which faces the centre of the encampment, and the walls or "curtains" are formed of high thistles lashed together in sheaves. Surrounding the tent is a yard, a simple bog in winter, the boundary of which is a ring formed by bundles of prickly branches, which compose a really formidable barrier, being too much for a jump, and too tenacious to one another and to visitors for penetration. The break left for an entrance is stopped at night by another bundle which makes the circle complete.
The interior of the tent is often more or less divided by the pole supporting the roof, and by a pile of household goods, such as they are. Sometimes a rude loom is fastened to the poles, and at it a woman sits working on the floor. The framework—made of canes—is kept in place by rigging to pegs in the ground. The woman's hand is her only shuttle, and she threads the wool through with her fingers, a span at a time, afterwards knocking it down tightly into place with a heavy wrought-iron comb about two inches wide, with a dozen prongs. She seems but half-dressed, and makes no effort to conceal either face or breast, as a filthy child lies feeding in her lap. Her seat is a piece of matting, but the principal covering for the floor of trodden mud is a layer of palmetto leaves. Round the "walls" are several hens with chicks nestling under their wings, and on one side a donkey is tethered, while a calf sports at large.
The furniture of this humble dwelling consists of two or three large, upright, mud-plastered,[page 59] split-cane baskets, containing corn, partially sunk in the ground, and a few dirty bags. On one side is the mill, a couple of stones about eighteen inches across, the upper one convex, with a handle at one side. Three stones above a small hole in the ground serve as a cooking-range, while the fuel is abundant in the form of sun-dried thistles and other weeds, or palmetto leaves and sticks. Fire is obtained by borrowing from one another, but should it happen that no one in the encampment had any, the laborious operation of lighting dry straw from the flash in the pan of a flint-lock would have to be performed. To light the rude lamp—merely a bit of cotton protruding from anything with olive-oil in it—it is necessary to blow some smoking straw or weed till it bursts into a flame.
Little else except the omnipresent dirt is to be found in the average Arab tent. A tin or two for cooking operations, a large earthen water-jar, and a pan or two to match, in which the butter-milk is kept, a sieve for the flour, and a few rough baskets, usually complete the list, and all are remarkable only for the prevailing grime. Making a virtue of necessity, the Arab prefers sour milk to fresh, for with this almost total lack of cleanliness, no milk would long keep sweet. Their food is of the simplest, chiefly the flour of wheat, barley, or Indian millet prepared in various ways, for the most part made up into flat, heavy cakes of bread, or as kesk'soo. Milk, from which butter is made direct by tossing it in a goat-skin turned inside out, eggs and fowls form the chief animal food, butcher's meat being but seldom indulged in. Vegetables do not enter into their diet, as they have no gardens, and beyond possessing[page 60] flocks and herds, those Arabs met with in Barbary are wretchedly poor and miserably squalid. The patriarchal display of Arabia is here unknown.
Of children and dogs there is no lack. Both abound, and wallow in the mud together. Often the latter seem to have the better time of it. Two families by one father will sometimes share one tent between them, but generally each "household" is distinct, though all sleep together in the one apartment of their abode. As one approaches a dûár, or encampment, an early warning is given by the hungry dogs, and soon the half-clad children rush out to see who comes, followed leisurely by their elders. Hospitality has ever been an Arab trait, and these poor creatures, in their humble way, sustain the best traditions of their race. A native visitor of their own class is entertained and fed by the first he comes across, while the foreign traveller or native of means with his own tent is accommodated on the rubbish in the midst of the encampment, and can purchase all he wishes—all that they have—for a trifle, though sometimes they turn disagreeable and "pile it on." A present of milk and eggs, perhaps fowls, may be brought, for which, however, a quid pro quo is expected.
Luxuries they have not. Whatever they need to do in the way of shopping, is done at the nearest market once a week, and nothing but the produce already mentioned is to be obtained from them. In the evenings they stuff themselves to repletion, if they can afford it, with a wholesome dish of prepared barley or wheat meal, sometimes crowned with beans; then, after a gossip round the crackling fire, or, on state occasions, three cups of syrupy[page 61] green tea apiece, they roll themselves in their long blankets and sleep on the ground.
The first blush of dawn sees them stirring, and soon all is life and excitement. The men go off to their various labours, as do many of the stronger women, while the remainder attend to their scanty household duties, later on basking in the sun. But the moment the stranger arrives the scene changes, and the incessant din of dogs, hags and babies commences, to which the visitor is doomed till late at night, with the addition then of neighs and brays and occasional cock-crowing.
It never seemed to me that these poor folk enjoyed life, but rather that they took things sadly. How could it be otherwise? No security of life and property tempts them to make a show of wealth; on the contrary, they bury what little they may save, if any, and lead lives of misery for fear of tempting the authorities. Their work is hard; their comforts are few. The wild wind howls through their humble dwellings, and the rain splashes in at the door. In sickness, for lack of medical skill, they lie and perish. In health their only pleasures are animal. Their women, once they are past the prime of life, which means soon after thirty with this desert race, go unveiled, and work often harder than the men, carrying burdens, binding sheaves, or even perhaps helping a donkey to haul a plough. Female features are never so jealously guarded here as in the towns.
Yet they are a jolly, good-tempered, simple folk. Often have I spent a merry evening round the fire with them, squatted on a bit of matting, telling of the wonders of "That Country," the name which[page 62] alternates in their vocabulary with "Nazarene Land," as descriptive of all the world but Morocco and such portions of North Africa or Arabia as they may have heard of. Many an honest laugh have we enjoyed over their wordy tales, or perchance some witty sally; but in my heart I have pitied these down-trodden people in their ignorance and want. Home they do not know. When the pasture in Shechem is short, they remove to Dothan; next month they may be somewhere else. But they are always ready to share their scanty portion with the wayfarer, wherever they are.
When the time comes for changing quarters these wanderers find the move but little trouble. Their few belongings are soon collected and packed, and the tent itself made ready for transportation. Their animals are got together, and ere long the cavalcade is on the road. Often one poor beast will carry a fair proportion of the family—the mother and a child or two, for instance—in addition to a load of household goods, and bundles of fowls slung by their feet. At the side men and boys drive the flocks and herds, while as often as not the elder women-folk take a full share in the porterage of their property. To meet such a caravan is to feel one's self transported to Bible times, and to fancy Jacob going home from Padan Aram.
[page 63]
VI
CITY LIFE
"Seek the neighbour before the house, And the companion before the road."
Moorish Proverb.
Few countries afford a better insight into typical Mohammedan life, or boast a more primitive civilization, than Morocco, preserved as it has been so long from western contamination. The patriarchal system, rendered more or less familiar to us by our Bibles, still exists in the homes of its people, especially those of the country-side; but Moorish city life is no less interesting or
