From whatever point Marakesh is looked at, the great tower of the Kutubía is the first object to catch the eye, and it forms an excellent landmark in steering one’s way over the bewildering plain that surrounds the city on all sides. I was told when crossing the Glawi Pass, on the fourth day after leaving Marakesh for Tafilet, that from a point near the road this great work, the sole reminder of the genius of the old-day Moors, was visible. Although the largest mosque, and possessing the handsomest minaret, the Kutubía seems much deserted as a place of worship, possibly from its being somewhat removed from the more inhabited portions of the city. Two shrines have annexed all the veneration of the townspeople and the surrounding tribes,—those of Sid bel Abbas, the patron saint of the city, and Mulai Abdul Aziz. A pretty story is told about the first, which, though common amongst the Moors, I have never seen quoted. Sid bel Abbas arrived outside the walls of the town, a beggar in rags; but although his poverty was apparent, he had a great reputation for sanctity. Before entering he sent to the Shereefs living within to ask their permission to be allowed to reside in the city, a course that much perturbed the said saints; for up to that moment they possessed the monopoly of the business—in Morocco a most lucrative one—of demanding and receiving alms on account of their descent from the Prophet. Wishing, however, to avoid an abrupt refusal, they resorted to delay, during which Sid bel Abbas took up his residence on the summit of a rocky barren hill—Jibel Glissa—which rises amongst the palm-groves to the west of the walls, and on which a little mosque to-day commemorates the event. At length, seeing that some answer must be sent, the Shereefs filled a bowl to the brim with water and sent it out to him. The bowl represented the city and the water themselves, and the bowl was full, which said pretty plainly, “Business already overstocked—much rather you wouldn’t come.” However, they gave him an opportunity of getting over their device, for the message they sent was couched in more poetical language. “If you can add,” they said, “to a bowl of water already full, enter.” Thereupon the saint plucked a rose and held it in the sun until its stalk thirsted for moisture, when he gently laid it in the bowl. The water displaced was drunk up by the thirsty flower. In this manner he sent the bowl back—but with no answer. When, however, the Shereefs saw that he had succeeded, and also paid such a pretty compliment to himself as to liken them to the water and himself to the rose, they withdrew all opposition, and the saint entered the city, and, judging from the reverence paid to his bones, must have entirely monopolised the business.