It was not surprising, therefore,
that the wily Shereef should wish to know what this Address of an
English Society was, or could be; and if possible to obtain a copy,
although for the sake of the people it was found necessary to repudiate
altogether its acceptance. Accordingly, the next day, Cohen told me a
friend of the Emperor's was anxious to have some conversation with me,
and he begged me to take with me the Address.
It was past ten at night, when alone, with my Moorish guide, I found
myself treading the long narrow streets of Mogador.
The wind howled and the watch-dogs barked; it was so dark that we could
scarcely grope our way, no human being was about; we went up one street
and down another, stealing along our way; as if on some house-breaking
expedition; and I began to feel suspicious, fearing a trap might be laid
for me. Still, I had confidence in the honour of the Moors, I said to my
guide.
"When shall we reach your master's?"
_Guide_. - "God knows; be quiet!"
We continued going through street after street. It was now bitter cold,
and a few drops of rain fell from the cutting wing of the north wind.
To my Guide again.
"Where is the house?"
_Guide_. - "Follow me, don't talk!" After we had passed other streets,
"Is this the street?"
_Guide_. - "Eskut! (hold your tongue)."
We now entered a low dilapidated gateway, with a broken panelled door,
groaning on its hinges.
Again I questioned my guide. "Who lives here?"
_Guide_. - "Mahboul Ingleez (mad Englishman) hold your tongue! Do you
think we Mussulmans will eat you?"
We passed through several court-yards, by the aid of a lantern, which
the guide found in a corner, and then entered a corridor. Here he
grasped me by the arm, in such wise as made me believe I was about to
have my head thrust through a bowstring. I ejaculated; "Allah Akbar!
Mercy upon us!" blending Arabic and English in my fright, and
struggling, fell with the guide against the door at the end of the
passage with a considerable crash. A voice was heard from within.
"_Ashbeek_ (what's the matter?)" My guide returned, "_Hale_ (open)."
A huge negro now laid hold of me, and pulled me up a pair of narrow
stairs which led to a species of loft, in a detached portion of the
house. The case containing the Address fell out of my hands, and was
picked up by the guide. Another apartment within the loft was now
opened, shewing, through a dim and indistinct light, a venerable old
Moor, sitting in the midst of heaps of papers and books, like a midnight
astrologer, or a secret magician. On our entrance, the solitary Moor
raised his eyes, quietly, and said faintly, "Where is it?" My guide now
rushed in, began talking volubly, and made this harangue, thinking,
however, I could not understand him from the rapidity with which he
declaimed.
"Sidi," he said, "this Christian is a frightened fool - and a _baheen_
(ass) - I had the greatest trouble to get him here - he was frightened out
of himself - and now Allah! Allah! I have to take him back again."
I received the compliment in silence, and endeavoured to recover my
tranquillity. But I could not help remarking the contrast between my
noisy and agitated guide, and the grave manner and immoveable quietness
of the recluse. The guide then handed him "the Address," and the Cid
opened the box or case with extreme caution, as if it had contained some
mysterious spell. The Cid now looked up for a moment at the big negro,
who decamped instantly and returned with a teapot and two cups. The two
cups were then filled with tea, one of which was presented to me, but I
had some hesitation about drinking it. The Cid, looked up at me with a
quiet smile, and gently muttered "_Eshrub_! (drink,") I drank the tea
and then waited anxiously to know what was coming next. The Cid
continued to unroll the Address. When this was done, he rolled it up and
again unrolled it, and stared at its Roman characters. He eyed the seal
and ejaculated, "_Haram_!" to himself! alluding, I suppose, to the
figure of the slave in chains, it being prohibited to make figures. The
Cid now paused a moment, then looked at me again, and finally turning to
the Guide said, "_Imshee El-Ghudwah_ (go to-morrow, I'll see.)"
The guide now grasped me again by the hand, scarcely allowing me to bow
a good night to the Cid, and led me back to my lodgings, where I arrived
at midnight. When I awoke in the morning, I really imagined I had been
dreaming an ugly dream, until one of the English Jews called, and said
he was making a translation of the Address to be dispatched to the
Emperor at Morocco, and afterwards he would bring the Address back. The
Address was returned to me about a week afterwards, but whether an
Arabic translation was ever sent to the Sultan, I know no more than the
reader.
Mr. Phillips has applied to the British Vice-consul to know whether, in
case of his going up to Morocco to carry a present for the Belgium
merchants, here, Phillips, being a Jew, will be obliged to pull off his
shoes, which would be depriving him of the rights of British-born
subjects, who stand with their shoes on in the Shereefian presence. The
Consul says he cannot answer the question, and must send a dispatch to
Mr. Hay.
