of things he should have left behind, and it was near mid-day before we passed out under the old gateway of the town and climbed the steep hill, in the valley below which the only gardens that Saffi can boast are situated.

The heat was intense and water scarce, and both we and our poor animals suffered the entire road to Marakesh, or, as it is more commonly called, Morocco City, a distance of about a hundred miles. There had been no rain for some five months, and even the metafir, as the natives call their underground cisterns, were nearly dry, and many quite so.

The road from Saffi to Marakesh presents no aspect of peculiar interest. The tribes of Abda and Beled Ahmar are passed through, the latter boasting the dreary circular salt lake of Zima, near which is a cluster of white buildings, a mdarsa or sort of college, where the late Sultan and many of his sons received their education. The inhabitants are all Arabs, but their villages are few and far between, or lie off the road. The country, at this time of year a dreary stony waste, is in the spring one great field of waving corn; and the horses of Beled Ahmar are famous. Owing to the heat, we did not arrive at Morocco City until the fourth day, and did not actually enter until the morning of the fifth, preferring to spend the night just outside the walls.

There is one scene, however, that presents itself as one nears the city that cannot be passed over without mention, though I myself, amongst others, have described it before. Yet so strikingly grand is it, and so unique, that it demands reference in any work that deals with this portion of Morocco. I refer to the first view of the wide valley of the Tensift, with its wonderful background of the range of the Atlas Mountains.

We had been climbing the steep slopes of Jibeelet, the name given to the range of hills that form the north boundary of the wide valley of the Tensift, for some little time before the plain beneath came into view. The ascent had been a hot and tiring one,

A Well at Sunset

and we and our mules were thirsty indeed. Nor were there any means of obtaining water, for during some hours we only passed one small village belonging to a few shepherds of the Arab tribe of Ulad Dlim, and their waterjars were empty. The well was a couple of miles away, and not till sunset were they going to fill the jars again. Dirty and poverty-stricken their little collection of thatched hovels and grimy tents were, but picturesque all the same, with a group of women in dark-blue cotton in the foreground, wearing necklaces of large amber beads and coral, and with long plaits of untidy hair, while dogs and naked children stood by and watched our little caravan pass. Up we toiled until, passing through a narrow gorge, the scene opened out before us in indescribable beauty. At our feet lay the valley of the Tensift, far below us, stretching away some thirty miles or so to where the great range of the Atlas rose majestically from the plain. Green was the valley, green with crops and groves of date-palms, while here, there, and everywhere sparkled and glittered the river Tensift and the many canals that carry water from its stream to irrigate the surrounding country. A haze hung over the valley, that sufficed, without in any way hiding its beauties, to soften the effect of the fierce sunlight; so that beyond the river the plain appeared to shimmer in semi-unreality until there arose from the level ground the great barrier of mountain beyond, its summit white with snow, its base blue with distance.

Inexpressibly grand it was, yet not with the grandeur that rugged cliffs and precipices can give, for beyond everything appealed to one the richness of the scene. After the hot weary march across waterless plains, the vegetation was surpassingly welcome; and the dark forest of palm-trees, stretching for miles along the valley, was as cheering to our eyes as are the lights of his village to the storm-tossed mariner. There are few views in the world that can equal the first sight one obtains of the Tensift valley and the Atlas Mountains,—the strange mingling of tropical vegetation, of fields green with crops, and of peaks 13,000 and 14,000 feet high, one and all capped with snow, forming a unique scene. There, too, was the city, its minarets, like little needles, peeping above the level of the feathery heads of the palms, but still far away.

The glimpse of shade and water gave energy to our weary bodies, and we pushed on as fast as was possible for the tired mules, who, nevertheless, needed but little urging, for to them, too, the scene must have appealed as much as, if not more than, to ourselves.

At a stream we drank; then entering the palm-groves, threaded our way, here through a forest of tall straight stems, there through fields of green maize, until within a mile or two of the city we camped for the night at a small nzala, or resting-place for caravans.

As often in these pages this word nzala will be found, it may be as well to explain its purport here. Owing to the lawlessness of the tribes, small villages have been planted by the native Government along all the tracks which in Morocco answer the purposes of roads. Usually the inhabitants of these wayside caravanserais are natives of some other tribe, brought there and given a small grant of land. The villages consist merely of thatch huts and the brown ghiem or tents of the Arabs; but there is always a large zareba, or open space enclosed with a high and thick thorn hedge, in which travellers and their pack-animals spend the night. The village community furnishes a guard at the only entrance to this zareba, and in case of robbery the inhabitants are held responsible by the Government. In return for this responsibility they collect a small tax from any who make use of their protection. The system is a good one, and theft is very uncommon, it being greatly to the villagers’ benefit to carefully guard the traveller’s property and exact the small fee, rather than by stealing call down upon themselves the wrath of the native Government and the rapacity of the local officials.

So at the last nzala on the road from Saffi to Marakesh we spent the night, pitching our one little tent in the zareba, and hiring an elderly female, who possessed only one eye, to cook us some supper in her hut of thatch; and, considering that her fire consisted only of bunches of thistles, which had to be replaced almost as soon as they were lit, she performed her task with skill and success.

Berber Tribesmen.

The next morning, at the tail of our little caravan, I entered Marakesh on foot, grimy and travel-stained, and reached my destination, the house of Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui, without attracting any attention as a Christian in disguise.

Here comfort, even luxury, awaited me, and pleasant indeed were the eight days I spent in the city before continuing my journey—this time into unknown regions.

Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui is almost the best-known man in Morocco, and probably the most disliked, a fact in which he takes particular pride. Protected by the British Government, to all intents and purposes a British subject, he has by these means been able to amass a large fortune without the native Government having annexed it and imprisoned the possessor. Whether this fortune has been altogether collected by creditable means, according to European ideas of business, I am unable to say, nor is it a matter of any importance. Suffice it that his fortune has made him many enemies, whose jealousy at seeing him easily and safely amassing wealth, while they have been under the constant dread of confiscation by officials, and continual taxation, has reached such a pitch that they have not hesitated to spread all kinds of scandalous reports about his goings on. These reports reached the ears, amongst others, of British philanthropists in England; and while Sid Abu Bekr was engaged in building fresh houses and buying new gardens in his native city, the House of Commons was being harangued as to the perfidies of the so-called “Government Agent” in Morocco City. It did not stop there; newspapers, even foreign European Governments, took the question up, and his name became of common mention in official despatches. As long, however, as his personal liberty was not affected, he merely laughed at these hazardous statements, until one day it was brought to his ears that things looked serious, and that the only English newspaper in Morocco was calling him a slave-dealer, a brothel-keeper, and, if I remember right, a murderer.

Then Abu Bekr girt up his loins to fight, and for some ten days his action for libel occupied the time of the High Court of Gibraltar. I was present on the occasion, and shall never forget the scene when, seated in the witness-box, Sid Abu Bekr, robed in silks and fine linens, answered calmly and expressionlessly the extremely unpleasant questions put to him by the defendant—unpleasant in that they referred to that, to the Moor, most private of questions, his wives and his daughters. Every atrocity, every crime, was stated to have been committed by him; but with no result more than the fact that Sid Abu Bekr won his action with costs, and 500 dollars damages, and an injunction that the libel should not be repeated.

Thereupon, his character legally cleared, he returned once more to Marakesh, where, surrounded by his little daughters, to whom he is devotedly attached, he lives in luxury and wealth.

In the house of this man my days were spent, just as I lived another three weeks with him on my return journey, and I received from him then, just as I have always done, every mark of kindness and hospitality. Even the interior of his house was open to me, and many a pleasant hour I passed playing with his little daughters, whose dresses of silks and brocades sparkled with jewels.

By this time I had found opportunity to take stock of my travelling companions, who, as they played a by no means unimportant part in the success of my journey, deserve some notice.

The chief of our party, by position, age, and, he himself would probably add, acquirements, was the elderly Shereef. In person he was dark, of a sort of coffee-colour, with a grey beard and moustache; a short figure inclined to stoutness, and a bad habit of trying to sing. Himself a native of the Sahara, it was on him that I principally relied for success in my undertaking, my personality and disguise being concealed under the bushel of his reputation and accomplishments. Principal amongst the latter was his knowledge of medicine, a hereditary knowledge it must be understood, part of the baraka, or blessing, of his august family, for he was a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed. I unfortunately had no opportunity of seeing the result of his skill, for when in his company I was never in one place sufficiently long to obtain any information as to the potency of the draughts he administered out of one of the three empty soda-water-bottles he had with him. It was entirely my own fault, though, that I did not see him perform the operation he was most skilled in—namely, cataract—for before leaving Tangier I had received a letter from him asking me to bring a large bottle of chloroform and a knife suitable for the purpose. This I steadily refused to do, and I think that the old man felt the slight I had unintentionally offered him, and fancied that I doubted his skill. At least he was always holding forth upon the subject, and continually repeating the story that when in Algeria he had been offered a fabulous salary—the sum varied each time the tale was told—to remain in charge of the military hospital at Algiers, an honour which he had declined. He never tired of narrating the facts and details of his most successful operation. There is a sect in Morocco called “Hamacha,” who are followers of a certain saint by name Sidi Ali ben Hamduch, who lies buried near Meknas. These devotees amuse their audience—and themselves too, let us hope—by throwing into the air heavy cannon-balls, which they allow to fall upon their shaven crowns. On the occasion in question a Hamdushi had unfortunately evidently been wanting in religious power, for the cannon-ball crushed his skull. My old Shereef friend had been called to the rescue, and according to his account, which, let us hope, for the sake of science as well as his own reputation, is a true one, he removed the broken patch of skull, replacing it with the rind of a green pumpkin, and closing the skin over it. In a month’s time the patient was not only convalescent but was once more hard at work practising his religio-acrobatic feats, with not only a remodelled and renovated skull, but even a new crop of hair! Such, then, was the skill of the leader of our caravan.

