I received the compliment in silence, and endeavoured to recover my tranquillity.  But I could not help remarking the contrast between my noisy and agitated guide, and the grave manner and immoveable quietness of the recluse.  The guide then handed him “the Address,” and the Cid opened the box or case with extreme caution, as if it had contained some mysterious spell.  The Cid now looked up for a moment at the big negro, who decamped instantly and returned with a teapot and two cups.  The two cups were then filled with tea, one of which was presented to me, but I had some hesitation about drinking it.  The Cid, looked up at me with a quiet smile, and gently muttered “Eshrub! (drink,”) I drank the tea and then waited anxiously to know what was coming next.  The Cid continued to unroll the Address.  When this was done, he rolled it up and again unrolled it, and stared at its Roman characters.  He eyed the seal and ejaculated, “Haram!” to himself! alluding, I suppose, to the figure of the slave in chains, it being prohibited to make figures.  The Cid now paused a moment, then looked at me again, and finally turning to the Guide said, “Imshee El-Ghudwah (go to-morrow, I’ll see.)”

The guide now grasped me again by the hand, scarcely allowing me to bow a good night to the Cid, and led me back to my lodgings, where I arrived at midnight.  When I awoke in the morning, I really imagined I had been dreaming an ugly dream, until one of the English Jews called, and said he was making a translation of the Address to be dispatched to the Emperor at Morocco, and afterwards he would bring the Address back.  The Address was returned to me about a week afterwards, but whether an Arabic translation was ever sent to the Sultan, I know no more than the reader.

Mr. Phillips has applied to the British Vice-consul to know whether, in case of his going up to Morocco to carry a present for the Belgium merchants, here, Phillips, being a Jew, will be obliged to pull off his shoes, which would be depriving him of the rights of British-born subjects, who stand with their shoes on in the Shereefian presence.  The Consul says he cannot answer the question, and must send a dispatch to Mr. Hay.  Mr. Willshire complimented Phillips:  “Ah Phillips, you are always proposing to me some knotty question.  You profoundly perplex the mind of Mr. Consul-general Hay.”

This leads me to notice the affecting case of the Israelite, Darmon, at one time the French Vice-consul at Mazagran.  This young Darmon was fond of Moorish women, and always intriguing with them.  Hay Mousa, Governor of Mazagran, reported him to the Emperor, and his Highness sent orders to have him decapitated.  It was said afterwards by the Maroquine Government, that “The order was merely to bring him to Morocco, and that, when being conveyed as prisoner, and after attempting to run away, the soldiers of his escort shot him.”  The Moorish Government also pretend that Darmon attempted first to shoot the guards who shot him, in self-defence.