In the south of Morocco, during the
latter days of my journey, men spoke with quiet conviction of the doings
of Sultan and Pretender in the North, just as though Morocco possessed a
train or telegraph service, or a native newspaper. It does not seem
unreasonable that, while the deserts and great rolling plains have
extended men's vision to a point quite outside the comprehension of
Europe, other senses may be at least equally stimulated by a life we
Europeans shall: never know intimately. Perhaps the fear of believing too
readily makes us unduly sceptical, and inclined to forget that our
philosophy cannot compass one of the many mysteries that lie at our door.
If any proof were required that Morocco in all its internal disputes is
strictly tribal, our safe residence here would supply one. On the other
side of Tangier, over in the direction of Tetuan, the tribes are out and
the roads are impassable. Europeans are forbidden to ride by way of Angera
to Tetuan. Even a Minister, the representative of a great European Power,
was warned by old Hadj Mohammed Torres, the resident Secretary for Foreign
Affairs, that the Moorish Administration would not hold itself responsible
for his safety if he persisted in his intention to go hunting among the
hills.
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