IV. The Beginning of the End

IN spite of his extravagances, the life which the Sultan led was a very simple one. He rose early, and after prayers at dawn left the privacy of his palace for the buildings in which he held his Court. Here he took his seat, generally upon a settee or divan, in a private room, a little way removed from the great courtyard in which his viziers carried on then: business. This courtyard was surrounded by a colonnade on to which opened a number of small rooms. In these were seated the various viziers and their secretaries, while without in the shade of the colonnade sat those who sought interviews with the various Secretaries of State. A gateway, guarded always by gatekeepers, led from this courtyard to the Sultan's private offices, and messages and letters passed to and fro. From time to time he would summon one or other of the viziers to his presence on affairs of State, and discuss with them what course it might be best to pursue. It can be understood from this slight intercourse that His Majesty held with the outside world, for he seldom had more than this, how easy it was for the people of his entourage to withhold from him all reliable information, and to paint the existing state of affairs in the colours that might suit their own views, or, more often, their own pockets.

" Court," which commenced in the early morning, was finished by noon, and the Sultan retired into the palace, where he dined. He ate always alone, and, as is the custom all over Morocco, with his fingers. This habit, which seems almost revolting to Europeans, is by no means an unclean one, for the hands are washed in warm water both before and after the meal, and the food is always cooked in such a way that it can easily be broken. A habit of our own, which we consider far more cleanly than eating with our fingers, is looked upon by the Moors as filthy — that is, washing our hands or face in a basin, and, still more, taking a bath where the water is not running. The cleaner we become, they say, the dirtier the water we are washing with must necessarily be, and eventually we step forth as cleansed from water which is no longer clean. A Moor to wash his hands has the water poured from a vessel over them, and never by any chance dips them into the dirty water. The same way in their baths: the water is thrown over their bodies out of bright brass bowls, and flows away through holes in the marble or tile floor.

His midday meal over, the Sultan would rest for a while, generally issuing from the palace about three o'clock. There was no afternoon

" Court," and on this account Mulai Abdul Aziz was free to spend the rest of the day as he pleased, and generally did so in the company of his European employees and friends. Bicycle-polo, cricket, and tennis were the order of the day.

One evening, after a longer game of tennis than usual, we commenced to take in the net, as rain seemed probable. His Majesty had just retired into the palace, but had left his pocket-handkerchief tied to the top of the net, where he had fixed it, as the light was waning, and it was difficult to distinguish the net's height. I unfastened the handkerchief, but feeling something large tied up in a corner of it, I examined it more carefully. It was a cut diamond, about the size of a small walnut, which His Majesty had lately purchased. Carefully secreting the handkerchief and its valuable contents in my pocket — for there is no means of getting at the Sultan once he has, entered the recesses of the palace, where women only are allowed — I proceeded to leave the precincts by the usual exit. I had crossed one courtyard and was near the outer gate when I became aware that some one was pursuing me. I took in the situation and ran; but I was no match for the Sultan, who, stirred to more than usual activity by the loss of his valuable jewel, came down upon me like a whirlwind. Almost before I realised that I was caught, I was lifted off my feet and thrown to the ground, while Mulai Abdul Aziz, his knees pinning down my elbows, was rifling my pockets. He soon discovered his diamond, still tied in the handkerchief; but, not content with that, he deprived me of a pocket-book, a ring I was wearing on my watch-chain, a necktie-pin, and a cigarettecase. He let me go at last, laughing at the adventure, but I never saw my property again.

On another occasion I was present when one of the Court officials came to offer his respects to the Sultan on receiving a high appointment. This man was the now famous Haj Omar Tazzi, the present vizier of Government domains.

I was standing talking to His Majesty alone in a courtyard along one side of which were situated the cages of the Sultan's wild beasts, when Haj Omar entered. Prostrating himself barefoot on the marble floor, he touched the ground with his forehead. The Sultan, scarcely heeding him, made a few formal remarks, and then turning to me, asked abruptly, " Do you know this man? "

I scarcely did, but aware of His Majesty's love of humour, I thought I saw the opportunity for a practical joke upon Haj Omar, whom, being a Fez town Moor, I rightly guessed to be a coward.

