Custer weekly chronicle. [volume] (Custer City, S.D.) 1890-1931, 1890-05-03
NECTAR or THE MOORS.
such Ia the Coffee OF the Orient Served IN
the Cafes OF the City OF Tangiers.

1~t's W ~ ~ VI 4
1t was a midwinter night in the old
city of Tangiers, the seaport OF Moroc.
co. Dinner was over and we were
consulting our cigars on the antique
balcony clinging to the side OF our lofty
hotel, and admiring the spacious bay
and weird. silent city below us. AS
I'VE sat there wondering what we shourl
do with ourselves. aSpanish gentleman
of u acquaintance came out TO us and
said, briskly:
well. gentlemen, how would you
like to make a call Mt the great Moorish
cafe of 'Murad ell Hassan' this EVENING"
! can assure YOU that it is well worth
a visit"
Delighted to 60" we all cried at
once and forthwith started.
After winding through dirty, mar.
row., and dangerous streets for some
fifteen minutes we reached a huge pile
of masonry, one story in height, from
whose low, open doorway a bright light
was streaming out into the darkness.
We entered, add at once found our
selves in a large, square room with a
low ceiling. On one side was a raised
platform, with chairs scattered around
on it. BY far the larger portion of the
room, though, was covered with mats
and rugs, on which perhaps fifty ma.
tives were stretched out smoking some
narcotic that produced semi-intoxica.
ton.
The rear Of the room had a huge open
chimney built into the wall. with q
EraaI Evon1aoa nvtanI;nnr mt frop. -
much resembling a blacksmith's forge.
On this a oh~arcoal-fire was shoulder
ing.
The proprietor, as he saw us, came
hastily forward and with many salaams
escorted us to seats upon this platform.
Then opening a dingy cupboard he
took out a table of inlaid mother-of-
pearl, exquisitely beautiful, which he
set before us. He then took a small
iron mortar and putting into 1t two
pods, carefully pulverized them. The
dust he deposited in a delicate little
cup of shell-like china. poured boiling
water upon it until it dissolved and be.
came a sort of liquid paste. and then
approaching us, offered it to me with
all the p~oliteness of the oriental.
took il, of course, but with many
inward maledictions, for 1t was by no
means an acceptable Offering. Its
color was a dingy, dirty brown, an un-
pleasant yellow scum floated around
on the top of it, and altogether it was
as repulsive in appearance as one could
we'll imagine. But take it | must;
there was no escape. To refuse would
have been to give a mortal offense, and
so with a sigh | resigned myself to the
inevitable.
With a small spoon | carefully brush
ell away the frothy scum, lifted a lit
tie of the detestable mixture to my
lips, ~groaned, closed my eyes, opened
my mouth, and in desperation swallow.
ed il.
But behold the miracle! As that
questionable looking compound gently
stole down my alimentary canal, to my
amazement did find myself swallow.
ing a nectar worthy of Olympus, and
the dusky Moor for q moment seemed
to be Il Ganymede himself. A deli
cious, aromatic, stimulating something,
of whose existence | had never even
dreamed, introduced Itself to me then
and there-and | opened my eyes and
formed the acquaintance Of a friend
upon whom | never afterward turned
my back.
1t was a new revelation, this coffee
of the orient, and v again did /
hesitate. whether in Arab camp or
Moslem city, to receive it with thank
~fulness, be II ever so dingy. l learned
then what nutrition and sustenance
could be put into it, and ceased to won
der how the nomad could live for weeks
on a hardful of dates and a few dozen
coffee pods.
The scene before US as we sat there
was weird beyond all imagination and
made q picture worthy of the brush OF
Gerome himself. Its frame, the low
walls of the cafe, draped here and there
with scarlet hangings; its background,
the broad chimney-piece, from which .
glowing fire sent its rays across the
room; its center, the bright, rug-cov-
cred floor, with its motley collection OF
and its foreground. the richly CARRIED
proprietor, bowling before US and pre-.
senting on a silver tray his quaint little
cups of transparent china. Never did
that great artist paint a more truly orr.
entail picture. Indeed, it was hard To
believe that we were not looking upon
his canvas, so similar to his creations
was the reality before US.
They were a strange sight-thoss
swarthy Moors-swathed to the very
eyes in coarse white cloths and stretch,
ed at full length upon the rich rugs.
each gravely and silently putting away
at a long amber-tipped pipe, and each
lost under the influence OF the subtle
narcotic be was smoking. They were
there with us in the body. but through
She power of the mysterious drug hid.
Zen in their quaint pipes their spirits
were far away, reveling in the Mussel.
mans paradise with the fair hours oil
his faith. Surrounded on all sides by
dirt and degradation, their lives but ap
unending succession of pitiable depri.
vations, their horizons limited by the
fanatical barbarism under which they
live, only in such hours rs this do they
escape from their environments and
rise above their daily miseries. 1t wa,
a sad enough spectacle to see the de.
scendauts Of a people once famous fol
a high culture and ripe civilization
forced to find their solace in joys as un'
substantial as the curling smoke out
of which they were formed, and which
would but leave the unhappy dreamer'
the more enervated and the more de.
pressed.
Thus felt we all, and, as after oul
evenings visit we once more sought oul
hotel, did we lind ourselves uncon
sciously meditating over their fallen
greatness and lost estate. Such wa,
this old Moorish cafe. and such the ef-
feet it bad upon its visitors that mid,
winter night Chicago Times.
How soon chickens forget the worm