The Town,--If Such Name Can Be Given To What Is Now A Wretched Clump Of Dirty Mat-Huts,--Is Situated On The Northern Edge Of Alluvial Ground, Sloping Almost Imperceptibly From The Base Of The Southern Hills.

The rapacity of these short-sighted savages has contracted its dimensions to about one sixth of its former extent:

For nearly a mile around, the now desert land is strewed with bits of glass and broken pottery. Their ignorance has chosen the worst position: _Mos Majorum_ is the Somali code, where father built there son builds, and there shall grandson build. To the S. and E. lies a saline sand-flat, partially overflowed by high tides: here are the wells of bitter water, and the filth and garbage make the spot truly offensive. Northwards the sea-strand has become a huge cemetery, crowded with graves whose dimensions explain the Somali legend that once there were giants in the land: tradition assigns to it the name of Bunder Abbas. Westward, close up to the town, runs the creek which forms the wealth of Berberah. A long strip of sand and limestone--the general formation of the coast--defends its length from the northern gales, the breadth is about three quarters of a mile, and the depth varies from six to fifteen fathoms near the Ras or Spit at which ships anchor before putting out to sea.

Behind the town, and distant about seven miles, lie the Sub-Ghauts, a bold background of lime and sandstone.

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