et-place towards
the close of hot and busy days, when the wearied bargainers gather in
groups to rest before commencing the homeward trudge. The jugglers are
usually poor, the production of fire from the mouth, of water from an
empty jar, and so on, forming stock items. But often fearful realities
are to be seen--men who in a frenzied state catch cannon balls upon
their heads, blood spurting out on every side; or, who stick skewers
through their legs. These are religious devotees who live by such
performances. From the public _raconteur_ the Moor derives the
excitement the European finds in his novel, or the tale "to be
continued in our next," and it probably does him less harm.

XVII

THE STORY-TELLER

"Gentleman without reading, dog without scent."

_Moorish Proverb._

The story-teller is, _par excellence_, the prince of Moorish
performers. Even to the stranger unacquainted with the language the
sight of the Arab bard and his attentive audience on some erstwhile
bustling market at the ebbing day is full of interest--to the student
of human nature a continual attraction. After a long trudge from home,
commenced before dawn, and a weary haggling over the most worthless of
"coppers" during the heat of the day, the poor folk are quite ready
for a quiet resting-time, with something to distract their minds and
fill them with thoughts for the homeward way. Here have been fanned
and fed the great religious and political movements which from time
to time have convulsed the Empire, and here the pulse of the nation
throbs. In the cities men lead a different life, and though
the townsfolk appreciate tales as well as any, it is on these
market-places that the wandering troubadour gathers the largest
crowds.

Like public performers everywhere, a story-teller of note always
goes about with regular assistants, who act as summoners to his
entertainment, and as chorus to his songs. They consist usually of a
player on the native fiddle, another who keeps time on a tambourine,
and a third who beats a kind of earthenware drum with his fingers.
Less pretentious "professors" are content with themselves manipulating
a round or square tambourine or a two-stringed fiddle, and to many
this style has a peculiar charm of its own. Each pause, however
slight, is marked by two or three sharp beats on the tightly stretched
skin, or twangs with a palmetto leaf plectrum, loud or soft, according
to the subject of the discourse at th