" I know him well," I replied. " Only to-day he was at my house begging me to ask a favour of your Majesty on his account."

Haj Omar, who was still prostrate on the ground, looked uneasily in my direction, not understanding what was passing.

" His favour is granted," replied the Sultan, to whom I had made a slight signal to allow me to continue.

" He asked," I went on, " that this afternoon, when summoned to your Majesty's presence for the first time in his new position, he might be allowed to give some proof of his fidelity."

" Certainly," replied Mulai Abdul Aziz.

" He proposed," I continued, " with your Majesty's permission, in order that his fidelity and courage might be put to the test, to spend half an hour in the lions' cage."

Haj Omar, still prostrate before the Sultan, squirmed uneasily, and lifted a fat pasty face toward the Sultan and myself.

" Certainly," replied the Sultan.

" If your Majesty bids me die, I am ready to do so," came a feeble voice trembling with emotion from the ground.

" Call the slave who has the keys of the lions' cage," replied the Sultan, and at the same time he moved in the direction of the wild beasts, Haj Omar following him on all-fours.

The slave arrived; but Haj Omar's terror was now so evident that the joke could no longer be kept up. Seizing me by the hand, the Sultan led me away, and Haj Omar fled.

We played another joke on Haj Omar before I left Fez, and on this occasion Menebhi was my accomplice, if not my instigator.

Haj Omar was pointing out to the Sultan the arrangement of a new flower-garden then in course of construction. His Majesty stood somewhat in advance, and the rather stout, pompous little courtier a little behind him on his right. Menebhi and I, who had wandered a short distance in another direction, soon made a discovery — a pump and a long hose! Standing the pump in the water-tank, I proceeded with the hose till I reached Haj Omar, and just as I put the nozzle down the back of his neck, Menebhi began to pump. The rich Moors never wash with cold water, and the voluminous stream which began to flow down Haj Omar's back nearly caused him to have a fit. The water poured out of his baggy trousers into his yellow slippers, but he daren't say a word, for His Majesty was addressing him. " It shall be done as your Majesty commands," he replied, when the Sultan had ceased speaking; but his voice was so trembling, so truly pitiful, that Mulai Abdul Aziz turned hurriedly to see what had happened. It was a sad object that met his view — Haj Omar Tazzi standing shivering and dripping in a pool of water. Etiquette forbids the Sultan to laugh in public, but etiquette couldn't help him covering his face with the long sleeve of his jelab to hide his merriment, and walking hurriedly in another direction.

The mention of etiquette recalls to my mind one or two of the " traditions " of the Moorish Court. In comparison with the barbaric splendour of the Sultan's State appearances in public, when, in the shade of the crimson-and-green velvet umbrella, he receives his tribesmen, his private life is simple. There is perhaps no more picturesque sight in the world than one of these Morocco processions. The ragged troops in blue and red, who, with a background of crumbling yellow walls, line the palace squares; the blue sky above; the led horses in their gorgeous trappings of coloured silks; the white-robed Court officials on foot; the splendour of gold-embroidered banners; and in the centre of it all the Sultan himself, swathed in flowing white robes, the only figure on horseback — all help to form a picture that, once seen, can never be forgotten. Then suddenly a great cry rends the air, " May God bless the life of our Lord the Sultan! " and the motley company bow low as His Majesty, still shaded by the great umbrella of State, rides into their midst. Compared in picturesqueness to this gorgeous pageant, European State ceremonies are poor indeed. But in his private life the Sultan is simple enough. No man, of course, crosses the precincts of the inner palace, where women only are allowed to enter; but Mulai Abdul Aziz on several occasions spoke to me of the boredom of his domestic life. He recounted one or two facts which show that, autocratic monarch as he is, his actions are much restricted by precedent. One of these referred to his bedroom, which must be furnished in the greatest simplicity, and one colour alone must be used, a deep, beautiful, indigo blue. The silk hangings are made and dyed in Morocco, and no European material must be employed. Curtains, bedcovers, carpets, and wall-hangings must all be of this one colour and manufacture. Again, when out in camp his sleeping-tent must contain but three carpets, and he must sleep on a mattress on the ground, and not on a bedstead. His viziers and courtiers cover the floor of their tents with straw, over which they lay matting and piles of rich carpets; but the Sultan may have nothing but the bare earth and the traditional three small carpets. In wet weather he is obliged to wade ankle-deep in mud, while slaves wait to wash his feet as he steps on to the rug on which the mattress is spread. No doubt this simple sleeping-tent owes its origin to days when constant dangers threatened the Sultans on their camping expeditions, and when they were liable to be called up at night to lead their troops into battle; but however it may have originated, the custom — a particularly uncomfortable one — remains unchanged to-day. During the daytime the Sultan may spend his time in other tents, where no restrictions are placed upon his luxuries and comforts.

