On the esplanade, when the sun pales his fire in the evening, a tesselated group composed of the juvenile cockney, the Cingalese, the Parsee, and, of course, “John Chinaman,” take their evening promenade, while the wealthier natives who have been snoozing all day come out in their gigs for a drive. Those of more moderate pretensions, who can muster a halfrupee, get into a palanquin—pronounced _palankee_—for the purpose. These are small four-wheeled vehicles with mat cushions, capable of holding four persons. The turbaned and waist-scarfed Lascar driver, though he has a seat apportioned him, and sufficient reins, prefers coiling them over his arms, takes his little horse by the cheek of the bit, and running beside him, continually encourages him into a gallop. Some meddling English, with accompanying mistaken philanthropy, endeavored to get an order passed by which the dear syces should be made to save themselves fatigue and ride on their seats, but the dear syces preferred their old custom, and protested strongly against any such innovation. About a mile from the settlement are a large collection of houses occupied by the Malays, who, although under the protection of the English, still continue their custom of building their houses over the water, elevated on posts and separately, that they may feel freer from attack, or the visits of live animals. These latter they have not much to dread now. Singapore is on an island separated from the main land by a narrow strip of water, and tigers sometimes swim over, but they are soon despatched, as the government pays a reward of a hundred dollars for each one killed. On my ride to this point I passed some tombs of former rajahs, and also saw a number of wooden houses that were being fitted up for shipment to Australia. We stopped at a factory where that pleasant farina, sago, was being prepared. It is made from the pith of a tree; is first placed in vats that it may become dissolved, then exposed to the sun to dry, after which any foreign substance is removed by sifting, when it is packed, ready for exportation, at three dollars and sixty cents per pecul. The proprietor was a very polite and good-natured old Chinaman; by-the-by, nearly all Chinamen are very good-natured: kick “John Chinaman,” and smile as you do it, and he will smile too; do it with a frown, and he becomes very indignant. The old fellow had the customary number of hogs, whose quarters, whatever may be said of the want of cleanliness of their celestial owner’s house, receive great attention. Not far from here we went through the ward of a hospital for English sailors, and also another for Chinese, whose inmates were lying on elevated and inclined shelves, the victims of every terrible disease of the climate.