But there was another member who aspired to play the chief part in our little camp—the black slave-girl. Of all the mischievous impertinent hussies that ever saw the light of day she was the worst. Alternately shrieking with laughter at her practical jokes, and howling with rage because she couldn’t get what she wanted for supper, she was equally annoying in either capacity. At the same time, one could not help laughing at her strange antics. Why she had come at all was at first a mystery to me, until it leaked out that she had insisted upon doing so, and had pulled the old man’s beard until, with tears in his eyes, he had promised to take her—anyhow, come she did. Her mother was a slave of the Shereef’s wife—the wife who lived at Saffi, for there were a couple more at Dads, where he had formerly resided, and where his home really was—who had been bought with her little daughter, our fellow-traveller, some ten years before. The girl was fearfully ugly, as black as jet, with all the typical features of the negro. However, one readily forgave her this, and all her sins as well, for many a laugh her antics caused us when hunger and cold made a laugh worth double its ordinary value. When she was riding she wanted to walk; as soon as she commenced to walk she wanted some one to mount her again on the mule, from which, if she did not purposely alight, she would invariably tumble off. Such was the lady of our party, and she accompanied us as far as Dads, leaving there with the old Shereef some four days before I arrived at Tafilet. She stood the cold and fatigue of the journey well, and ought to be made a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, for she had a wonderfully retentive memory of the road and all the places we had stayed at, though as often as not she managed to forget the sternly delivered command that she was not to eat our complete store of dates while our backs were turned. Enough of Embarka, for such was her name.

The next individual in our caravan was of a very different kind and class,—a long, tall, delicate, thin man of some four-and-twenty years of age, with one of the most beautiful voices in speaking I ever heard. He was himself a Shereef, a nephew of the old doctor’s; and a man of absolute fearlessness in danger, and equal gentleness and sweetness of manner in time of peace. He never complained of cold or hunger, though we suffered much from both, but bore all the hardships of the journey, and they were many indeed, not only with every fortitude, but also without ever losing an opportunity to attempt to add to my comfort. As we trudged along the weary desert roads he would for hours together, with a voice that would be the fortune of a Member of Parliament, and gestures that an actor might spend years and never acquire, relate to me strange stories of the past, page after page of Moorish history and tradition, in Arabic as pure and as poetical as any that can exist.

The very opposite was the old Shereef’s son, a boy of some twelve or thirteen years of age. Heavy in body and mind, he had neither the intellect to be amusing nor the inclination to be useful, and served no other purpose of advantage than to be the object of the black girl’s practical jokes instead of any other of us.

There was, too, in our party the returning pilgrim, a devotee of the sect of Mulai Ali el Derkaui, as was apparent from his green turban and the string of large wooden beads he wore suspended round his neck. A strange quiet man he was, always ready to help us load our animals or pitch our one little tent, but seldom speaking; never missing the hour of prayer, and often himself bearing part of the load of his little donkey, on which he was carrying to his native village a few bars of rough iron to be forged into ploughshares. We saw but little of him: he was always a hundred yards ahead or behind, counting his beads as he came along; and often when we missed him altogether we could see away back along the road his figure, or its shadow, for his colour and that of his clothes corresponded too truly with the yellow sand, as he rose and fell in prayer. I was much struck by his quiet, patient, uncomplaining way. He didn’t belong to us, but travelling in the same direction, he joined our little caravan, and we made the journey together. I of all our party had some conversation with him, for kind as were they all to the solitary stranger, he was timid and retired. However, we often talked together as I trudged beside him, and he seemed to be a man of no little power of reasoning and thought. Often in discussing theological questions, and he would talk of nothing else, it became apparent that a battle was raging in his heart, a battle of common-sense against prejudice and fanaticism. He had travelled to Mecca and back, and his eyes had been opened, and he seemed to realise the narrow-mindedness of the school in which he had been brought up. He spoke openly to me, for to the day he left us at Dads to turn aside to his home, he never knew I was a Christian and a European, and often we prayed together by the roadside.

There remains but one more man to mention, my servant Mohammed er-Rifi, who followed me faithfully throughout the long journey, and returned with me to Tangier to commence again the humdrum existence of waiting at table and sweeping floors. An excellent youth he is, all good nature and smiles, strong and trustworthy, but preferring the luxuries and warmth of my kitchen to sharing the hardships of a desert tramp of several hundred miles. However, he never complained until the end of the journey, and then, arrived once more in Marakesh, he cursed the desert, and all that in it is, with all the curses he could muster—a very tolerable lot, on the whole. However, I cannot speak too highly of his fidelity and of the patience with which he bore what must have been to him a most terrible journey—nor forget to say that at times he hints that he and I should set out afresh for pastures new.

I have entered somewhat at length into the characters and description of my men, but some word of praise is only due to them; for had I not been surrounded by a faithful and uncomplaining band, my success in reaching Tafilet would never have come about.

The usual delays occurred in Marakesh before we got started once more, this time again the fault of the old Shereef, who wanted to buy presents to take to his relations at Dads,—the existence of whom, although he had two wives and quite a number of children there, he had apparently forgotten for several years,—and could not decide what to purchase.

So having found quarters for my men and my mules, I determined to enjoy the last few days of rest and plenty that I was destined to know for several months.

From Saffi, to Morocco City: a weekly Market.

CHAPTER II.
MARAKESH.

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

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

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

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

A GENERAL VIEW OF MOROCCO CITY.

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

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

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

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

A Street in Marakesh.

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

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

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

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

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

Inner Court of Sultan’s Palace in Marakesh.

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

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

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

The Kutubía in Marakesh.

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

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

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

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

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

THE SÔK JUMMA-EL-FANAR, THE PRINCIPAL PLACE IN MOROCCO CITY.

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

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

A Jewish Banker of Marakesh.

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

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

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

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

A Street Scene in Marakesh.

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

CHAPTER III.
THE ASCENT OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Berbers.

Berbers, whose one desire as to clothing seems to be absolute freedom of limb. The haik, or toga-like garment of the Arabs, is used amongst the better-class Berbers, but merely as a luxury. Their typical costume consists of the chamira, or long loose shirt reaching from the neck to below the knees, and the haidus above, the open hooded cloak called by the Arabs s’lham. This in the case of the mountaineers takes the form of the black goat’s-hair article, and in that of the Berbers of the plains of a thick but finely woven garment of white wool. The one distinguishing mark in the costume of the two races, however, is the following: while the Arab loves to gird his waist with a sash or leather belt, the Berbers have the greatest objection to anything of the sort, and seldom, if ever, wear either. Some exception to these customs can always be found in the case of Berbers who have left their native lands to work in the Moorish cities, and here they can often be found in dress absolutely resembling in every detail that of the poorer class of townspeople; but this is owing far more to necessity than option, for the local Berber materials cannot be found, except rarely, in the Moorish towns.

In appearance, too, besides the difference of feature of which I shall have opportunity to refer anon, there is considerable variance of fashion and custom. While the Arabs leave unshaven their beards and only trim their moustaches, the Berbers of the Atlas and the country beyond shave the entire face with the exception of a small pointed beard on the chin, which is connected with the ears by a fine closely cropped line of hair. This shaving of the head is general throughout both people, the only class who fail to do so being devotees, the sects of “Ulad bu Sba,” who leave the entire skull covered with hair; the followers of Sid ben Aissa, or “Aissaua,” who leave crown alone unshaven; and the Riffis and mountaineers of the north, who wear the gitaya and kron respectively, the former a long lock on the centre of the back of the head, the latter grown on one side above the ear. It would be interesting to discover the origin of these various but unvaried customs of locks of hair, for the common explanation that they are to be pulled up to heaven by is not only absurd but altogether an insult to the high system of theology possessed by many who wear them. So systematically are these customs preserved that there can be little doubt, especially in the case of the Berbers, that they date from a period long anterior to the introduction of Islam.

Leaving the valley of the Wad Misfiwa on the morning of November 3, we turned directly to the east and crossed the spur of the Atlas that lies between the valley of the former river and the Wad Ghadat. This slope of the lower Atlas takes the form of a plateau, with an average altitude above the level of the sea of some 3000 feet, and is known as Tugana, a district under the jurisdiction of the Kaid of Misfiwa.