There is a certain room in the palace at Fez to which a recognised tradition pertains. The construction dates from a remote time, and there is supposed to exist, somewhere built into its walls, a certain charm. The purport of this charm is that as long as this particular chamber in the palace remains intact, no Sultan will die in Fez, and, curiously enough, no Sultan has died in Fez since the room was built. His Majesty described the chamber to me, for it is situated in the interior of the palace, where no men may enter. It is a large hall, richly furnished with its original rugs and divans, and every night special slaves, whose duty it is, light the many candles that are supported in the chandeliers. Two huge candles, brought from Mecca once a year, are the only ones that are lit more than once; all the others are replaced nightly. Nor may European candles be used — they must be of Fez manufacture.

The ceiling, rich in carving, still exists, but the roof above has been replaced again and again, one layer above another, without ever removing the underneath ones, lest the "charm" should be destroyed. In the same way the walls have been strengthened from the outside, until their thickness is immense. So exactly has this room been left in its original state that in one corner of it stands a ladder which has never been removed, while skins for holding water are still hanging upon the walls, little left of them but their gold spouts and pendent cups.

Mulai Abdul Aziz was an expert bicyclist, and there were often great games of bicycle-polo of an afternoon in one of the courtyards of the palace. The only other Moor who played was Menebhi, then at the height of his power and influence. The Sultan was a plucky but careful rider, seldom coming to grief, and handling his machine with the most perfect judgment. Menebhi was equally plucky, but much more excitable, and I have seen him, in pursuit of the ball, charge at full speed into the palace wall, to be rescued from what looked like a lot of broken umbrellas a minute later, as he shouted wildly for a new bicycle. As the Sultan was always supplied with the most expensive articles that could be purchased, most of his bicycles were of aluminium, and therefore not suited to bicycle-polo; but the more that were broken the more were required, and his commission agents reaped their harvest. The record, I think, was taken by a young secretary of the British Legation, who successfully smashed six in one afternoon! But it was not at polo alone that Mulai Abdul Aziz was a skilful bicyclist, for he could perform a number of tricks that would almost have done honour to a professional. I have seen him myself ride up a steep plank laid against a packing-case, then along another plank forming a bridge to another packing-case, and down an incline at the end again. On one of these occasions he fell, and lodged on his head; but after being stunned for a minute or two, remounted his bicycle and successfully accomplished his object.

I only once saw him annoyed, and it was with myself. We were standing on the summit of an old outer wall of the palace. Immediately beneath us, in the shadow of the wall, were a dozen or so ill-clothed, half-starved members of what was inappropriately called the Moorish Army. Many of the little group were evidently suffering from fever, very prevalent in Fez in summer, and altogether they formed a pitiful sight.

I spoke, perhaps, too warmly of the neglect with which the soldiers were treated, of their stolen pay, of their abject misery, and I failed to notice that the Sultan was not in a mood at that moment to listen to my complaint.

" It isn't my fault," he said pettishly.

" It is," I replied. "Your Majesty doesn't take the trouble to see that your orders are carried out."

The blood rushed to the Sultan's face, and he drew himself up. " Remember," he said, " you are speaking to ' the Commander of the Faithful,' ' referring to his most coveted title.

" I do," I replied, " remember it. It is your Majesty who forgets that these men are ' the Faithful.' "

Alas! as far as he is concerned, but few of them were any longer faithful.

