very little wood. The Governor
got up, and went to the scene of "conflagration;" he cracked a few jokes
with the people and went home to bed. The Moors were sorry the fire did
not extend itself, wanting to have an opportunity of appropriating a few
of the merchant's goods.

I accompanied Mr. and Mrs. Elton, with other friends, to spend the day
in the pleasant valley of the Saneeates-Sultan, (Garden of the Emperor)
sometimes called Gharset-es-Sultan, three or four hours' ride south from
Mogador. The small river of Wad-el-Kesab, (overlooked by the village of
Deeabat, where watch-dogs were barking apparently all day long as well
as night), lay in our way, and was with difficulty forded, heavy rain
having fallen up the country, though none on the coast. These Barbary
streams are very deceptive, illustrating the metaphor of the book of
Job, "deceitful as a brook." To-day, their beds are perfectly dry;
to-morrow, a sheet of turbid water dashing and foaming to the ocean,
covers them and the country round, whilst the immediate cause is
concealed. Abrupt and sudden overflowings occur in all rivers having
their source in mountains. The book of Job may also refer to the
disappointment of Saharan travellers, who, on arriving weary and
thirsty, dying for water, at the stream of the Desert, find it dried up,
and so perish.

The country in the valley of the Emperor's garden offers nothing
remarkable. Bushes of underwood covering sandy mounds, a few palmettos
and Argan trees, in which wild doves fluttered and flew about, were all
that broke the monotony of a perfect waste. There were no cultivated
lands hereabouts, and I was told that a great part of Morocco presents
this desolate aspect. We visited, however, the celebrated Argan tree,
which the people pretend was planted by the lieutenant of the Prophet,
the mighty Okba, who, having spurred his horse in the roaring rebellious
surge of the Atlantic, wept and wailed before Heaven that there were no
more nations in whose heart to plunge his awful scimitar--so teaching
them the mercy of God! Alas! the old hoary tree, with a most peaceful
patriarchal look, seemed to belie the honour, stretching out its broad
sinewy arm to shelter a hundred people from the darting fires of an
African sun. A more noble object of inanimate nature is not to be
contemplated than a large and lofty branching tree; in its boughs and
leaves, endlessly varying, matted together and intersecting each other,
we see t