But very few villages or habitations were to be seen, and the greater part of the soil seemed capable of but little cultivation, being here torn into deep water-courses, there covered with brushwood. One stream alone is crossed, the Wad Masin, a small clear river of no size, but which, from the appearance of its banks, floods in the rainy season. Near the ford were a few gardens, and dense bushes of oleanders lined its course. A very short distance beyond, one of the customary weekly sôks or markets is held; but not being market-day, the place was deserted and left to a mangy dog or two, and a few ravens which sought for food amongst the offal and dirt. There are no buildings at the market, for the native shopkeepers bring their little tents—gaiaton—in which they expose their wares for sale, packing up the same in the afternoon and pushing on, probably to be in time to visit another sôk elsewhere the following day. The usual custom is for the consecutive sôks along the main roads to be held on following days, so as to allow all the travelling vendors of goods to visit one after the other in succession. I have sometimes travelled for a week and found each day some market by the roadside in full swing, by having hit off the right day at the first sôk and followed them up in succession, though it is far more common to miss the entire number, and never see a full market-place at all upon a long journey. These sôks are always known by the name of the day on which they are held, with the name of the place added as a distinctive mark. Thus one finds “Had el Gharbiya,” “Sunday of the Gharbiya,” and “Arbaa of Sid Aissa,” “the Wednesday of Sid Aissa,” so called from its proximity to the tomb of that saint. Near this sôk of Tugana is a small semi-deserted village of stone-built huts, a dreary poverty-stricken-looking place. From this spot we had a choice of roads to the summit of the Atlas—namely, either to pursue the one we eventually followed, viâ the Wad Ghadat and Zarkten, or to turn to the south, and skirting the side of the steep mountains on our right, strike as straight a line across country as the nature of the land would allow. The latter, a mere track, often passing along the face of precipices and at all parts difficult, leads viâ Gadaruz and Tizi Aït Imiger to Zarkten, where the two unite. However, we chose the longer but more practicable, and even that was bad enough. What the other must have been like it is impossible even to guess; but the fact that it is only pursued by the native mountaineers and sturdy mountain mules would probably have meant that for us it would have been impassable.

Ten miles after leaving the nzala in the valley of the Wad Misfiwa, we descended by an execrable path to the level of the Wad Ghadat, close to

Fording the Wad Ghadat.

where a ruined or incompleted bridge raises its broken arches from the stony river-bed. The ford was bad enough, even though the river was not high, and it was only by piling the loads bit by bit on to the top of the pack-saddle of the highest mule that we succeeded in getting our baggage across at all, for the stream was strong and wide and swift.

No history or tradition seems to contain any record of the bridge, which, if ever completed, must have been a fine work with its five high arches; but it is easily apparent that it is of Moorish workmanship, and was no doubt erected by one of the early Sultans of the present dynasty, probably in the seventeenth century, for previous to that period the communication between Morocco and Tafilet was almost nil, the two countries forming as a rule separate kingdoms, though now and then falling under the jurisdiction of one Sultan, as in the case of three successive rulers of the Beni Merín dynasty. After the seizure of the thrones of Morocco and Fez by the Filelis, who still govern Morocco, it would be only more than probable that one of their first acts would be to keep communication open with the desert, whence their armies were drawn; and even to-day the river Ghadat at the time of the melting snows prevents all farther progress up or down the road over which we were travelling, which would not be the case were the bridge in repair, though the snows in the heights above would as often as not effectually bar all farther progress beyond.

The distance from the bridge over the Ghadat to Zarkten, the principal village and residence of the deputy governor of the district, cannot be more than about ten miles as the crow flies; but the river was too full to allow us to follow its bed, the shortest route, and we were obliged to climb by a precipitous path high up the mountain-side on the east bank of the river. Keeping parallel with the Wad Ghadat, except that we had necessarily to follow the escarpment of the range, we toiled on over a stony and rock-strewn track for some four hours. Tiring as the rough walking was—and it required, too, all our energies to prevent our mules and donkeys slipping on the smooth rock—the scenery amply repaid us for the disadvantages we had to suffer.

Perhaps the valley of the Ghadat was not so wild as some of the Atlas scenery we were yet to see; but it certainly possessed one feature that all the others lacked—namely, vegetation; for here on the cool north slopes of the range rain falls in plentiful supplies in winter and spring.

Away above us the mountains towered—here clothed to their summits with pine, arbutus, gum cistus, and evergreen oak; there rearing precipice upon precipice of bare forbidding rock to where the eternal snows formed a line of white against the sky. Below us, for our road ascended high up the mountain-side, lay the valley, clothed in verdure, through the centre of which, now in a wide stone-strewn bed, now dashing between high walls of rock, flowed the river, the roar of which was the only sound that broke the silence. Here and there we looked down on to the flat roofs of the Berber villages, where a small patch of land would be reclaimed, and walnut and other trees planted, through the branches of which peeps of narrow terraces, green with vegetables, appeared. Strange beautiful shapes the mountains take, at places rolling in sweeping curves, at others broken into rock projections and precipices, but everywhere presenting some point of grandeur and beauty.

At length towards sunset Zarkten came into sight, ahead and far below us, and we hurried on, hoping to reach the Sheikh’s house before dark, and thus obtain provisions for the night and our next day’s journey; but when, in fast falling twilight, we reached the rocky bed of the river, we found all hope of fording it to be impossible, and reluctantly retraced our steps to a few stone hovels we had passed a quarter of a mile back, near which we found space to pitch our tent. The cold was extreme, and it was only by untiring efforts that we were able to persuade the inhabitants to sell us a fowl, which, of its kind the very poorest, was no meal for eight people. Bread

A View from above Zarkten.

and the native kuskus were neither to be obtained, and a few dried figs was all that our stock consisted of.

At daylight we descended once more by a precipitous path, and, after a weary hour and a half of labour, succeeded in getting our animals and our baggage across the river. So tired were the poor mules and donkeys with their struggle of perhaps 100 yards against the swift current, that we were obliged to call an hour’s rest on the farther bank, where we lay down under the shade of the grove of trees that surround the residence of the Sheikh.

A picturesque castle it is that the deputy governor of the district has built himself at Zarkten, though probably he gave more thought to its defence than to its appearance in designing it. The main body of the castle, for such it is, is a large square block, with a high tower at each corner, the latter gradually tapering as they ascend. The whole is built of tabia of dull yellow colour, but the summits of the towers are decorated with a coating of white-wash. Surrounding the whole building is a wall, parts of which form outhouses and rooms for retainers and guests. Standing in its groves of trees underneath a peaked mountain wooded with pines, it presents not only an effect of great picturesqueness, but also appears to possess the undoubted advantage in such a lawless country of being impregnable.

We had passed but few caravans or travellers on the road hither—merely a mountaineer or two singing cheerily as he came along driving his little mule before him, probably laden with the dates of Tafilet, which change hands many times before they reach Marakesh. A few of the mountain Jews, too, we met now and again—long gaunt figures, many carrying arms, and one and all a finer type of man than their co-religionists of the plains; for they have a hard existence these Israelites of the Atlas, and though not persecuted, find it difficult enough to scrape a living from their trades, for, as a rule, they are gunsmiths, workers in silver, or dealers in hides. As soon as our animals were rested, we lifted our scanty baggage once more on to their backs, and set out afresh upon our journey.

At Zarkten the valley splits into two parts, one continuing the general direction—north and south—that we had been following, while the other turns away to the west. It is from the latter that the Wad Ghadat flows, rising in the snows of Jibel Tidili, or Glawi, while the other is drained by the Wad Tetula, so called from a small settlement of Berbers, higher up its course, but locally known as the Asif Adrar n’Iri, “the stream of Mount Iri.” Just above the Sheikh’s house, and within 100 yards of it, the two rivers unite.

Turning a little to the west, we ascended an incline amongst gardens and fields and pine-trees, above the

The Sheikh’s House at Zarkten.

river Ghadat, until we reached the main portion of the village of Zarkten, a mile farther on. The place is poor enough, a few stone and tabia houses of mean appearance lying on a dreary level of bare soil at the foot of the great mountains beyond, and we did not turn aside to examine it more closely, for the view we obtained of the place from the distance of a few hundred yards was depressing enough. There is a considerable settlement of Jews at Zarkten, from whom we had hoped to obtain provisions; but it being Saturday, they would not sell, and the man we sent to the mellah, or Jews’ quarter, returned empty-handed.

Our road turned once more to the south, and we commenced a steep ascent by a sandy track up the side of a well-wooded mountain, at the summit of which I found that we had reached an altitude of 5600 feet above the sea-level, and nearly 2000 feet above the Sheikh’s house at Zarkten, the elevation of which I made out to be 3710 feet above the sea.

An adventure, which happily ended only in laughter, happened to us at this part of the road. The track, never of any width, was here extremely narrow, and our impatient donkey, desirous of being the first to cross the Atlas, tried to push his way past the mules. There being no room, however, to perform this manoeuvre, he nearly put an end to his existence by falling over the precipice. Happily he alighted some 40 feet down, legs up, in the branch of a pine-tree. The difficulty was how to rescue him from this perilous position, for the poor little fellow carried on his back all my personal belongings—small though their quantity was. We were obliged, accordingly, to unpack the mules, and by tying together the ropes which held the tent, &c., in its place on their backs, I managed to descend, and, cutting the pack-saddle loose, had the happiness of seeing my luggage rescued. Then letting the rope down again, I made it fast to the four legs of the donkey, which I bound together to prevent its struggling, and the others hauled him up, I eventually reaching the track by being pulled up in much the same manner. The donkey was none the worse, and as soon as he had recovered his equilibrium, and found, to his satisfaction, that he was unhurt, issued a prolonged series of cries, and kicked violently at everything his heels could reach.

Every step we took the scenery increased in grandeur, and from one spot we could obtain views of the three valleys. To the west lay that of the upper stream of the Ghadat, through which the river twisted and turned, a thin thread of silver 2000 feet below us. The lower slopes of the valley were mostly wooded, but towering far above them on the west and south rose the central peaks of the Atlas range, Jibel Glawi, or Tidili, a dome of pure white snow dominating the whole, which presented a panorama of exquisite beauty. To the north we could see the gorge of Zarkten, and far down the valley formed by the united streams of the Ghadat and the Tetula; even the plains beyond and the distant hills of Rahamna were visible in the clear atmosphere. Less pleasing, but offering features quite distinct, was the scene directly to the south of us, where the smaller river, the Tetula, dashed between walls of rock that seemed in places almost to meet over its stream. Here were no signs of vegetation, except in the immediate foreground, and all was bare limestone and snow above and shales below, a dreary but impressive scene.

