Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from Old Morocco
What I love is a minaret, a mosque in the blue moonlight, a White-domed saint's tomb sleeping in the sun, an old fountain beautiful with broken bits of faience, and beside it a Moslem girl muf?ed in a white veil, except for her dark, deep eyes, filled with the wonder of life and the sadness of the World. I love to dream over the rich colours in old carpets woven with the mysterious symbols of strange human hearts, or to finger bizarre jewels that have glistened in the hair of some once lovely slave. I like to remember the glorious thrill of my first glimpse of Asia, drowned in a dawn of rose and gold, framed in the port-hole of a Roumanian steamer; or the forests of masts against the sunset in the Golden Horn, and the wild procession of strange humanity always thronging over the Galata Bridge; or the jangle of bargaining tongues in five languages in the J itui Pazar of Monastir. I love the fascination of the old east, its music and its sorceries and its dreams, its dim memories of races that have gone, its peoples that have grown old in living and have become a little.
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