I never felt so rich in my life: as Dr. Johnson would say, I revelled in wealth beyond the potentiality of dreams of avarice. A solitary cowry is not of much value: 20,000 of them are equivalent to twelve shillings and sixpence, so I had more than 60,000. I told the carriers to take a few in payment, filled my pockets with some more, and went out with a light heart to buy up the whole market; taking care, however, to lock up the place, as I thought that so much unguarded wealth might be a temptation to the evilly disposed. My boy suggested that I ought to count my change to see if it was correct; but I decided not to. A few days after my arrival there was a ball given by a club which rejoices in the name of “The Flower of Lagos.” The members of this Club are all negroes, principally haughty aristocrats from Sierra Leone, Liberia, and the Gold Coast, and I believe that they do not admit any of the Mohammedan _canaille_ to membership. I never was at such an amusing ball in my life, and, as I suppose such entertainments are given for the purpose of amusement, it may be considered a most complete success. The gorgeous-coloured satin waistcoats, the rainbow cravats, and gigantic buttonhole bouquets of the men, were sufficiently trying to the eyes; but when one turned towards the softer, one cannot in this case say the fairer, sex, who, as usual before the ice was broken, sat all together at one end of the room, I had positively to turn away, and wished for a green shade or a pair of blue glass spectacles. Scarlet, blue, pink, purple, yellow, orange, green, white--every known brilliant colour was there, and I had to follow the example of the other Europeans who were present, and view this brilliant spectacle through the medium of an inverted tumbler. The band was that of the Gold Coast Constabulary, and perhaps the less one says of it the better, unless it is now “the thing” in music to introduce crushing discords and heart-rending shrieks that are not in the original score of the composition.