We were leaving all vegetation behind us, and already I missed the azif—palmeto—so common all over Morocco, and in its place there appeared the arar—calitris—and juniper and pines, while scattered about rose the twisted trunks of evergreen oaks.

Proceeding for a time along a level track over a mountain the name of which is Telettin Nugelid, and at an average elevation of about 5000 feet, we descended once more and forded the Tetula, or Asif Adrar n’Iri, near the pretty village of Agurgar, the name of which—walnuts—is due to the existence of a fine clump of these trees. Here the district of Aït Robaa, which extends along the west bank of the Tetula as far as this point, was left behind, and we entered the small and bleak tribe-land of Aït Akherait. Agurgar, from its sheltered position, is pleasant enough, and the village seemed clean and well built. A few of the natives, wild mountaineers, met us and brought us a welcome meal of boiled turnips. The bed of the Tetula is very narrow at this spot, the river rushing between enormous boulders, which bear every appearance of having been heaped up in their present positions by the action of glaciers, which have long since ceased to exist in the Atlas,—for throughout the whole range, as far as it has been at present explored, and that, it must be confessed, is very little of it, no extant glacier has been discovered.

Ascending again, this time on the right (east) side of the river, we quickly left all vegetation behind, except for an occasional wind-bent stump of an evergreen oak, and entered a wild dismal country, the soil of which consisted for the most part of black and grey shales, and above peaks of limestone, and they again capped with snow. Not a sign of life, either animal or vegetable, was to be seen; yet every now and then the cliffs gave back the echo of some strange Berber song which told us that although no human being was to be seen, even these dreary wastes of rock were inhabited.

At a tumble-down hovel of loose stones, where the natives had scratched an acre of soil, poor enough but sufficient to grow a few turnips, we spent the night of November 4, finding protection from the cold in a dirty stable—for, with the exception of the cultivated patch, there was not an inch of soil into which one could drive a tent-peg. However, the dozen or so inhabitants of this dismal abode asked the old Shereef and myself into a grimy room, windowless and without a chimney, and filled with dense smoke, where we were able to sit for an hour or two in warm discomfort over the fire of half-burned charcoal, the fumes of which were stifling. Poverty seemed in possession of the little place, for not a blanket did they appear to possess; but they were cheery good people, and spoke a little Arabic, so that conversation was possible. In winter, when the entire district is under snow, they drive their one or two cows into the house and hibernate,—only the men, and they very seldom, ever leaving the house at all during the two or three months of bitter cold.

They told me the name of the place was Afuden Nugelid, and I found the elevation to be 5800 feet above the sea-level.

A few miles above this spot is a little oasis, the tiny district of Tetula, sheltered from the bleak winds by a semicircle of mountains, amongst which the few acres of gardens and trees nestle. The village is a large one, compared with most that we had passed, and the natives seemed better to do than our friends of the night before. It is from this spot that the last steep ascent to the pass over the Atlas commences, and after an hour and a half’s scramble up slippery paths and amongst enormous boulders, we found ourselves by ten o’clock A.M. on November 5 on the summit of the Tizi n’Glawi, or Glawi Pass, at an elevation of 8150 feet above the sea-level, where, weary with the steep ascent, we threw ourselves down to rest in the warm sunlight, sheltered from biting wind by a huge rock.

CHAPTER IV.
THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS AND THE BERBERS.

Although the Atlas range is said to extend from the Atlantic Ocean to the Gulf of Syrtis, it is my intention to deal here with only such a portion of it as is found in Morocco, and of that but briefly, for in my journey to Tafilet I crossed the range at the same spot on my going and return, and was therefore unable to gather much of its nature beyond the portion I absolutely came in contact with. On two previous occasions, however, I had visited this portion of the Atlas, and on both followed it from due south of Marakesh to near the Atlantic—to the point, in fact, where the mountains decrease in altitude and spread out, forming the watershed between the rivers Sus on the south and the Tensift on the north.

Although geographers claim for the many ranges that occur between Morocco and Tripoli the name of Atlas, it must not be thought that a continuous line of peaks extends from one point to the other; for, speaking of the Moroccan portion, it ends more or less abruptly where the plains of Beni Mgil occur, to the western side of the Wad Muluya, the river which runs into the Mediterranean near the frontier of Algeria and Morocco. In fact, it is not far to the east of Fez that the peaks decrease in altitude, falling away to the long plains which succeed. From this point, however, south and westward they extend in unbroken line to near the ocean, taking a general direction of south-west and then west. The entire portion from Fez, from which the snow-peaks inhabited by the Beni Mgild and Aït Yussi are visible, to but a little way beyond Demnat, some fifty odd miles to the due east of Marakesh, is unexplored, the nature of the succession of Berber tribes inhabiting its slopes rendering it inaccessible to the traveller. From Demnat to the Atlantic the tribes are less wild, and live in greater fear of punishment from the Government in the case of molestation of Europeans, with the result that not only the explorer but even the most casual globe-trotter can travel in safety, and enjoy the grand scenery which presents itself. Yet how few Europeans ever go!

I have already described the appearance of the Atlas Mountains from the north, and farther on in the narrative of my journey more than one allusion

The Atlas Mountains from the South.

will be found to the barren scene they present from the south. It may be here added, however, as a general remark on this portion of the range, that while the northern slopes contain fine wooded valleys, their lower parts rich in olive and fruit trees, the south stretches away, a dreary waste of stone and shales, presenting no feature of beauty beyond its gloomy grandeur. The reason is not far to find, for the desert wind in summer blows in terrific gusts, drying up what soil does exist, while little or no rain ever falls. This very scorching wind it is that renders so fertile the northern valleys and the plain beyond, in which Marakesh lies, for, following the slope of the mountains to the altitude of their highest peaks—and the range must hereabout average nearly 11,000 feet above the sea—the wind is transformed by the change of temperature into cloud, and falls in heavy showers. The difference as one ascends the luxuriant northern slopes, where fine vegetation is found to the altitude of some 5000 to 7000 feet, to the scene that meets the eye when the summit is crossed, is a most extraordinary one, and from the Tizi n’Glawi, the pass over which I crossed, one could obtain the two views at the same time—north, down the deep valley of the Ghadat, with its woods and forests; south, over range beyond range of bare limestone and shale mountains.

The main range at this part forms in reality but one of four parallel chains. To the north of Marakesh the hills are known as Jibeelet, and extend from near the Atlantic beyond the eastern end of the tribe-land of Rahamna, terminating a few miles beyond Kalá. South of this some twenty miles, and parallel with it, is the principal range, beyond which, at an average distance of some twenty-five miles, is Jibel Saghru, or the Anti-Atlas. However, although the first two mentioned run directly east and west, Jibel Saghru forms a large district of broken chains of mountains, the valleys of which lead in every direction, for it empties such streams as flow in rainy seasons east into the Wad Gheris, west to the Draa, north to the Dads, and south to the desert. Yet in spite of this the system takes an easterly and westerly direction, the same being more apparent after the spot where the Wad Draa divides the range into two portions. The natives call only the eastern portion Saghru, not connecting it with the hills to the west of the Draa, which form eventually the southern side of the Wad Sus. There is yet another line of hills still farther to the south, Jibel Bani, which rise near the Draa south of the zauia of Tamgrut and continue to the west. It has always been a question as to where they terminate; but I was pointed out at Tafilet, from above the hill at Dar el baida, the end of a chain of mountains to the south, which sink gradually to the valley of the now united course of the Wad Gheris and Wad Ziz. Beyond there appeared to be nothing but desert sand, and this, I was informed, was the western extremity of Jibel Bani.

It is difficult to hazard an opinion as to where the highest peak of the Moroccan Atlas will be found to exist, for at present but very few observations of the high altitudes have been taken, though both Sir Joseph Hooker and Mr Joseph Thomson reached to about 12,000 feet. In the native opinion Jibel Ayashi, in which most of the large rivers of Morocco rise, surpasses the other peaks in altitude; but, as far as I know, no European has ever seen it, much less been there. Some geographers are of the opinion that the highest point will be found amongst the mountains almost due south of Morocco City. So equal are the summits in this direction that it will take many ascents before any definite result can be arrived at, though, with the exception of the obstruction of the native officials, no great difficulties ought to arise, as the snow in summer and early autumn almost altogether disappears, and no glaciers are found throughout the whole range; nor do the mountain-tops rise in precipitous peaks, but, as a rule, are flat and undulating.

But little game is to be found in this portion of the Atlas. The Barbary wild sheep (muflon), it is true, exists, but is by no means easy to obtain, as every native carries a gun, and should chance give him the opportunity, fires at them whenever he may catch a glimpse. The Berbers, too, are sportsmen; and the Kaid of Glawa, and other governors, are in the habit of organising large hunts, that have done much to kill off this fine beast and drive the remainder into the most inaccessible parts. The lion is unknown, and the leopard very rare, though farther to the north, in the forests of Beni Mgild, both are said to be common, and I have often seen the skins for sale, and captured lions in the Sultan’s palace at Fez. Hyenas seem to be found throughout the entire range, and foxes and jackals abound. Bird-life seems most noticeable for its absence, and I have never seen, though I have spent several months at different times in and near the Atlas, either a vulture or an eagle. Smaller hawks and one or two varieties of kites are common. Amongst game-birds I have seen only the red-legged Barbary partridge and the pintail sand-grouse, and the latter only in the foot-hills. A guinea-fowl is said to exist, and I have seen in the possession of the Shereefs of Wazan specimens brought from Zimmour, to the west of Rabat on the Atlantic coast. It is a small variety, dark in colour, with a blue head and dark crest, and not half the size of the fine plump bird of which I have shot so many in Somaliland and around Harrar. A pretty grey-striped rock-squirrel is common in the mountains, and much prized by the Berbers for his meat, which is said to possess medicinal properties.