He bore me no grudge for what I said, and his look of anger passed into one of great sadness. For a little while he stood looking over the great plain that lay before us, then turned and said very gently, " You don't know how weary I am of being Sultan," and tears stood in his eyes.

On one occasion while visiting Meknes with the Sultan, I took the opportunity to go to the Jews' quarter of the town, to call on an Israelite family who had often hospitably entertained me at a feast on previous visits. The lady of the house was an extremely portly dame, one might almost say of gigantic proportions, but as kind-hearted asjshe was large. I was received with open arms by my host and hostess, their children and grandchildren, and after the usual salutations they began to pour out their woes. The Jews' quarter had been raided by Berber tribesmen, and my friends' house and stables had been broken into and robbed. Could I obtain justice for them? Now, in spite of the Sultan's good intentions, justice was about the only thing in the world unobtainable in Morocco. The Sultan, I knew, would order the damages to be repaid by the responsible authorities, but my friends would certainly receive only a very small portion of what they had lost; the rest would disappear en route. I therefore determined to obtain justice from the Sultan by a little ruse. I told the portly lady that His Majesty would make his State entry into the town the following day, and bade her climb on to the pedestal of one of the great marble pillars of the famous gateway of Mansourel-Alj, and there to await his passage. Immediately she saw the Sultan appear from under the gateway she was to cry, " Will my Lord the Sultan allow me to die in misery? Will my Lord the Sultan not protect me? " I told her to look as fascinating as possible — she was well on for sixty years of age — and to put on all the finery of gold lace and velvet to which the Israelite ladies of the Moroccan towns are so partial, and which forms their national gala dress.

She promised to carry out my instructions, and I laid my plans accordingly. An hour or two later I was received by the Sultan, and ventured to remark that I had experienced a curious dream the night before. The Sultan asked me to relate it, and I replied that I had dreamed that I was accompanying His Majesty on his State entry into the town, and that just as we passed under the famous gateway an enormously fat Jewess, in gala attire, clinging to one of the marble columns, cried out, " Will my Lord the Sultan allow me to die in misery? Will my Lord the Sultan not protect me? " The Sultan was by nature superstitious, and wondered what my dream could mean. Needless to say, I didn't inform him.

Everything occurred as I had planned it, with one ludicrous addition. The Sultan emerged from the gate, and there, on the high pedestal of the column, embracing the marble pillar, was my stout friend, shouting out her petition. The Sultan, struck by the coincidence, turned to see if he could catch my eye, and I naturally looked as astonished as he did. But the lady's anxiety to be heard led her to lean too far forward, her hold on the marble pillar was relaxed, and the last I saw of her was taking a header into the midst of scarlet-and-blue soldiers who lined the gateway. An hour later messengers hurried me into the Sultan's presence. I found His Majesty all excitement at the incident, and I explained that no doubt my extraordinary dream was a revelation in order that the woman might receive justice. The Sultan asked me if I knew who she was.

" I have seen her more than once," I replied.

" Go immediately," said His Majesty, " and find out what she wants."

The delight of my friends can be imagined when I entered their house and, on behalf of the Sultan, asked for a " statement of claim." I fully reported the matter, and Mulai Abdul Aziz sent for one of his own relations, Amrani Shereef, and ordered him to see that the family were immediately refunded for what they had lost, and that their house should be guarded in future. In this manner I knew they would get their money, which they certainly would not have done had the matter passed, in the usual course, through the hands of the viziers. The next day they were paid, and the day after I confessed my plot to the amused Sultan.

The year of the Algeciras Conference (1906) I was back in Fez again after an absence of three years. Everything was changed, for the days of prosperity and " packing-cases " were over, and the Maghzen had fallen upon evil times. Tribe after tribe had thrown off their allegiance. The robbery and pilfering and corruption were worse than ever. Famine reigned in the city.

