The Moors Were Sorry The Fire Did
Not Extend Itself, Wanting To Have An Opportunity Of Appropriating A Few
Of The Merchant's Goods.
I accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Elton, with other friends, to spend the day
in the pleasant valley of the Saneeates-Sultan, (Garden of the Emperor)
sometimes called Gharset-es-Sultan, three or four hours' ride south from
Mogador.
The small river of Wad-el-Kesab, (overlooked by the village of
Deeabat, where watch-dogs were barking apparently all day long as well
as night), lay in our way, and was with difficulty forded, heavy rain
having fallen up the country, though none on the coast. These Barbary
streams are very deceptive, illustrating the metaphor of the book of
Job, "deceitful as a brook." To-day, their beds are perfectly dry;
to-morrow, a sheet of turbid water dashing and foaming to the ocean,
covers them and the country round, whilst the immediate cause is
concealed. Abrupt and sudden overflowings occur in all rivers having
their source in mountains. The book of Job may also refer to the
disappointment of Saharan travellers, who, on arriving weary and
thirsty, dying for water, at the stream of the Desert, find it dried up,
and so perish.
The country in the valley of the Emperor's garden offers nothing
remarkable. Bushes of underwood covering sandy mounds, a few palmettos
and Argan trees, in which wild doves fluttered and flew about, were all
that broke the monotony of a perfect waste. There were no cultivated
lands hereabouts, and I was told that a great part of Morocco presents
this desolate aspect. We visited, however, the celebrated Argan tree,
which the people pretend was planted by the lieutenant of the Prophet,
the mighty Okba, who, having spurred his horse in the roaring rebellious
surge of the Atlantic, wept and wailed before Heaven that there were no
more nations in whose heart to plunge his awful scimitar - so teaching
them the mercy of God! Alas! the old hoary tree, with a most peaceful
patriarchal look, seemed to belie the honour, stretching out its broad
sinewy arm to shelter a hundred people from the darting fires of an
African sun. A more noble object of inanimate nature is not to be
contemplated than a large and lofty branching tree; in its boughs and
leaves, endlessly varying, matted together and intersecting each other,
we see the palpable image of infinity. But in the dry and hot climate of
Africa, this tree is a luxury which cannot be appreciated in Europe.
We sat under its fresh shade awhile, gazing with security at the bright
fires of the sun, radiating over and through all visible nature. To
check our enthusiasm, we had strewn at our feet old broken bottles and
crockery, the _debris_ and classic relics of former visitors, who were
equally attentive to creature-comforts as to the grandeur of the Argan
monarch of the surrounding forest.
The Emperor's garden contains a well of water and a few fruit-trees, on
the trunk of one of which, a fine fig-tree, were carved, in durable
bark, the names of European visitors. Among the rest, that of a famous
_belle_, whose gallant worshippers had cut her name over all its broad
trunk, though they may have failed to cut their own on the plastic and
india-rubber tablet of the fair one's heart. This carving on the
fig-tree is the sum of all that Europeans have done in Morocco during
several ages. We rather adopt Moorish habits, and descend to their
animal gratifications than inculcate our own, or the intellectual
pleasures of Christian nations. European females brought up in this
country, few excepted, adopt with gusto the lascivious dances of the
Mooresses; and if this may be said of them, what may we not think of the
male class, who frequently throw off all restraint in the indulgence of
their passions?
While reposing under the umbrageous shade of the Argan tree, a Moor
related to us wondrous sprite and elfin tales of the forests of of these
wilds. At one period, the Argan woods were full of enchantresses, who
prevented good Mussulmen from saying their prayers, by dancing before
them in all their natural charms, to the sounds of melodious and
voluptuous music; and if a poor son of the Prophet, perchance, passed
this way at the stated times of prayer, he found it impossible to attend
to his devotions, being pestered to death by these naughty houries.
On another occasion, when it was high summer and the sun burnt every
leaf of the black Argan foliage to a yellow red, and whilst the arid
earth opened her mouth in horrid gaps, crystal springs of water were
seen to bubble forth from the bowels of the earth, and run in rills
among _parterres_ of roses and jessamines. The boughs of the Argan tree
also suddenly changed into _jereeds_ of the date-palm burdened with
luscious fruit; but, on weary travellers descending to slake their
parching thirst and refresh themselves, they fell headlong into the
gaping holes of the ground, and disappeared in the abyss of the dark
entrails of the world.
These Argan forests continued under the fearful ban of the enchantress
and wicked jinns, until a holy man was brought from the farthest desert
upon the back of a flying camel, who set free the spell-bound wood by
tying on each bewitched tree a small piece of cork bark on which was
inscribed the sacred name of the Deity. The legends of these haunted
Argan forests remind us of the enchanted wood of Tasso, whose
enchantment was dissolved by the gallant knight, Rinaldo, and which
enabled the Crusaders to procure wood for the machines of war to assault
and capture the Holy City. Two quotations will shew the universality and
permanence of superstition, begotten of human hopes and fears. Such is
the beautiful imagery devoted to superstitious musings, by the
illustrious bard: -
"While, like the rest, the knight expects to hear
Loud peals of thunder breaking on his ear,
A dulcet symphony his sense invades,
Of nymphs, or dryads, warbling through the shades.
Soft sighs the breeze, soft purls the silver rill.
The feathered choir the woods with music fill;
The tuneful swan in dying notes complains;
The mourning nightingale repeats her strains,
Timbrels and harps and human voices join,
And in one concert all the sounds combine!"
Then for the streamlets and flowerets -
"Where'er he treads, the earth her tribute pours,
In gushing springs, or voluntary flowers.
Here blooms the lily; there the fragrant rose;
Here spouts a fountain; there a riv'let flows;
From every spray the liquid manna trills,
And honey from the softening bark distills.
Again the strange the pleasing sound he hears,
Of plaints and music mingling in his ears;
Yet naught appears that mortal voice can frame.
Nor harp, nor timbrel, whence the music came."
I had another interview with the Governor on Anti-Slavery subjects.
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