The Moors have some small silver coins and also some silver slugs worth a dollar each.  The latter are exceedingly scarce—­so much so that when poor ragged Arabs see one they beg to be allowed to kiss it.

They have also a small gold coin worth two dollars.  And that reminds me of something.  When Morocco is in a state of war, Arab couriers carry letters through the country and charge a liberal postage.  Every now and then they fall into the hands of marauding bands and get robbed.  Therefore, warned by experience, as soon as they have collected two dollars’ worth of money they exchange it for one of those little gold pieces, and when robbers come upon them, swallow it.  The stratagem was good while it was unsuspected, but after that the marauders simply gave the sagacious United States mail an emetic and sat down to wait.

The Emperor of Morocco is a soulless despot, and the great officers under him are despots on a smaller scale.  There is no regular system of taxation, but when the Emperor or the Bashaw want money, they levy on some rich man, and he has to furnish the cash or go to prison.  Therefore, few men in Morocco dare to be rich.  It is too dangerous a luxury.  Vanity occasionally leads a man to display wealth, but sooner or later the Emperor trumps up a charge against him—­any sort of one will do—­and confiscates his property.  Of course, there are many rich men in the empire, but their money is buried, and they dress in rags and counterfeit poverty.  Every now and then the Emperor imprisons a man who is suspected of the crime of being rich, and makes things so uncomfortable for him that he is forced to discover where he has hidden his money.

Moors and Jews sometimes place themselves under the protection of the foreign consuls, and then they can flout their riches in the Emperor’s face with impunity.

CHAPTER IX.

About the first adventure we had yesterday afternoon, after landing here, came near finishing that heedless Blucher.  We had just mounted some mules and asses and started out under the guardianship of the stately, the princely, the magnificent Hadji Muhammad Lamarty (may his tribe increase!) when we came upon a fine Moorish mosque, with tall tower, rich with checker-work of many-colored porcelain, and every part and portion of the edifice adorned with the quaint architecture of the Alhambra, and Blucher started to ride into the open doorway.  A startling “Hi-hi!” from our camp followers and a loud “Halt!” from an English gentleman in the party checked the adventurer, and then we were informed that so dire a profanation is it for a Christian dog to set foot upon the sacred threshold of a Moorish mosque that no amount of purification can ever make it fit for the faithful to pray in again.  Had Blucher succeeded in entering the place, he would no doubt have been chased through the town and stoned; and the time has been, and not many years ago, either, when a Christian would have been most ruthlessly slaughtered if captured in a mosque.  We caught a glimpse of the handsome tessellated pavements within and of the devotees performing their ablutions at the fountains, but even that we took that glimpse was a thing not relished by the Moorish bystanders.