The " campaign " which I, as ' Times ' correspondent, had carried on in the ' Times ' during the preceding year or two, rendered me no persona grata to the Sultan and his Court, and even accommodation was refused me and the palace gates hermetically sealed. I stayed for some months, and enjoyed, as I have never enjoyed before or since, the goodwill of the people of Fez. They knew what had happened. They knew that the ' Times ' had called the attention of the world to the plight of their co-religionists and fellow-countrymen in Morocco, and in their suffering and misery they showed an appreciation that was at once most marked and most valued. They knew that the Sultan had refused to receive me, and that the doors of the viziers' palaces were closed to me; and they knew, too, the reason — that I represented a great newspaper, the columns of which have always been open to the cries of distress of ill-used and neglected peoples, and that their plaints had already reached the British public — and the world's public — by these means. I shall never forget the sympathy and kindness shown to me by the mass of the inhabitants at Fez at this time. And what was this change that was so evident?

It was famine — that was all! Bread at sevenpence a loaf, and the loaf the size of a railwaystation bun. Famine, because a few of the viziers •and officials had taken advantage of last year's poor crops to " corner " wheat, by buying it before it entered the town, and selling it at any profit they liked; famine, because the same little coterie regulated the price at which even meat might be sold, and alternately robbed the poor and the butchers; famine, because every necessary of life had to pass through their hands before it reached the public; famine, because even charcoal, without which no cooking can be done, was " cornered." And the caravans of camels which should have been bringing grain from the coast to feed the starving people were commandeered to transport marble for the floors of the viziers' palaces, built with the proceeds of foreign loans — and of famine.

Yes, three years had brought about a change in Fez, and it was not a change for the better. Life and energy seemed to have disappeared. The hang-dog starving soldiery, in rags of course, and paid, when they were paid at all, sufficiently well to buy half a small loaf of bread a day, prowled to and fro in the streets, — such few, that is, as were left of them, for the greater part had long ago deserted to the Pretender, who fed his men, or had sold their rifles to the nearest buyer, and gone back to spread sedition amongst the tribes. Really no one can blame them, and those that remained would have gone too, shaking the dust of Fez off their shoes — only they had no shoes, and most of them no strength to walk the distance. The streets were full of starving and half-starving people, many of whom begged only with their eyes, too pitiful to look upon unmoved. For a short time the proceeds of a public subscription did something to relieve these sufferers, but the funds disappeared — into the brick and mortar of palaces, it is said — and by, perhaps, more than a coincidence, the date of the conclusion of the Algeciras Conference was also the date at which the Maghzen ceased attempting to feed the poor. Could it have been that the eyes of Europe were no longer fixed on Morocco, and therefore the poor might starve again? The long lines of suffering humanity cringed back against the walls of the narrow streets to make way for the camels, and mules and donkeys, laden with marble and mosaics for the palaces which the Court favourites were building — with the money of the people, with the proceeds of famine. Before, the people bore their sufferings — for even then they suffered enough from the exactions of the Maghzen, but consoled themselves by saying, " Our Lord the Sultan does not know." Now it was different. Famine had rendered them a little — a very little — more courageous, and they said, " Our Lord the Sultan does not care." After all, there is only the difference of one word. In the country districts they went a little — just a little — further, and said, " There is no Sultan." It was not true, of course, for within the crumbling battlements of the expanse of palace, Mulai Abdul Aziz, bored by everything, but still kind-hearted, still with the best intentions, wandered from court to court and from garden to garden, giving orders that he knew would never be carried out, weary with trying to do better things, and content to await a change — any change — of circumstances, with implicit trust in God and a lurking mistrust in Europe. He, too, had lost his energy. It was not altogether his fault perhaps; for at one time he really tried, and circumstances had been against him. Too much good nature and too little determination had led to his failure, until he had handed over everything to men far less capable and far less well-intentioned than himself, and allowed them to rob him as they pleased. He saw no one, and went nowhere, probably because, with his nature, he could not but feel the ignominy of his position and the degradation of his country. The palace itself resembled the palace of a dream, haunted by ghosts. Yet even as such it was more fitted for the residence of a Moorish Sultan than the palace of three years ago, when the courtyards were strewn with useless European goods, unsaleable for the most part in Europe, and piled with packing-cases — empty and full — and littered with straw. Probably most of this refuse remained there still — a poor return, after all, for what was expended on it.

