The road from Marrakesh to Mogador is as pleasant as traveller could wish,
lying for a great part of the way through fertile land, but it is seldom
followed, because of the two unbridged rivers N'fiss and Sheshoua. If
either is in flood (and both are fed by the melting snows from the Atlas
Mountains), you must camp on the banks for days together, until it shall
please Allah to abate the waters. Our lucky star was in the ascendant; we
reached Wad N'fiss at eleven o'clock to find its waters low and clear. On
the far side of the banks we stayed to lunch by the border of a thick belt
of sedge and bulrushes, a marshy place stretching over two or three acres,
and glowing with the rich colour that comes to southern lands in April and
in May. It recalled to me the passage in one of the stately choruses of
Mr. Swinburne's _Atalanta in Calydon_, that tells how "blossom by blossom
the spring begins."
The intoxication that lies in colour and sound has ever had more
fascination for me than the finest wine could bring: the colour of the
vintage is more pleasing than the taste of the grape. In this forgotten
corner the eye and ear were assailed and must needs surrender.
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