The commoner vegetation of the Atlas, which differs according to altitude, are pine, arar or calitris, evergreen oak, cork, white poplar, wild olive, arbutus, laurustinus, lentiscus, palmeto, oleanders in the riverbeds, and juniper, while at places the gum cistus is found in large quantities.

The principal rivers of Morocco all rise in the Atlas Mountains, with the exception of the Wergha, the large tributary of the Sebu, which has its source in the hills to the south of the Riff country. The Draa, Sus, the Gheris, and the Ziz are the principal rivers to the south of the range; while to the north the Tensift, Um er Ribía, Bu Regreg, and Sebu are all fed by the Atlas snows; and on the west the Muluya, which empties itself into the Mediterranean.

Brief as these notes on the Atlas are, they will suffice for the objects of this book. Those who desire to know more of their geology and botany will find two works upon the subject, the results of the explorations of Sir Joseph Hooker and Mr Joseph Thomson.

With regard to the inhabitants of the Atlas, they

Approaching Marakesh from the North.

are Berbers, and the following notes upon that race in general, together with the constant mention of their customs and habits which crop up in the succeeding chapters of my narrative, will, I trust, not only bring before the reader a tolerably clear picture of these people, but add possibly to the scanty information that exists as to this trans-Atlas branch of the Hamitic people.

It would be out of place in a book which professes to be no more than a narrative of exploration to enter at length into the subject of the Berber race, and interesting though such would be, the slight description of the people here appended must suffice. Nor have I even collected into this chapter all the notes I was able personally to make upon my travels, but have preferred in many cases, such as in the descriptions of their dwellings, costumes, &c., to make mention of these details when I come across them, rather than drag them out of the context and place them all in one chapter. This I have thought best to do for more than one reason, but mainly because remarks àpropos of the Berbers of Dads are not equally applicable to those of Aït Atta for instance, though these two tribes are neighbours. So rather than cause confusion by mentioning peculiarities noticed in only one spot in a chapter which deals with the race as a whole, I have spread my notes over the entire journey, and included them at the points at which I find them jotted down in my original diary—that is to say, at such portions of my journey as I first noticed them.

Nor can mention at any length be made even of the race as a whole, for though the country through which I passed was almost entirely inhabited by this strange people, their territory is vastly more extensive, and they may be said to inhabit districts along the entire northern portion of Africa, from Egypt to the Atlantic Ocean. Therefore it will be seen how impossible a task it would be to enter at any length into the peculiarities of a race which at different points presents such vastly different characteristics, both in the physical aspect of the country they inhabit and in their manners and customs. For this reason it is the safest course to mention only what can refer to that portion of the Berber tribes amongst which I found myself, with but a few general remarks that apply equally to the entire race.

As to the derivation of the name considerable doubt exists, nor was I able to trace any tradition amongst the people as to its origin. Barth asserts that it sprang from the name of their traditional ancestor Ber, but it seems more probable, at least a safer surmise, to connect it with the Greek and Roman term Barbari, for, I believe, without exception the name is not applied by the Berbers to themselves, though in this respect the Arabs use it. The general name by which they call themselves in Morocco is “Shloh,” a word meaning “noble,” and thus the same as the more classical term “Amazigh,” which, though well known all through tribes inhabiting the districts south of the Atlas, I heard only once or twice used. Amazigh is certainly the older name of the two, and was known to both the Greeks and the Romans, and seems to-day, though rarely used in Southern Morocco, to be the classical title of the race.

Although to-day found all through North Africa, from beyond Tripoli to the Atlantic Ocean, the Berbers seem to be entirely cut off from one another, and to have no great intertribal feeling of patriotism, or to be connected by any ties. Yet there can be no doubt that, divided as the tribes are, they have a common origin, being the Hamitic and original inhabitants of North Africa.

Yet even in so small a space of country as that through which I travelled one finds the Berber tribes not only split up into minute clans and factions, but so strangely differing from one another that they might almost be the descendants of different races. Nothing more unlike could be imagined than four typical Berbers, for instance, of four portions of Morocco—the Riff, and the natives of Aït Yussi, Dads, and the Sus—and yet there can be no doubt that they are of the same family, and the language, though split up into dialects, is practically the same. Yet in appearance the type is absolutely different in these above-mentioned portions of Morocco, and no feature in common, even to the dressing or shaving of the head, or costume, is to be found amongst them, though one and all are proud of their aboriginal origin.

But one tradition did I hear amongst the Berbers as to their antiquity, and this tradition seems to be general amongst their tribes, for we came across it on several occasions on our journey. It is difficult to perceive how it could have sprung up, as it seems to hint at an entirely different origin to that which history, and even other traditions of their own, has set down to them. It runs as follows. A certain maiden of the original Berber people, at the time when the race lived in a far-away country swept by strong east winds, once, in passing a strange king, had the misfortune to expose more of her person than was decent, owing to her attire having been raised by the gale. On the king laughing at the girl’s misfortune, the tribe in very shame departed by night, and wandered to the country that they now inhabit. So the story runs, and I leave it to those more versed than myself in sifting traditions and folk-lore to find the signification and value of the tale, which, it may again be said, is not only common throughout the Berbers of the trans-Atlas Sahara, but is known and repeated amongst the Riffis, and between these two districts hundreds of miles of country exist, while no communication takes place one with the other.

No doubt the fact that the Berbers have been many times conquered has done not a little to account for their difference of type, for the Phœnicians, Romans, Vandals, and Arabs have each in turn invaded their country. But from whatever reason it may be, the fact remains that a more divided and subdivided race could not be found, and marriage, or even cordiality, between the tribes is unknown; while they exist, in Morocco at least, in a state of perpetual warfare with any one they can get to fight with them. Not only are their hostilities levelled against the Arabs, for whom their hatred is most deep, but whose religion they have adopted with extraordinary fervour, but also against every other tribe, and failing these, village against village, and even household against household. Mention will be found more than once in the ensuing pages of cases of this, in which it was the custom for neighbours to fire at one another from their windows and roofs whenever the opportunity presented itself. Yet in spite of this the stranger passes in safety through them, for with him they bear no quarrel.

A few words must be said as to the manner in which native travellers proceed in safety through districts in which bloodshed and murder are of everyday occurrence. The system under which immunity from murder and robbery is accorded to the stranger is known by two names, mzareg or zitat. Mzareg originally means a spear, and the term was thus applied from the fact that in old days a spear was given by one of the tribe to the traveller, which, being recognised as the property of one of their number, accorded him safety in his journey. However, spears have long ago disappeared from these districts, though the name mzareg still remains. Nowadays the common custom is for a member of the tribe, in consideration of a small fee, to conduct the traveller in person, both being sacred from attack while passing through the land over which the tribe in question holds jurisdiction. As soon as the limits are reached, a new mzareg or zitat has to be obtained. Sometimes, especially in the case of the Jews living and trading in the Sahara, some mark or token is given, such as a turban or handkerchief, which is considered sufficient; but in cases of caravans and total strangers a man invariably is employed, who answers the double purpose of guide and protector. From Dads to Tafilet I was accompanied on my journey by a zitat, without whom I could never have reached my destination, as amongst the many Berber tribes we passed through his presence afforded me immunity from inquisition and annoyance. Here again I was fortunate, for I was not obliged to change my zitat, the fact being that members of the tribe of Dads can travel in safety amongst nearly all the other Berber tribes, by a reciprocal arrangement by which the caravans of the others are allowed to pass through their district without fear of plunder. Dads has gained this unique privilege from its situation, blocking as it does the entire road from east and west.

With regard to the Jews living amongst the Berbers a similar practice exists to the mzareg, only in their case it is known as debeha, or sacrifice. This name has been applied from the fact that the system first arose from Jews seeking the protection of the Berbers by sacrificing an ox or a sheep to them: nowadays the native Jews no longer need to perform this, the patronage of the Berbers being hereditary, the vassalage descending in both families from father to son. Any injury suffered by the Jew is revenged by the protecting Berber as though it had been committed to a member of his own family. In this manner the Israelites are able to live in tolerable security from murder and theft; in fact, they are the only people who do, as the Berber is never happy unless he has some one to kill, or is running a risk of being shot himself from behind some stone. As may be expected, the Berbers do not allow their influence to be used for nothing; but so poor are the Jews, and also the entire country in which this state of things exists, that it is little or nothing that the “lord” can screw out of his vassal.

In the same way the tribe of Aït Atta, one of the most powerful of the Berber tribes of the Sahara, recently added a large district to the south of Mesgita, on the Wad Draa, to their already extensive territory. However, the inhabitants—Haratin—could not be enrolled as are the Jews, as they are Moslems; and though exactly the same principle is carried on, the term implied is neïba—agents or representatives. They, as in the other case, are protected by their conquerors from attack from elsewhere, in return for which they pay an annual tribute.

