The best class of Jew in the Mellah has ideas and ideals, but outside the conduct of his business he lacks initiative.  He believes most firmly in the future of the Jewish race, the ultimate return to Palestine, the advent of the Messiah.  Immersed in these beliefs, he does not see dirt collecting in the streets and killing little children with the diseases it engenders.  Gradually the grime settles on his faith too, and he loses sight of everything save commercial ends and the observances that orthodoxy demands.  His, one fears, is a quite hopeless case.  The attention of philanthropy might well turn to the little ones, however.  For their sake some of the material benefits of modern knowledge should be brought to Jewry in Marrakesh.  Schools are excellent, but children cannot live by school learning alone.

Going from the Mellah one morning I saw a strange sight.  By the entrance to the salted place there is a piece of bare ground stretching to the wall.  Here sundry young Jews in black djellabas sat at their ease, their long hair curled over their ears, and black caps on their heads in place of the handkerchiefs favoured by the elders of the community.  One or two women were coming from the Jewish market, their bright dresses and uncovered faces a pleasing contrast to the white robes and featureless aspect of the Moorish women.  A little Moorish boy, seeing me regard them with interest, remarked solemnly, “There go those who will never look upon the face of God’s prophet,” and then a shareef, whose portion in Paradise was of course reserved to him by reason of his high descent, rode into the open ground from the Madinah.  I regret to record the fact that the holy man was drunk, whether upon haschisch or the strong waters of the infidel, I know not, and to all outward seeming his holiness alone sufficed to keep him on the back of the spirited horse he bestrode.  He went very near to upsetting a store of fresh vegetables belonging to a True Believer, and then nearly crushed an old man against the wall.  He raised his voice, but not to pray, and the people round him were in sore perplexity.  He was too holy to remove by force and too drunk to persuade, so the crowd, realising that he was divinely directed, raised a sudden shout.  This served.  The hot-blooded Barb made a rush for the arcade leading to the Madinah and carried the drunken saint with him, cursing at the top of his voice, but sticking to his unwieldy saddle in manner that was admirable and truly Moorish.  If he had not been holy he would have been torn from his horse, and, in native speech, would have “eaten the stick,” for drunkenness is a grave offence in orthodox Morocco.

[Illustration:  A COURTYARD, MARRAKESH]

They have a short way with offenders in Moorish cities.  I remember seeing a man brought to the Kasbah of a northern town on a charge of using false measures.  The case was held proven by the khalifa; the culprit was stripped to the waist, mounted on a lame donkey, and driven through the streets, while two stalwart soldiers, armed with sticks, beat him until he dropped to the ground.  He was picked up more dead than alive, and thrown into prison.