In a low stone edifice adjacent to this mosque I glanced in at a school, where fifteen or twenty infantile scholars of both sexes whose wardrobe complete consisted of ankle, waist, and wrist rings, and pendent little silver ornaments, squatted on mats. In their midst, _a la_ Turk, sat a shaven-headed, long-bearded Mussulman, chewing the betel-leaf and areca-nut, and uplifting at intervals the rod of correction, which was more effective than the ferula of the Christian, owing to the scanty costume of the juvenile recipients of Mohammedan morality. The scholars were engaged in writing with bamboo pens, on boards covered with a clay preparation, passages from the Koran, which was lying open upon a little stand in front of the red-saliva pedagogue. When he turned a leaf of his sacred book, he did it with a portion of his white garment, never touching the page with the naked hand. It appeared to be a free jabber on the part of the tender nudes, in Arabic, but if a sentence was missed by one, down came the Damocletian ratan, and the humanity of breeches rushed with full force on the mind. The kind heart of Dame Partington would have been greatly grieved, and she would have philanthropically exclaimed, “Bless the inventor of clothing.” And “bless the inventor of clothing;” the vitiated taste that can find nothing repulsive in an exact marble nudity, which, in the flesh of the original would be thought with Dogberry, “most tolerable and not to be endured,” would be most fully satiated—gorged—after continually looking upon the half-clad and garmentless people of the East, no matter how fine their figures. He will certainly become of the opinion that dress is a part and parcel of a woman, and that she is never so engaging in appearance as when clad in Christian garments. “Greek slaves” in bronze don’t answer. One is struck with the fullness, beauty, and glossiness of the hair of the natives, especially when he bears in mind, that those who do not shave their heads, walk uncovered under the hot sun of their clime. I had some curiosity to find out the secret of this. They use on their hair twice a-week the juice of limes, obtained by boiling them, and then dress it with an oil pressed cold from the queen cocoa, scented with “citronella,” a very singular and powerful perfume which they distil on the island. Sixty drops of the citronella is sufficient to perfume a bottle of the oil of considerable size.