Early in the morning I went with Hamma to take leave of the sultan, who had been too busy for some days to favour me with an audience; and I urged my friend to speak of the treaty, though I was myself fully aware of the great difficulty which so complicated a paper, written in a form entirely unknown to the natives, and which must naturally be expected to awaken their suspicion, would create, and of the great improbability of its being signed while the sultan was pressed with a variety of business. On the way to the fáda we met Áshu, the present serki-n- turáwa, a large-sized man, clad in an entirely-white dress, which may not improbably be a sign of his authority over the white men (Turáwa[154]). He is said to be a very wealthy man. He replied to my compliments with much kindness, and entered into conversation with me about the difference of our country and theirs, and ordered one of his companions to take me to a small garden which he had planted near his house in the midst of the town, in order to see what plants we had in common with them. Of course there was nothing like our plants; and my cicerone conceived rather a poor idea of our country when he heard that all the things which they had, we had not—neither senna, nor bamia, nor indigo, nor cotton, nor Guinea corn, nor, in short, the most beautiful of all trees of the creation, as he thought—the talha, or _Mimosa ferruginea_; and he seemed rather incredulous when told that we had much finer plants than they. We then went to the fáda. The sultan seemed quite ready for starting. He was sitting in the courtyard of his palace, surrounded by a multitude of people and camels, while the loud murmuring noise of a number of schoolboys who were learning the Kurán proceeded from the opposite corner, and prevented my hearing the conversation of the people. The crowd and the open locality were, of course, not very favourable to my last audience; and it was necessarily a cold one. Supported by Hamma, I informed the sultan that I expected still to receive a letter from him to the government under whose auspices I was travelling, expressive of the pleasure and satisfaction he had felt in being honoured with a visit from one of the mission, and that he would gladly grant protection to any future traveller who should happen to visit his country. The sultan promised that such a letter should be written; however, the result proved that either he had not quite understood what I meant, or, what is more probable, that in his precarious situation he felt himself not justified in writing to a Christian government, especially as he had received no letter from it. When I had returned to my quarters, Hamma brought me three letters, in which ʿAbd el Káder recommended my person and my luggage to the care of the governors of Kanó, Kátsena, and Dáura, and which were written in rather incorrect Arabic, and in nearly the same terms. They were as follows:— “In the name of God, &c.