With regard to the language of the Berbers. Generally speaking, it is known in Southern Morocco as Shelha, but as a matter of fact it consists of many different dialects. Although along most of the road we travelled over the dialect was much the same, I was told that in the heights of the Atlas, as again in the districts of the Draa, it was very different, and that it was no easy matter for natives of each place to render themselves comprehended by each other. The Berber language as spoken in Morocco may be divided into four distinct dialects, which are again much subdivided: (i.) Shelha proper, as spoken generally throughout the Atlas, from the tribes of Ghiata, Aït Yussi, and Beni Mgild, to the south-east of Fez, as far along the Atlas as about due south of Marakesh; (ii.) Riffía, spoken by the Riffis inhabiting the mountains of the north coast, from the south-west of Tetuan to the French frontier of the province of Oran; (iii.) Susía, spoken from along the Atlas and the Sus valley to the south, from where Shelha proper terminates, about due south of Marakesh, to the Atlantic coast; and (iv.) Drauía, the common tongue all along the valley of the Wad Draa from Mesgita, where the junction of the Dads and Idermi form that river to where it flows into the Atlantic. So various are these dialects that, although my Riffi servant could catch the gist of the remarks of the Shloh amongst whom we travelled, and was with difficulty understood in return, he found it impossible to comprehend the Haratin of the Draa, who speak Drauía, though the Shloh of Dads and the intermediate oases can do so.

I was able only to learn of one feast celebrated amongst the Berbers which had not been adopted from the Arab calendar, so completely have they embraced the religion of the latter. This feast appears to be a kind of harvest-home, and is known as the Ayur Nûgûrûmûn, the meaning of which not even the Berbers seem to know. Curiously enough, it is held in the Shahr el Fukra, which points out that it is annual only according to Arab ideas—that is to say, counted by lunar months—whereas one would have expected, if it were a survival of great antiquity, that it would have been at a fixed period in the solar year. The programme of the feast is simple. Guns are fired during the day, and great dishes of food are brought into the streets and there partaken of, the poor being asked to join. One other custom only differing from the Arabs was I able to hear of—namely, that the bride remains three days in her husband’s house before the marriage is consummated.

That some civilisation had reached the Berbers long before the Arab invasion is certain, but, as far as we know, the Romans never crossed the Atlas. Yet, curiously enough, all foreigners are known to-day amongst them as Rumin (sing. Rumi), though this may be owing not a little to the fact that it was not until the Arab invasion that the Berbers were driven to the remote districts they now inhabit, but were spread all over the country; for it was principally through the prowess of these men, whose desire for booty the Arabs stirred up, that Spain was invaded and conquered. Therefore it must be certain that the Berbers of Morocco knew the Romans as well as the Romans knew them, and that they carried away with them into the Atlas and the districts beyond the traditions of the forefathers who had been in actual contact with the Roman colonists. Yet there is no doubt that remains of even pre-Roman date exist in the Atlas and the Sahara, and I think it is risking but little to suppose that they were erected by Phœnician colonists. That the Phœnicians were strong in Morocco at one time is shown by the ruins of the great colony of Lixus, on the river Kûs, near El Araish, and I can see no reason why they should not have pushed much farther afield. And to them, I think, may be put down the workings of former mines in the Atlas and Anti-Atlas, and the building of the stone remains which are found in more than one spot—and invariably without mortar—in those ranges. One may go even further, and ask the question, whence the Berbers obtained their existing architecture; for the great ksor, with their many towers, have no resemblance to any Arab architecture that I have ever seen, either in Arabia or Africa, while they do most strangely resemble the elevations given in such works as those of Messieurs Perrot and Chipiez of Phœnician castles.

The change on passing from Arab Morocco into Berber trans-Atlas Morocco is in no way more marked than in the architecture. One leaves behind one the mud huts and tents to enter an immense district, every habitable portion of which is thick with great castles, often over 50 feet in height, and with richly decorated towers, unlike anything else I have seen elsewhere in the world, either with my own eyes or in the works of other travellers; and I see no reason why one should not at least surmise that the style of building in vogue to-day amongst the Berbers of trans-Atlas Morocco is not a remnant of their conquest by the Phœnicians. Another instance, slight though it may be, may help to form a link in the chain, that at Dads I saw children modelling in clay little figures of men on horseback, the very image of the Phœnician figures, which no Arab or Moor either could or would do. Excellently modelled they were too. I asked a native, and he laughingly replied, “We all did that when we were small.” Yet in all my travels in Morocco, and in the inquiries I subsequently made, I have never seen or heard of modelling of human figures or animals amongst the Moors. An idea of the artistic talent of the Arab youth, in comparison to that of these young Berbers, can be gathered from the drawings they have learned to make in Tangier on the walls of the houses, &c.; and this only from seeing artists at work. However, they confine themselves to ships, which are just recognisable and nothing more, whereas my Dads friends’ models of men and their steeds were excellent in every feature, even the bits and reins and stirrups being represented. In short, it is my belief that when the regions I passed through come to be diligently explored and excavated, remains will be found of a large former civilisation which will be proved to have been Phœnician. In the case of the one ruin I was able to take any notes about at all, it corresponds almost exactly, so far as the general idea, to some of the plans of buildings given in books upon Phœnicia and its colonies; but unfortunately, travelling in disguise as I was, it was impossible for me to take measurements, or anything, in fact, more than the most scanty notes of this curious ruin.

As to the general character of the Berbers, their manner of living and their looks, I have retained my remarks upon these subjects in the places in which they were originally jotted down, for reasons already given in this chapter, that there is such great divergence of appearance and costume in the different parts of the question. It is for that reason that I have given at this spot only such notes as can be safely applied to the tribes in general amongst which I travelled during my journey.

CHAPTER V.
THE DESCENT FROM THE ATLAS.

Having digressed for a chapter from the account of my journey, I take up again the narrative from where it was broken off—when on the morning of November 5 we had reached the summit of the Tizi n’Glawi, and were resting after our exertions.

The Glawi Pass scarcely deserves such a name, for there is in reality no pass at all. One ascends to the very summit of the mountains to descend as suddenly on the south side, the narrow strip of footing at the top being only a few yards wide. It is true that the surrounding mountains on either hand rise to a very considerable elevation above that at which we found ourselves—8150 feet; but the road merely crosses a connecting line of quartzite, overlying the shales, which runs from Jibel Glawi on the west to Adrar n’Iri on the east, the flat-topped snow-capped mountain that gives its name to the stream up the valley of which we had been ascending. The views in either direction were fine, but totally different; for while to the north our eyes wandered over the valley of the Tetula, and lower down the Ghadat, with the steep mountains densely wooded on their lower slopes, before us to the south lay range after range of broken limestone mountains, bare and bleak, and without a single sign of vegetation. But one exception there was, the circular valley of Teluet lying 2000 feet below us; but at this dry period of the year, for as yet only the very slightest rain had fallen, it looked as bare and dried up as did the hills that surrounded us.

The descent could be seen twisting in and out the escarpment of the mountains, amongst boulders of rock from which here and there unsightly wind-bent trunks of evergreen oaks appeared.

A few villages dotted the little plain below, whose flat roofs upturned to our gaze had a strange appearance as we peered down on them from so far above. For the most part they were perched upon rocky eminences, raised slightly above the level of the small valley. It is here that the great castle of the Kaid of Glawa is situated, but from our vantage-point it was indistinguishable, being hidden in the slight descent that leads from the valley to the course of the Wad Marghen. This kasba of the Kaid of Glawa, Sid el Madani, was the last point at which, should I be discovered, my return would be insisted upon, for beyond this the Moorish Government holds little or no real jurisdiction, so it was not unnaturally that we gave the place as wide a berth as possible. On my return journey, when disguise was no longer necessary, I spent a night at the kasba, and when the time comes shall describe this mountain fortress, which even in Europe would be considered a building of great size and strength.

Descending the 2000 feet that led to the valley of Teluet, we met at the bottom almost the first large caravan we had as yet come across. They were bound upon the same road as ourselves, though their destination was Dads, while I hoped to push on as far as Tafilet. The men forming the caravan were one and all Berbers, and natives of Dads, added to which they were friends of the old Shereef whom I was accompanying. Therefore I had nothing to fear from them, and the little Arabic they spoke was so mixed up with Shelha that there was no possibility of their detecting my foreign accent. Some twelve men there were in all, with as many mules and donkeys. The cheerfulness of this augmentation of our little caravan was damped by the news they gave us, for from them we learned that the road viâ Warzazat was blocked, owing to the tribes being in

A Pass on the Road.

revolt, and that they had been obliged to turn back only some six hours from where we met them. It had been my particular desire to proceed viâ this route, as there are rumours of ruins in the valley of the Warzazat; but I at once perceived that we must follow the inevitable and pursue the road viâ Askura, which possessed this attraction to the explorer, that it had never before been traversed or described by any traveller. It was good luck that brought us in contact with the Dads’ caravan, for in these wild lawless regions there is safety in numbers, and I noticed that the old Shereef especially cheered up at the sight of the dozen antiquated flint-lock guns the men bore.

We at once decided to join company and pursue the road together, and for the five following days the Dads tribesmen and their little mules formed part of our caravan. Good sturdy fellows they were, always laughing and running races, in which the brisk cold often tempted me to join them. At this they were much amused, for my slender—not to say thin—form and limbs, as yet but slightly tanned with the sun, led them to suppose that I could ill stand the hardships of the road. That I was a European in disguise never once crossed their simple trusting minds, and amongst this wild band I obtained a reputation of very considerable sanctity, on account of the fact that I said my prayers in orthodox style with the old Shereef, and that I wore suspended round my neck, over my torn and ragged jelaba, a string of wooden beads, the insignia of the sect of the Derkaua, or followers of Sidi Ali el Derkaui, who may be almost said to be the patron saint of the Sahara.

