Some years ago the clock in the tower of the mosque got out of order.  The Moors of Tangier have so degenerated that it has been long since there was an artificer among them capable of curing so delicate a patient as a debilitated clock.  The great men of the city met in solemn conclave to consider how the difficulty was to be met.  They discussed the matter thoroughly but arrived at no solution.  Finally, a patriarch arose and said: 

“Oh, children of the Prophet, it is known unto you that a Portuguee dog of a Christian clock mender pollutes the city of Tangier with his presence.  Ye know, also, that when mosques are builded, asses bear the stones and the cement, and cross the sacred threshold.  Now, therefore, send the Christian dog on all fours, and barefoot, into the holy place to mend the clock, and let him go as an ass!”

And in that way it was done.  Therefore, if Blucher ever sees the inside of a mosque, he will have to cast aside his humanity and go in his natural character.  We visited the jail and found Moorish prisoners making mats and baskets. (This thing of utilizing crime savors of civilization.) Murder is punished with death.  A short time ago three murderers were taken beyond the city walls and shot.  Moorish guns are not good, and neither are Moorish marksmen.  In this instance they set up the poor criminals at long range, like so many targets, and practiced on them—­kept them hopping about and dodging bullets for half an hour before they managed to drive the center.

When a man steals cattle, they cut off his right hand and left leg and nail them up in the marketplace as a warning to everybody.  Their surgery is not artistic.  They slice around the bone a little, then break off the limb.  Sometimes the patient gets well; but, as a general thing, he don’t.  However, the Moorish heart is stout.  The Moors were always brave.  These criminals undergo the fearful operation without a wince, without a tremor of any kind, without a groan!  No amount of suffering can bring down the pride of a Moor or make him shame his dignity with a cry.

Here, marriage is contracted by the parents of the parties to it.  There are no valentines, no stolen interviews, no riding out, no courting in dim parlors, no lovers’ quarrels and reconciliations—­no nothing that is proper to approaching matrimony.  The young man takes the girl his father selects for him, marries her, and after that she is unveiled, and he sees her for the first time.  If after due acquaintance she suits him, he retains her; but if he suspects her purity, he bundles her back to her father; if he finds her diseased, the same; or if, after just and reasonable time is allowed her, she neglects to bear children, back she goes to the home of her childhood.

Muhammadans here who can afford it keep a good many wives on hand.  They are called wives, though I believe the Koran only allows four genuine wives—­the rest are concubines.  The Emperor of Morocco don’t know how many wives he has, but thinks he has five hundred.  However, that is near enough—­a dozen or so, one way or the other, don’t matter.