s moving through its checkered
twilight, the lack of carved shop-fronts and gaily adorned
coffee-houses, and the absence of the painted coffers and vivid
embroideries of Tunis, remind one that Morocco is a melancholy country,
and Fez a profoundly melancholy city.

_Dust and ashes, dust and ashes_, echoes from the gray walls, the
mouldering thatch of the _souks_, the long lamentable song of the blind
beggars sitting in rows under the feet of the camels and asses. No young
men stroll through the bazaar in bright caftans, with roses and jasmine
behind their ears, no pedlars offer lemonade and sweetmeats and
golden-fritters, no flower-sellers pursue one with tight bunches of
orange-blossom and little pink roses. The well-to-do ride by in white,
and the rest of the population goes mournfully in earth-color.

But gradually one falls under the spell of another influence--the
influence of the Atlas and the desert. Unknown Africa seems much nearer
to Morocco than to the white towns of Tunis and the smiling oases of
South Algeria. One feels the nearness of Marrakech at Fez, and at
Marrakech that of Timbuctoo.

Fez is sombre, and the bazaars clustered about its holiest sanctuaries
form its most sombre quarter. Dusk falls there early, and oil-lanterns
twinkle in the merchants' niches while the clear African daylight still
lies on the gardens of upper Fez. This twilight adds to the mystery of
the _souks_, making them, in spite of profane noise and crowding and
filth, an impressive approach to the sacred places.

Until a year or two ago, the precincts around Moulay Idriss and El
Kairouiyin were _horm_, that is, cut off from the unbeliever. Heavy
beams of wood barred the end of each _souk_, shutting off the
sanctuaries, and the Christian could only conjecture what lay beyond.
Now he knows in part; for, though the beams have not been lowered, all
comers may pass under them to the lanes about the mosques, and even
pause a moment in their open doorways. Farther one may not go, for the
shrines of Morocco are still closed to unbelievers; but whoever knows
Cordova, or has stood under the arches of the Great Mosque of Kairouan,
can reconstruct something of the hidden beauties of its namesake, the
"Mosque Kairouan" of western Africa.

Once under the bars, the richness of the old Moorish Fez presses upon
one with unexpected beauty. Here is the graceful tiled fountain of
Nedjarine, glittering with the unapproachable blues and greens of
ce