The scene in the great courtyard, surrounded by its columns and arches, in which the Maghzen held its daily Court, was changed too. Under their respective arcades the viziers sat, sleepily transacting what they called business — that is to say, putting off till to-morrow, or longer, everything that they ought to have done to-day. There was no life, no movement, in this Court now. Where were the soldiers, who, slovenly as they were, added a touch of colour to the scene? Where were the country governors and kaids and their escorts? Where were the officers of the Court in their white robes and red-peaked fezes — where were they all? And where that active lithe figure whose quick stride and energetic movements, whose keen eyes kept the whole fabric together — El Menebhi, where was he? Gone, faded away like phantoms, leaving to a handful of incapable and self-seeking men — whose voices were mocked almost in their own hearing — the misgovernment of their country. What wonder that the people all over Morocco said, " We have no Sultan." What wonder that they disobeyed and ridiculed the Shereefian commands! What wonder that the Pretender and Raisuli and a score of others had arisen all over the country! No, the only wonder is that the population had not rebelled in a body. But they had no need to do so. They paid no taxes and acknowledged no government. As to the townspeople, years of extortion and suffering had crushed their spirit — though they knew that all the present regime was giving them was famine. ^

And Mulai Abdul Aziz, knowing something of all this — knowing, anyhow, enough to make him desirous of knowing no more — still talked of what he intended to do for his people, still poured out plans for their betterment into the ears of men whose one object was to frustrate them, and wandered aimlessly from court to court and from garden to garden inside the palace precincts — a kind intelligent gentleman, too good in many ways, and too weak in many more, for the arduous position he had been called upon to fill. If the Pope was a prisoner in the Vatican, the Sultan of Morocco was doubly so in the palace of Fez.

Yet these changes, such as they were, could be apparent only to those very familiar with Fez in former days. To all others the city must be the same as ever, with its narrow tortuous streets overhung by, and tunnelled through, the high projecting houses; full of gloom and mystery; with glimpses, here of orange-trees peeping over a high wall; there, of tiled minarets and the green roofs of mosques and tombs — a city that extends not a yard beyond the walls that encircle it. Within, a tortuous maze; without, mile upon mile of open country dotted by the thatch huts and tent villages of the tribes. Yet close to the walls, along the banks of the river that flows in so many channels through and around the town, have sprung up gardens of oranges and olives, of mulberries, apricots, and vines, that form a setting of richer green to the grey white city that meanders down from the plain to the valley of the Sebou, following all the way the form of the depression in which it lies.

There is scarcely a view of Fez that is not beautiful, scarcely a glimpse that is not sad. Its very colouring, or perhaps lack of colouring; its amazing alleys into which the sun never shines; its ruined mosques, rich in fast-falling mosaics and wood-carving, in rotting arabesques and grassgrown roofs; its damaged drinking fountains, from the broken tiles of which the water still splashes to where once a basin caught it, but now only to form a channel of mud in the narrow thoroughfare; its stately caravanserais with their galleries of arches and trellis of wood that has turned purple and grey with age; its garden quarter from which rise the modern palaces of the viziers, built with the people's money and the people's food — all add a mysterious charm to a city that stands alone as an unspoiled example of former prosperity and existing decay.

So it is with the people. They wore the despondent sad expression that came from years of

[Service des BeauxArts, Morocco. MEDERSA OF ATTARINE, FEZ. oppression — hopeless of the future, forgetful of the past, and yet with one solace left to them, and one only: that God had ordained it so. Nothing would shake their belief that all was predestined, unalterably predestined and inscribed beforehand, hi their book of life. "It is written " — and for them that was enough.

While the Powers of Europe had been almost on the verge of war over Morocco, while the eyes of the world's public had been fixed upon the Conference of Algeciras, while there still lay before the country a future that was unknown, while one-fifth of the land was in the hands of the Pretender, while the Sultan's authority scarcely extended outside a few walled cities — Fez had remained unmoved. Fatalists one and all, the Sultan and his viziers, the townspeople and the starving poor had scarcely given a serious thought to the future — to the crisis through which their country had passed, and was still passing. Mulai Abdul Aziz wandered from garden to garden and court to court inside the palace walls. His viziers still frustrated the good intentions of His Majesty — there was but little majesty left except in name — and the people still starved; and one and all, firm in their unshakable belief, said "It is written."

