Morocco | Page 9

death-dealing dragon becomes Wad Lekkus itself,
so ready even to-day to snarl and roar at the bidding of the wind that
comes up out of the south-west, and the dusky maidens of surpassing
loveliness are no more than simple Berber girls, who, whilst doubtless
dusky, and possibly maidenly as ever, have not inherited much of the
storied beauty of their forbears. In spite of this modern perversion of
the old tale I find that the oranges of the dining-table have a quite rare
charm for me to-night,--such an attraction as they have had hitherto
only when I have picked them in the gardens of Andalusia, or in the
groves that perfume the ancient town of Jaffa at the far eastern end of
the Mediterranean. Now I have one more impression to cherish, and the
scent of a blossoming orange tree will recall for me El Araish as I saw
it at the moment when the shroud of evening made the mosques and the
kasbah of Mulai al Yazeed melt, with the great white spaces between
them, into a blurred pearly mass without salient feature.
[Illustration: MOORISH HOUSE, CAPE SPARTEL]
You shall still enjoy the sense of being in touch with past times and
forgotten people, if you will walk the deck of a ship late at night. Your
fellow-passengers are abed, the watch, if watch there be, is invisible,
the steady throbbing movement of the screw resolves itself into a
pleasing rhythmic melody. So far as the senses can tell, the world is
your closet, a silent pleasaunce for your waking dreams. The coast-line
has no lights, nor is any other vessel passing over the waters within
range of eye or glass. The hosts of heaven beam down upon a silent
universe in which you are the only waking soul. On a sudden eight
bells rings out sharply from the forecastle head, and you spring back
from your world of fancy as hurriedly as Cinderella returned to her rags
when long-shore midnight chimed. The officer of the middle watch and

a hand for the wheel come aft to relieve their companions, the illusion
has passed, and you go below to turn in, feeling uncomfortably sure
that your pretty thoughts will appear foolish and commonplace enough
when regarded in the matter-of-fact light of the coming day.
Dár el Baida, most Moorish of seaports, received us in the early
morning. The wind had fallen, and the heavy surf-boats of the port
could land us easily. We went on shore past the water-gate and the
custom-house that stands on the site of the stores erected by the society
of the Gremios Majores when Charles V. ruled Spain. Dár el Baida
seemed to have straggled over as much ground as Tangier, but the
ground itself was flat and full of refuse. The streets were muddy and
unpaved, cobble stones strove ineffectually to disguise drains, and one
felt that the sea breezes alone stood between the city and some such
virulent epidemic as that which smote Tangier less than ten years ago.
But withal there was a certain picturesque quality about Dár el Baida
that atoned for more obvious faults, and the market-place afforded a
picture as Eastern in its main features as the tired Western eye could
seek. Camel caravans had come in from the interior for the Monday
market. They had tramped from the villages of the Zair and the Beni
Hassan tribes, bringing ripe barley for sale, though the spring months
had not yet passed. From places near at hand the husbandmen had
brought all the vegetables that flourish after the March rains,--peas and
beans and lettuces; pumpkins, carrots and turnips, and the tender leaves
of the date-palm. The first fruits of the year and the dried roses of a
forgotten season were sold by weight, and charcoal was set in tiny piles
at prices within the reach of the poorest customers.
Wealthy merchants had brought their horses within the shadow of the
sok's[6] high walls and loosened the many-clothed saddles. Slaves
walked behind their masters or trafficked on their behalf. The
snake-charmer, the story-teller, the beggar, the water-carrier, the
incense seller, whose task in life is to fumigate True Believers, all who
go to make the typical Moorish crowd, were to be seen indolently
plying their trade. But inquiries for mules, horses, and servants for the
inland journey met with no ready response. Dár el Baida, I was assured,
had nothing to offer; Djedida, lower down along the coast, might serve,

or Saffi, if Allah should send weather of a sort that would permit the
boat to land.
[Illustration: A PATRIARCH]
As it happened, Djedida was the steamer's next port of call, so we made
haste to return to her hospitable decks. I carried with me a vivid
impression of Dár el Baida,