With one of these caravan men, Hammu by name, I made great friends, and one of my pleasantest recollections of Dads was the feast he gave me in his house, to which half the village was invited, and which lasted from somewhere about mid-day to somewhere about midnight. He was a simple gentle fellow this Hammu, but as good as could be; and many a time when we lay huddled together of a night for the sake of warmth he would cover me up with his thick haidus of black goats’-hair as I slept, and swear in the morning that he had not done so—that it was merely owing to the fact that he had kicked it off in my direction that accounted for his having slept in only a light cotton chamira while I was warm and comfortable. Poor Hammu! he never learned, so far as I know, that I was a European in disguise,—not that I believe he would mind much, for the friendship that sprang up between us would break through all such barriers as this. He eventually finished, on the day I departed for Tafilet, by embracing me and asking me to return with him to Dads, and share his home, with his sister as my wife. He even promised her a dowry of a few yards of blue cotton, a pair of bracelets, and a cow. My Riffi man nearly exploded with his attempts to conceal his laughter, but I took the compliment as in the manner meant, and clasped his good strong hand with a grip of real friendship, for I could not but recognise that the wild tribesman, with his handsome face and fine bearing, meant every word he spoke.

But I digress from the narrative of my travel. It being out of the question that we should pursue the route viâ Warzazat, there was no option about the matter, and we turned to the east across the plain of Teluet, fording the Wad Marghen, or Wad el Melha, some two or three miles above the Kaid of Glawa’s kasba. The stream is not a very large one, but clear, fresh, cold water flows from the snows of the western slopes of Jibel Unila throughout the entire year. Although slightly brackish the water is drinkable to cattle, but the inhabitants rely for their supply upon the many streams and springs that form its tributaries. The river flows along the Teluet valley from east to west, and at the south-west corner of the plain passes out through a gorge to flow into the Idermi, which, eventually joining the Wad Dads, forms the Wad Draa, the largest and most important river of trans-Atlas Morocco. The second name of the river, Wad el Melha, or salt river, is the local title of every stream the waters of which are brackish.

Ascending by the dry bed of a torrent on the south side of the river, we skirted the eastern end of Jibel Teluet, which forms the southern boundary of the valley, and descended some four miles farther on to the larger stream of the Wad Unila. The ascent and descent we had crossed forms a small watershed for the tributaries of the two rivers, though apparently these mountain torrents only flow in the wet season. At one spot, rather more than half-way, we passed extensive salt-mines, where quite a number of natives were engaged in working rock-salt. The scene was a wild one, the half-nude men with their rough picks hewing away and singing the while, as others piled the salt in native panniers on to the backs of their sturdy little mules. The power of these mountain-mules in overcoming difficulties in the roads is extraordinary, and at one spot we saw a couple literally descending a precipice, followed by a man who only kept his footing by the aid of a sort of alpenstock. The manner in which both man and beasts succeeded in descending seemed to us, as we stood and watched, incredible, yet we were told that he made the journey every day to this spot in the face of the precipice, to collect rock-salt from a small deposit that existed there. At one place where an unusually large supply of the precious mineral existed, a roughly constructed fort had been built, for the mines had been the cause of war for generations amongst the tribesmen living near, their value being, for the arid bleak district, extraordinary. No doubt to more or less reserving to himself the monopoly, as is the case, is owing to a great extent the wealth to-day in the possession of Sid Madani, the Kaid of Glawa. The soil at this part consists principally of shales, strewn with boulders of limestone, no doubt portions of the peaks above, which time, water, and glacier have carried to their present position.

The Wad Unila, where our path struck its course, flows nearly due north and south, issuing from a gorge 100 or 200 yards above, and descending for half a mile through a narrow valley before reaching the district of Tiurassín, in which we spent the night of November 5.

This settlement of Berbers of the Imerghan tribe is a large place, lying on the banks of the river where the valley is sufficiently wide to form a small triangular plain, which is again bisected by a torrent, at this period waterless, which flows from the east. The ksor are many and large, and present a remarkable appearance, each a castle, or sometimes several castles, with high towers at the corners, the summits of which are roughly decorated in sun-dried bricks and white-wash. The great size and solidity of the buildings struck one as extraordinary, after the hovels the Arabs erect as habitations, and a rough measurement of one of the towers gave an altitude of at least 70 feet, no mean height when it is taken into consideration that they are built without any of the appliances we know in Europe, and altogether without mortar or lime. The plain I alluded to as formed by the valley may be perhaps half a mile across, and consists of gardens of walnut and almond trees, with a few other varieties of fruits.

The Wad Unila, the river of the place, rises to the north-east at the summit of Jibel Unila, from which the stream takes its name. This mountain forms one of the finest of the Atlas peaks, and is said never to lose its cap of snow. The summit, the natives told me, consists of a circular lake of great depth, from which the river takes its rise. So important to the land through which it flows are the waters of the Unila, for the natives are entirely dependent upon its supply for irrigating purposes, that this lake, which is said never to vary its level, has become a place of pilgrimage and veneration, and in the spring of each year sheep are sacrificed to its patron saint. Before uniting with the Wad Marghen (Wad el Melha) at Aït Zaineb, four districts are watered—namely, taking them from the river’s source, (1) Unila, (2) Assaka, (3) Tisgi, and (4) Aït Zaineb; but the valley throughout is a narrow one, shut in by high mountains, and only at its widest parts, such as Tiurassín, is it inhabited. But very little wheat is grown, maize and turnips taking its place as the articles of subsistence amongst the natives. The walnuts and almonds, however, flourish to such an extent that a large quantity are yearly exported to Morocco City, being taken by the road we had followed across the Glawi Pass.

AT THE BASE OF THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS.

The only traveller who had preceded me at Tiurassín was De Foucauld, the French explorer, but from this point our ways separated—he having continued his journey south along the river’s course, while I turned off to the east, en route for Askura and Dads. He followed the river as far as its junction with the Idermi, which, joining the larger stream of the Dads at Kheneg el Tauria, form together the Wad Draa.

A few of the inhabitants of Tiurassín belong to the tribe of Unila, which geographically occupies the slopes of the mountain of the same name; but the larger proportion is formed of members of the powerful tribe of Imerghan, which is found split up into many divisions scattered all over this portion of trans-Atlas Morocco. The constant state of warfare existing amongst the Berber people has no doubt caused this disintegration of the larger tribes, by the changing, acquisition, and losing of territory. The people of Dads were the sole exception, and their position, offensive and defensive, has prevented their being so divided, a fact that adds not a little to their strength and importance.

We spent the night of November 5 at the large ksar of Aït Yahia u Ali, pitching our one little tent in a walled-in yard, which answers the purpose of a caravanserai for passers-by. A great number of natives crowded about, offering to sell us barley for our animals, and chickens and eggs for ourselves; and though the last we found to be unprocurable, in spite of all their protestations to the contrary, our mules and donkeys fared better than usual. It was not long before one of the reasons of these visits was discovered, for the opportunity was not lost to the pilfering Berbers of stealing a fine powder-horn belonging to one of my men, and formed of the horn of a Barbary wild sheep (muflon), set in brass and silver,—a tempting bait to these mountaineers, who set great store upon such highly decorative articles of warfare. The cold was extreme, and it was as much as we could do by crowding together in the tent to keep warm. Although many natives visited us and paid their respects to the old Shereef, not one for a moment eyed me with suspicion, and Arabic seemed scarcely spoken at all amongst them. I found the elevation of our camp to be 5480 feet above the sea-level. The small caravan with which we had fallen in on the plain of Teluet camped with us, and we were not sorry to have increased our numbers, for the inhabitants of Tiurassín seem to be a hungry lot of devils on the look out for loot.

Our companions were loudly regretting the fact that they had been obliged to abandon the route viâ Warzazat, as that road is considered much the safer, the Arab tribe of Askura, whose district we were to pass, being much dreaded on account of their lawless depredations. Nor do they deserve much else but discredit, for this very little caravan was pillaged under our own eyes by the robbing Arab tribe, whose reputation is the worst of all the peoples of this portion of the country. No love is lost at any time between the Berbers and Arabs, and this curious settlement of the latter, in the very midst of the strongholds of the former, does much to keep the hatred alive.

