The way I came to wear it was this.

My hat having been knocked overboard a few days before reaching Papeetee, I was obliged to mount an abominable wad of parti-coloured worsted--what sailors call a Scotch cap.

Everyone knows the elasticity of knit wool; and this Caledonian head-dress crowned my temples so effectually that the confined atmosphere engendered was prejudicial to my curls.

In vain I tried to ventilate the cap: every gash made seemed to heal whole in no time.
Then such a continual chafing as it kept up in a hot sun.
Seeing my dislike to the thing, Kooloo, my worthy friend, prevailed upon me to bestow it upon him.

I did so; hinting that a good boiling might restore the original brilliancy of the colours.
It was then that I mounted the turban.