Horses thrive very well at Lagos, and every merchant keeps his horse and trap; not that there is anywhere much to drive to, except the Marina, as all the streets through the native town consist of ankle-deep sand, and the eastern portion of the island, where there are no houses, is a mere sandbank. The horses are small, being all of Arab blood, and are brought down from the interior by Mohammedan traders; they cost from £15 to £30 a-piece. In the matter of horses and food Lagos has a great advantage over other towns in West Africa. On the Gold Coast, for instance, one has to live almost entirely on those particularly nauseating preserved meats, the tins of which may bear different labels and names, but which all taste alike; for the country produces nothing but an emaciated fowl; but at Lagos one can revel in oysters, land-crabs, beef, mutton, and all the luxuries of the table. In the matter of salubrity, however, Lagos does not appear to advantage, and its epidemics periodically decimate the white population. One morning, when I was walking along the Marina, I met a man who had been a fellow-passenger with me from England, and who had come out to Lagos to take home a coffin-ship that belonged to the Colonial Government, so that she might be broken up and sold for fire-wood. This individual had occupied the same cabin with me on the voyage out, and had kept me quite lively and exercised my mind a good deal during the trip. One night, when everybody on board, except the watch, was buried in sleep, I was awakened by hearing somebody cursing and swearing in a loud voice close at hand. I looked over the side of my bunk, and, by the faint light of a lamp that was burning in the saloon, I saw my cabin companion, stark naked, foaming at the mouth, and stropping one of my razors upon his fore-arm amid torrents of oaths. Presently he said:-- “I’ll have some d----d fellow’s blood to-night. I’ll have some blood.” And he rolled his frenzied eye round the cabin. I did not make any remark. I did not want to remind him that my blood was pretty handy, because I had no weapon with me in my bunk more formidable than a pillow; so I lay quiet. He kept on stropping the razor, cursing to himself, and repeating that what his soul craved for was gore, for about ten minutes, then he suddenly hurled his weapon across the cabin, and rushed out just as he was. I skipped out of my berth with some alacrity, picked up my razor and locked it up; after which I felt rather safer, as I knew he had none of his own. Then I put on some clothes and went to look after the maniac; but, after searching all over the ship without success, I consoled myself with the thought that he had probably jumped overboard, and went to bed again. Next morning, when I awoke, I found my friend clothed and in his right mind, and thought I must have been suffering from night-mare; so I said nothing to him about what had occurred.