and vulgarity; and, after all, no manners are preferable to bad manners.

Sometimes we are visited at this hour by Mohammed Sharmarkay, eldest son
of the old governor. He is in age about thirty, a fine tall figure,
slender but well knit, beardless and of light complexion, with large eyes,
and a length of neck which a lady might covet. His only detracting feature
is a slight projection of the oral region, that unmistakable proof of
African blood. His movements have the grace of strength and suppleness: he
is a good jumper, runs well, throws the spear admirably, and is a
tolerable shot. Having received a liberal education at Mocha, he is held a
learned man by his fellow-countrymen. Like his father he despises
presents, looking higher; with some trouble I persuaded him to accept a
common map of Asia, and a revolver. His chief interest was concentrated in
books: he borrowed my Abu Kasim to copy [6], and was never tired of
talking about the religious sciences: he had weakened his eyes by hard
reading, and a couple of blisters were sufficient to win his gratitude.
Mohammed is now the eldest son [7]; he appears determined to keep up the
family name, having already married ten wives: the issue, however, two
infant sons, were murdered by the Eesa Bedouins. Whenever he meets his
father in the morning, he kisses his hand, and receives a salute upon the
forehead. He aspires to the government of Zayla, and looks forward more
reasonably than the Hajj to the day when the possession of Berberah will
pour gold into his coffers. He shows none of his father's "softness:" he
advocates the bastinado, and, to keep his people at a distance, he has
married an Arab wife, who allows no adult to enter the doors. The Somal,
Spaniard-like, remark, "He is one of ourselves, though a little richer;"
but when times change and luck returns, they are not unlikely to find
themselves mistaken.

Amongst other visitors, we have the Amir el Bahr, or Port Captain, and the