sanguine orientalist would not dare to render literally more than three
quarters of the remainder. Consequently, the reader loses the contrast,--
the very essence of the book,--between its brilliancy and dulness, its
moral putrefaction, and such pearls as

"Cast the seed of good works on the least fit soil.
Good is never wasted, however it may be laid out."

And in a page or two after such divine sentiment, the ladies of Bagdad sit
in the porter's lap, and indulge in a facetiousness which would have
killed Pietro Aretino before his time.

[Illustration]

Often I am visited by the Topchi-Bashi, or master of the ordnance,--half a
dozen honeycombed guns,--a wild fellow, Bashi Buzuk in the Hejaz and
commandant of artillery at Zayla. He shaves my head on Fridays, and on
other days tells me wild stories about his service in the Holy Land; how
Kurdi Usman slew his son-in-law, Ibn Rumi, and how Turkcheh Bilmez would
have murdered Mohammed Ali in his bed. [12] Sometimes the room is filled
with Arabs, Sayyids, merchants, and others settled in the place: I saw
nothing amongst them to justify the oft-quoted saw, "Koraysh pride and
Zayla's boastfulness." More generally the assembly is one of the Somal,
who talk in their own tongue, laugh, yell, stretch their legs, and lie
like cattle upon the floor, smoking the common Hukkah, which stands in the
centre, industriously cleaning their teeth with sticks, and eating snuff
like Swedes. Meanwhile, I occupy the Kursi or couch, sometimes muttering
from a book to excite respect, or reading aloud for general information,
or telling fortunes by palmistry, or drawing out a horoscope.