charcoal and kesk'soo
steamers for stewing meat and vegetables as well.

A native _cafe_ here attracts our attention. Under the shade of a
covered way the kahwaji has a brazier on which he keeps a large kettle
of water boiling. A few steps further on we light upon the sellers of
native salt. This is in very large crystals, heaped in mule panniers,
from which the dealers mete it out in wooden measures. It comes from
along the beach near Old Tangier, where the heaps can be seen from the
town, glistening in the sunlight. Ponds are dug along the shore, in
which sea water is enclosed by miniature dykes, and on evaporating
leaves the salt.

Pressing on with difficulty through a crowd of horses, mules and
donkeys, mostly tethered by their forefeet, we reach some huts in
front of which are the most gorgeous native waistcoats exposed for
sale, together with Manchester goods, by fat, ugly old women of
a forbidding aspect. Further on we come upon "confectioners." A
remarkable peculiarity of the tables on which the sweets are being
sold in front of us is the total absence of flies, though bees
abound, in spite of the lazy whisking of the sweet-seller. The sweets
themselves consist of red, yellow and white sticks of what Cousin
Jonathan calls "candy;" almond and gingelly rock, all frizzling in the
sun. A small basin, whose contents resemble a dark plum-pudding full
of seeds, contains a paste of the much-lauded hasheesh, the opiate of
Morocco, which, though contraband, and strictly prohibited by Imperial
decrees, is being freely purchased in small doses.

On the opposite side of the way some old Spaniards are selling a kind
of coiled-up fritter by the yard, swimming in oil. Then we come to a
native restaurant. Trade does not appear very brisk, so we shall not
interrupt it by pausing for a few moments to watch the cooking. In a
tiny lean-to of sticks and thatch two men are at work. One is cutting
up liver and what would be flead if the Moors ate pigs, into pieces
about the size of a filbert. These the other threads on skewers in
alternate layers, three or four of each. Having rolled them in a basin
of pepper and salt, they are laid across an earthen pot resembling a
log scooped out, like some primaeval boat. In the bottom of the hollow
is a charcoal fire, which causes the khotban, as they are called, to
give forth a most appetizing odour--the only thing tempting about them
after seeing them made. Half loaves of native bread lie rea