The next morning by sunrise, and in bitter cold, we were threading our way up the dry torrent-bed that I mentioned as bisecting the little plain formed by the junction of the rivers at Tiurassín. As we proceeded the steepness of the climb increased, and it was not for some five or six miles that we found ourselves at the summit of the spur of the Atlas that our road crossed. Reaching quite suddenly a level piece of country some half a mile in extent, a magnificent view met our eyes as we turned and looked back. Stretching away before us, a panorama of a hundred miles of snow-capped peaks met our view, and glorious they were in the early sunshine, one and all glowing pink and gold. Beneath we could see far down into the shadows of the gorge that we ascended, steep clay and shale slopes crowned with pines and evergreen oaks. Certainly the Atlas range presents as fine a view from the south as from the other side, but the great plain of the Tensift was missing to add to the effect of their great altitude. In return, however, for this, there is a foreground of far wilder appearance, broken crags of limestone rock rising range above range until the snow capped the whole. The peaks, too, do not bear from this vantage-ground the same look of equal altitude that forms so prominent a feature from the north, but each rises singly and is easily recognisable could any definite system of naming be discovered. Such, however, is not the case, and often a mountain known here by one title is a few miles farther on spoken of by an entirely different one, the nomenclature being purely local. So it is with the rivers all over Morocco, with but one or two exceptions, and these only the largest, for the smaller streams often take their names from the villages they pass through or near, and I know one river in Northern Morocco, the length of which cannot be more than some twelve to fifteen miles from its source to its mouth, which boasts no less than six separate names. I could identify, however, every peak to which some more or less recognised title seems to pertain. On the extreme west, and to the south somewhat of the others, was Jibel Sirua, a snow-clad peak, which lies slightly away from the main chain, forming the base of the valley of Wad Sus, between the districts of Tifinut and Ras el Wad. It is the principal elevation of the chain that divides the basins of the rivers Sus and Draa. Then, taking them from the west, Jibal Miltsin, Tidili, Glawi, Taurirt or Adrar n’Iri, Adrar n’Deren, and lastly Unila, of all the most beautiful in form, adding almost a proof to what the account of the deep circular lake had forced one to believe, that it forms the cone of an extinct volcano. Even from here, and far more so from the north, one could not but be struck by the equality of altitude presented by the view of the range, a fact proved by the altitude of the Glawi Pass, the lowest at this part of the chain, and yet 8150 feet above the sea. Supposing, then, that the average height of the peaks reaches 12,000 feet, it will be seen that only at one spot is the altitude below 8500, and probably in few others reaches much below 9000, and where the exception is found, probably only in cases of tortuous gorges entirely hidden in a panorama such as presented itself from where we stood ourselves at an altitude of 6800 feet above the sea-level. Jibel Sirua, it is true, is connected with the main chain by a low ridge of peaks, and Unila stands more alone than any of the rest; but neither of these can reach the altitude of Miltsin and Tidili, which can be roughly estimated at some 13,000 feet.

Although but very little snow was reported to have fallen as yet this winter, all the peaks were well covered, and judging from the altitude at which we were, and the fact that the arar—calitris—and evergreen oak abounded, I should estimate the snow-line at this particular period at 10,000 feet. However, as a general rule, no true estimate can be formed as regards the snow on the Atlas, for so much depends upon the severity of the winter or the heat of the summer; and to the best of my belief, based upon statements made to me on the spot, snow altogether disappears from the Atlas in very dry seasons, with the exception of sheltered spots and crevices. Probably the least snow is found about the end of October, after a previous dry winter and a hot summer. In May and June, before it has had time to melt, I have seen a far greater expanse of snow-capped peaks than I did on my return from Tafilet in December. Generally speaking, the deepest snow is found in March and the least in October.

Descending from this elevation of 6800 feet by the bed of a now dry torrent, we continued our journey in an east by south direction, passing through one or two narrow gorges between rocks that were remarkably fine. It is no difficult matter to see that in winter and wet weather this road must be impassable, for the sole track is in the bed of the stream, and there were signs on the rocks of the water having risen to some six feet above the level of its stony course.

Here one began to notice the first clear signs of the fact that while the valleys of the northern slopes of the Atlas run almost due north and south, those of the side on which we were take an east and west direction, parallel, in fact, to the backbone of the chain; the intermediate hills forming a small range along the foot of the southern side, such as is found, only at a greater distance away, on the north. I refer to the hills of Jibeelet and Rahamna.

The system of the Atlas at this part of its chain may be said to consist of five distinct ranges, all running east and west and nearly parallel. To the extreme north are those I have just mentioned, Jibeelet and the hills of Rahamna; then the main chain of the Atlas itself; then the hills at its feet on the south, to which no distinct name seems to pertain, and which are so close to the range as to form part of itself; then again the Anti-Atlas, or, as it is more properly called, Jibel Saghru; and farther south still, the unexplored line of Jibel Bani, which leaves the Wad Draa near where it turns to the north, and not far from the zauia of the Shereefs of Tamgrut—Ulad Sid ben Nasr—and extends as far as the southern limits of the oasis of Tafilet, near the hills known as Jibel Belgrul.

Following the course of a valley, our road proceeding nearly due east, we passed the ruins of a ksar, or more properly a fortress, known as the Teherumt of Majdáta, the latter being the name of this inhospitable and nearly uninhabited district. The fort is in bad repair, half of it tumbling down, but in what remains a few poor Berbers have taken up their residence, and managed to till an acre or two of the soil in the immediate neighbourhood and plant it with turnips. Although a tolerable amount of vegetation is visible, we saw no herds or flocks, though it was stated that in spring a few goats are grazed hereabouts. Almost immediately after passing the Teherumt—“fort”—two small rivers are forded, the easternmost of which is known as the Wad Igurian, while I was unable to find the name of the other, only an insignificant stream. Both appear to unite after reaching the plain, from which only a low range of hills now separated us. The valley we were following, though scarcely deserving of being called a valley, for its watercourse was dry, descended to the western of these two rivers, only a few hundred yards of hill dividing the two streams, and after passing the Igurian one commences to ascend again by the course of a dry torrent, the hills on the south taking the form of high perpendicular cliffs of remarkably fine appearance. But little vegetation was to be found here, a few oleanders along the bed of the stream being almost all there was. Again passing a small watershed, we descended toward the river of Agurzga, parallel to the two we had passed, both of which crossed the road, which proceeded between the parallel ranges of mountains on the north and hills on the south, at right angles. I could hear of but few inhabitants in these districts, though our men said that a small tribe of Aït Minzeru lived higher up in the mountains, near the eastern slopes of Jibel Unila.

Where the road runs under the high cliffs the name of “Kaiseríeh” has been given to the spot, the same implying the narrow streets of the bazaars of a town.

At Agurzga, on the banks of the river of the same name, we spent the night of November 6.

Of all the picturesque and romantic spots we passed on the entire journey, I think Agurzga deserves to be

Agurzga.

considered the first, for not only is its situation, shut in with high precipices of bare stone, fine in the extreme, but the hand of man has done much to add to the scene by perching strange great castles, rich in decorated towers, on every pinnacle of rock that juts up in the narrow valley, and by terracing a sufficient quantity of land to allow of a strip of gardens along the edge of the river. The stream enters this portion of the valley by a narrow gorge, between precipices some thousands of feet high, and taking a semicircular bend, still between high walls of rock, opens out into a stony bed, one bank rising sheer in broken boulders to some height, while on the other side are the gardens of walnut, almond, and fig trees, terraced one above the other. Rising again high above these gardens are rocky eminences on which the great castles are perched, in one case the summit being crowned by a huge block of building, in others by tier above tier of strange yellow ksor and white square towers, the summits of the latter richly decorated in brickwork and turreted. Just as the Wad Agurzga enters the district to which it has given its name, so does it leave it again, flowing out to the level country through a gorge in the range of hills along the northern slopes of which we had been travelling. Through this narrow gorge, guarded by a ruined fort, we could catch a glimpse of the wide plain beyond, across which the rivers flow before entering themselves into the Idermi or the Dads, as the case may be. This plain, of which I shall have more to say anon, forms the centre of the Draa basin, and extends from the foot-hills of the southern slopes of the great Atlas range as far as the northern extremity of Jibel Saghru, the so-called Anti-Atlas, to the south. The river of Agurzga, flowing from the snow-level, is always well supplied with excellent water, which whirls and eddies along in crystal clearness over its stony bed, here in deep blue pools, and there in tiny rippling rapids. In winter-time it is liable to sudden floods, and often entirely unfordable.

We pitched our tiny tent at an elevation of 4850 feet above the sea-level, just opposite a large ksar, near a few solitary trees, and sent to the village for supplies, which we found difficult to obtain. However, without my knowledge, my men made out a tale that I was a poor Shereef on my way to make a pilgrimage to the tomb of Mulai Ali Shereef at Tafilet, and accordingly we obtained what money alone had failed to do, an excellent supper of boiled turnips and almonds and walnuts—not very nourishing, it is true, but hot and satisfying to those who had tasted nothing all day, as had been our case. The poverty existing in this spot is extreme, for the small quantity of land under cultivation is only sufficient to sustain the life of the inhabitants without allowing them to sell food, and all along the road we found the greatest difficulty in purchasing provisions. The money we offered was to them a large sum, but its acceptance in return for what little they had of grain, eggs, fowls, or turnips would have eventually placed them in the position in which we found ourselves—namely, in possession of money but unable to purchase food with it. It is extraordinary upon occasions like this how one realises the worthlessness of money in places where there is nothing to be procured with it; and our little hoard of silver, small as it was, seemed but to mock our hunger.

However, my supposed sanctity did more for us than coin could do, and we supped after all. It was not until the following day that I learned the ruse by which my men had been obliged to obtain provisions. I felt but little remorse, however, as the villagers had been paid for what they brought in small presents to the children, and would no doubt find an opportunity of rechanging the few pesetas we had given them into food in course of time.

Early on the morning of November 7 we left Agurzga, and proceeding, still almost due east, crossed a line of hills and descended some two hours later to the valley of the Ghresat. The highest point of this five or six miles of road reaches an altitude of 5800 feet, where a small watershed is crossed, from which the streams flow east to the Ghresat and west to the Agurzga. For a mile or two after striking the river the road follows its course, almost due south, and passing between some undulating hills, the large settlement of Ghresat, with its picturesque ksor, lies before one, and beyond it the wide plain that lies between the Atlas and the Anti-Atlas.

We had finished with the mountains, and with a sigh of relief emerged from the valley to the level country, feeling that at last the weary work of continual ascent and descent was done with, for a time at least.

CHAPTER VI.
GHRESAT TO DADS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Village Scene.

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

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

THE VILLAGE OF DADS.

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

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

A Berber Family at Dads: Woman mealing Corn.

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