The results of the Conference of Algeciras and of the " Acte " which promulgated its decisions were what might have been expected. All Europe sent its delegates to the pleasant little Spanish town lying a few miles from Gibraltar, and every

Government had an axe to grind. They poured new wine — vinegar most of it — into old skins, and the result was inevitable. While the special Ambassadors, whose titles fill a couple of pages of print in the tiny volume that contains the *" Acte," were discussing Public Works, International Police, the State Bank, and the differences between " fusils rayes et non-ray es " — and a host of other things — Morocco was sinking deeper and deeper into a state of anarchy, rendered more hopeless than ever by the rumours which were circulated amongst the tribes as to what was occurring on the other side of the Straits of Gibraltar. From the hills above Algeciras on at least one occasion the smoke of burning villages in the Tangier district — the result of this anarchy — was clearly visible. Raisuli was supreme in the north, while to the east of Fez the Pretender, Bou Hamara, still held his own.

4 Bou Hamara was a native of the Zarhoun tribe, who had been employed at one time as a scribe by a high native functionary of Meknes. His conduct, however, had rendered him quite unsuitable to be maintained as a secretary, for he not only, so rumour says, forged his master's signature, but also caused a replica of the Imperial Seal to be made, by which he obtained a considerable grant of money. He had also in his spare moments learned a few simple conjuring tricks. Already known as a scholar and a devout Moslem, these other acquirements stood him in good stead. But he was found out, and left Meknes hurriedly.

Living on his wits, he made for the Taza districts, situated between Fez and the Algerian frontier, and there acquired, from his scholarship and his conjuring, a very considerable prestige. Almost unconsciously he was accepted as a " leader," and eventually declared himself to be Mulai Mohamed, the eldest son of the late Sultan, Mulai Hassen, and therefore the elder brother of the reigning monarch, Mulai Abdul Aziz. He caused a great Seal of State to be struck, and was proclaimed as Sultan. Mention has already been made of the defeat the troops of Mulai Abdul Aziz suffered at his hands in December 1902. His prestige had now reached its zenith, and caused the greatest anxiety to the Moorish Court. He ruled Eastern Morocco for several years with scarcely varying success. At times, it is true, he was driven back into the mountains of the Rif when Taza was captured by a Moorish army under El-Menebhi, the active young Minister of War; but Bou Hamara was always able to reassert his authority and regain his lost possessions. In spite of every effort of El-Menebhi to maintain an adequate force, the corruption and incapacity of the Court was such that even his energy could avail nothing. The soldiers' pay failed, and the Sultan's troops melted away. It was not until Mulai Hafid had come to the throne in 1912, after the abdication of Mulai Abdul Aziz, that Bou Hamara was captured and brought to Fez. Confined in a cage carried on the back of a camel, the famous Pretender was brought into the

Sultan's presence. The interview was protracted. For several days Bou Hamara, squatting in the small space of his cage, was exposed to public view in the great court of the palace where the Sultan held his receptions — and the Sovereign who held the throne and the Pretender who had so long threatened it were face to face. Eventually the prisoner of State was put into the lions' cage in the presence of the Sultan, while the ladies of the Court lined the roof of the palace to witness the execution. The lions, however, too well fed, refused to eat him, but mangled one of his arms. After waiting for some time longer to see if the king of beasts would change their minds, the Sultan ordered the Pretender to be shot, and he was despatched by the slaves. His body was afterwards burnt, to deprive him of any possibility — for the Moors believe in a corporeal resurrection — of going to heaven. Terrible as was his end, Bou Hamara himself had been guilty of every kind of atrocity, and had regularly burnt, after sprinkling them with petroleum, any of the Sultan's soldiers that he had been able to capture during his campaigns.

