- "What can I do for you, stranger? You are good to me, every
time I call here you give me tea with plenty of sugar in it. What can I
do for you in my country?"
Traveller. - "Tell me how to get on in my mission? How can I see Muley
Errahman?"
Aged Moor. - "Now I am bound to give you my best advice. First then, take
plenty of money with you. All love money; therefore without money you
can do nothing. Muley Abd Errahman loves money, and money he must have.
And the minister loves money, and the minister must not be forgotten.
The minister is the door to the Emperor. You cannot get into the house
but through the door. Out of the towns and cities, the Emperor has no
power; so that whenever you travel out of these places, remember to give
the people money."
I had numberless volunteers to conduct me to Fez. All came begging for
this honour and lucrative employment. Whatever may be said of the
virtues of hospitality, I found all the world alike in its determination
to make the most of strangers, if not to devour them. But the Emperor
was not at Fez; he was in the southern capital, and it was necessary for
me to go via Mogador, to endeavour to obtain an interview with him at
that place.
The dreary monotony of Moorish life was one day broken in upon by a
juvenile strolling singer, who attracted a crowd of silent and attentive
listeners. It was a grateful sight to see old men, with long and silvery
beards, reclining in mute and serious attention; young men lounging in
the pride and consciousness of animal strength; little children
intermixed, but without prattle or merriment - all fixed and fascinated
with the charm of vocal song. The vocalist himself was a picturesque
object; his face was burnt black with Afric's sun, his bare head was
wildly covered with long, black matted, and curly hair, but his eye was
soft and serene; and, as he stretched his throat upwards to give compass
to his voice, he seemed as if he would catch inspiration from the
Prophet in heaven. A coarse brown blanket enveloped his spare and
way-worn body, his only clothing and shelter from the heat by day and
the cold by night, a fold of which fell upon his naked feet.
The voice of the Arab vocalist was extremely plaintive, even to the
tones and inflections of distress, and the burden of his song was of
religion and of love - two sentiments which all pure minds delight to
combine. When he stopped a moment to take breath, a murmur of applause
vibrated through the still air of the evening, not indeed for the youth,
but for God! [8] for it was a prayer of the artless and enraptured
bystanders, invoking Allah to bless the singing lad, and also to bless
them, while ascribing all praise to the Deity.
