"And yesterday?"

"Nothing. Why should I do anything?"

"Don't you _ever_ wash?"

"I have nobody to wash me."

Yet they appreciate the use of unguents. The other day a man accidentally
poured a glassful of oil into the dusty street. Within a moment a crowd of
boys were gathered around, dabbling their hands into it and then rubbing
them on their hair; those that possessed boots began by ornamenting them,
and thence conveyed the stuff to their heads--the ground was licked dry in
a twinkling; their faces glistened with the greasy mixture. "That's good,"
they said.

Such, I daresay, were the pastimes of those prehistoric imps of the
throwing-disks, and their clothing must have been much the same.

For what is the burnous save a glorified aboriginal beast-skin? It has the
same principle of construction; the major part covers the human back and
sides; the beast's head forms the hood; where the forefeet meet, the thing
is tied together across the breast, leaving a large open slit below, and a
smaller one above, where the man's head emerges.

The character of the race is summed up in that hopeless garment, which
unfits the wearer for every pleasure and every duty of modern life. An
article of everyday clothing which prevents a man from using his upper
limbs, which swathes them up, like a silkworm in its cocoon--can anything
more insane be imagined? Wrapped therein for nearly all their lives, the