The vicinity of the Pretender's jurisdiction to the Spanish port of Melilla, on the Rif coast, had seriously inconvenienced the Spanish authorities and inhabitants of that town; and at length, in order to obtain supplies for the population, the Spaniards had been obliged to negotiate and to enter into direct relations with him. A miningengineer told me that he had once accompanied some Spanish capitalists on a visit to Bou Hamara's headquarters at Selouan. They all went with a certain fear and trembling, but the stake was a big one. They wanted to obtain a concession for the working of some valuable iron-mines in the neighbourhood. The Pretender received them cordially enough, and invited them to sit down with him on a large carpet spread in the shadow of a tree. The discussion of the terms of the concession proceeded, and Bou Hamara's demands became more and more exacting. The capitalists hesitated and protested, but were brought to acceptance by the fact that while the conversation was still in progress a number of the Pretender's soldiers arrived carrying the recently-severed heads of a dozen or so of his enemies, which they arranged round the edge of the carpet. At the end of the interview the three or four very pale capitalists had accepted in their entirety the Pretender's propositions, and were thanking him for his cordial reception, surrounded by the ghastly exhibition that had n£>t a little influenced their decision.

The heads of enemies were, until the end of Mulai Hafid's reign, commonly exposed upon the gates of the towns of the interior of Morocco. In 1909, during the official Mission of the late Sir Reginald Lister to Fez, the Bab Mharouk was hung with the heads of rebels. One of these grisly monuments fell, with a resounding thud, as the British Minister and some of his party were passing underneath. The manner of affixing them was by passing a wire through the ear, which was fastened to a nail in the wall. Over and over again during my long residence in Morocco I have seen the gates and other buildings at the Moorish capitals decorated with these horrid trophies.

\ A more serious rival to the Sultan Abdul Aziz came upon the scene when Mulai Hafid, his halfbrother, set up the banner of revolt in Southern Morocco in 1908, and proclaimed himself Sultan. The moment was opportune. The previous year (1907) the French had bombarded Casablanca — after the massacre of a number of European workmen by the natives. These workmen, Italians and Frenchmen, were engaged upon the quarrying and transport of stone for the construction of the

Nport. The little railway used for this purpose passed through, or close to, a Moslem cemetery. Native opinion, excited by religious agitators, burst all bounds of restraint, and the Moors attacked the train. The labourers returning from their work were murdered. A French warship arrived on the scene, and an armed party landed for the protection of the European population of the town. The forts and native official quarters were at the same time bombarded. Scenes of the wildest confusion ensued, for not only was the town under the fire of the cannon of the warship, but the tribes from the interior had taken advantage of the panic to invade and pillage the place. Every sort of atrocity and horror was perpetrated, and Casablanca was a prey to loot and every kind of crime. The European force was sufficient to protect the Consulates, and the greater part of the Christian population escaped murder. When order was restored the town presented a pitiful aspect. I saw it a very few days after the bombardment, and the scene was indescribable — a confusion of dead people and horses, while the contents of almost every house seemed to have been hurled into the streets and destroyed. The looting was incomplete: piles of cotton goods, cases of foodstuffs — in fact, every class of merchandise still lay strewn about the roads. Many of the houses had been burned and gutted. Out of dark cellars, Moors and Jews, hidden since the first day of the bombardment, many of them wounded, were creeping, pale and terrified. Some had to be dug out of the ruins of their abodes. Over all this mass of destruction horses and men had galloped and fought. Blood was everywhere. In what had once been the poorer quarter of the town, where the houses, mostly thatched in straw, had been burned, I only met one living soul — a mad woman, dishevelled, dirty, but smiling — -who kept calling, " Ayesha, my little daughter; my little son Ahmed, where are you: I am calling you." Turning to me she asked, " You haven't seen my little children, have you? — a little girl and a tiny boy, almost a baby." She didn't wait for an answer, but passed on, still calling Ayesha and Ahmed.

There were many people completely mad with fear. The Jews and Jewesses were perhaps those who suffered the most. One Jewess, rescued from a cellar, was brought, stunned with terror, to Tangier on a relief ship. It was only after landing that she remembered that she had hidden her baby, to save it from death, in a corner of the cellar where she had been concealed — three days before.

The bombardment of Casablanca and those days of horror necessitated a campaign to clear the surrounding country of the evil tribes that hovered about, waiting another occasion to murder, rape, and pillage. ^Ll£M--tbe beginning of the French occupation of Morocco, and the final end of centuries of cruelty, corruption, and extortion.