At seven o’clock next morning the engines were stopped, and going on deck we found ourselves lying some way off the shore, opposite the mouth of the river Oued Bouregrag, that divides Sallee from Rabat. The latter, as seen from a distance, is a place of somewhat imposing appearance. The chief mosque has a great square tower, rivalling those of Seville and Marocco; and a pile of modern masonry, on a scale unknown elsewhere in modern days in this country, marks the large barrack where the Sultan’s body-guard is lodged when he pays his annual visit to the coast. Carpets are made here, and also a peculiar sort of unglazed pottery, coarse in texture, but admirable in form, and singular in ornamentation.[1] Over against Rabat, on the north side of the river, is Sallee, once a famous place, the last outpost of Roman civilisation, and afterwards the home of pirates who were dreaded throughout the Mediterranean and along the coasts of France and England. Looking at the bare coast, and the paltry groups of mud boxes that make up a Moorish town, and knowing that the bar at the river’s mouth allows, except at spring tide, the passage only of ships of small tonnage, it seemed scarcely credible that the European Powers should so long have allowed such a nest of hornets to flourish at their very gates. When one reads that up to the middle of the last century it was not a very rare thing for the ‘Sallee rovers’ to lie under Lundy Island, and cut out Bristol merchantmen, one asks what the British navy was about, that the malefactors and their ships were not swept from the sea, and Sallee itself utterly destroyed. The false humanity that caused in our time such bitter lamentations over the chastisement of Bornean pirates had not been yet invented.