With earliest dawn we arise, thankful to escape from mosquitoes and close
air. We repair to the terrace where devotions are supposed to be
performed, and busy ourselves in watching our neighbours. Two in
particular engage my attention: sisters by different mothers. The daughter
of an Indian woman is a young person of fast propensities,--her chocolate-
coloured skin, long hair, and parrot-like profile [1] are much admired by
the _elegants_ of Zayla; and she coquettes by combing, dancing, singing,
and slapping the slave-girls, whenever an adorer may be looking. We sober-
minded men, seeing her, quote the well-known lines--
"Without justice a king is a cloud without rain;
Without goodness a sage is a field without fruit;
Without manners a youth is a bridleless horse;
Without lore an old man is a waterless wady;
Without modesty woman is bread without salt."
The other is a matron of Abyssinian descent, as her skin, scarcely darker
than a gipsy's, her long and bright blue fillet, and her gaudily fringed
dress, denote. She tattoos her face [2]: a livid line extends from her
front hair to the tip of her nose; between her eyebrows is an ornament
resembling a _fleur-de-lis_, and various beauty-spots adorn the corners of
her mouth and the flats of her countenance. She passes her day
superintending the slave-girls, and weaving mats [3], the worsted work of
this part of the world.
