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BETWEEN the lion that has once eaten a man once tasted the glory and ambrosial delight of man-beefand the lion remotely ignorant of the flavour, there lies a chasm. Only in zoological text-books can the two animals be considered as of the same species. In profounder characteristics, in the complexion of their souls, they differ as the Caucasian differs from the Hottentot. The lion who has once fed on man, carries with him an unforgetable experience; he has supped with the gods, and Homeric rhythms murmur in his ears. Visions of that ecstatic hour hover before him in his lair, accompany his moonlight marches through the mountaingorge, thrill him with retrospective flavours as he laps the moonlit lake, and fill with a certain blissful torment all his leisure moments. These visions, like the after-glow of sunset on the Alps, tinge his mental horizon, and create a gustatory after-glow which warms his whole frame. Haunted by such recollections, tormented by the appetites they develop, his nature undergoes mysterious modifying influences; new and grander ferocities are awakened, which, in turn, develop fiercer daring, and render him ten times more formidable to man. Hitherto he has wanted something of the daring commensurate with his strength. He has always avoided personal combat with an European, when honourably the challenge could be ignored. But now the case is very different; now, the scent of human blood thrills along every fibre; and when sight reveals the proximity of his noble foe, then

flashes the tawny eye with sombre fire, the terrible talons tear up the earth, he dresses his mighty mane, and prepares for the fight in slow, solemn, concentrated wrath, clearly foreseeing that two issues, and only two, remain open for him-man-beef, or a tomb.

Not less profound, although not quite so terrible to his enemies, is the difference between the man who has once tasted of a noble sea-side passion, once lived with his microscope for a few months on the wealthy shores of some secluded spot, indulging in a new pursuitand the common man, utterly remote from all such experience, walled out from it by blauk negation, incapable of even conceiving the heights and depths of such a passion. Visions of those ecstatic hours for ever accompany the happy man. He may return to his home, and resume the labours of his profession, which secures him pudding, and, it may be, praise: he continues the daily round, but not as before. He is a changed man. The direction of his thoughts is constantly seawards. Murmurs of old ocean linger in his soul, as they murmur in a shell long since taken from the deep, and condemned to ornament the mantelpiece of some lodging-house, the daily witness of prosaisms and peculations. To the casual eye he may not seem changed; but read his soul, and you will find he is another man. At least it was

thus with me. I had supped with the gods, and grew fastidious over my shilling ordinary. If work imperiously claimed my attention, if I

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was forced to trouble myself with proofs," commentators, old writers, dreary philosophies, and multiform affairs, the glass vases, perpetually reminding me of Ilfracombe and Tenby, aggravated the oppression. The iodine of the sea-breezes had entered me. I felt that I had "suffered a sea change" into something zoological and strange. Men came to look like molluscs; and their ways the ways of creatures in a larger rockpool. When forced to endure the conversation of some friend of the family, with well-waxed whiskers and imperturbable shirt-front, I caught myself speculating as to what sort of figure he would make in the vivarium -not always to his glorification. In a word, it was painfully evident that London wearied me, and that I was troubled in my mind. I had tasted of a new delight; and the hungry soul of man leaps on a new passion to master, or be mastered by it.

"Chacun veut en sagesse ériger sa folie;" so says Boileau, and indeed I was willing enough to demonstrate to all recusants that my passion had a most rational basis. Meanwhile it was the torment of intellectual hunger; and I make it a rule always to satisfy hunger on philosophical principles. If you don't content it, it will torment you; it obtrudes on work and duty, perplexing the one, and obstructing the other: it can't be starved into silence. Therefore give it "ample room and verge enough." When pastry-cooks hire new boys, they wisely permit an unrestricted glut of tarts. The young gluttons fall on, tooth and nail, and in a week are surfeited; whereas a stealthy and restricted appetite would have lasted them for years, much to the damage of the pastry-cook. In this philosophic forethought I resolved to give myself a glut of zoology, to let loose the reins of desire, and afterwards, if the fates so willed it, settle once more into a student of books, and writer thereof. It was

really time. For seven long months I had been separated from the coast: and like the Cyclops of Euripides, I had grown weary of feeding on daily butcher's meat and game, just as stray mortals in the Strand; and smacked my lips at the prospect of man-beef

"I am quite sick of the wild mountain

game;

Of stags and lions I have gorged enough,
And I grow hungry for the flesh of men."

March was already come, the equinoctial gales were near, and the Isles of Scilly beckoned like syrens from their dangerous shores. The weather was intensely unlike summer, the snow and hail freely falling; 80 that, on a first blush, there did seem a shadow of reason for the astonishment of friends, who looked upon departure at such a time, and for such a place, as indicating something like insanity. But great wits to madness nearly are allied, and this alliance granted to me. with great wits will perhaps be At any rate, there was method in the madness, for unless I reached the coast before the equinox, the passage would be more than usually perilous; and just after the equinox, as everybody knows, the spring-tides recede to greater depths, and offer the finest opportunities for rock-hunting moreover, the gales at this period throw welcome treasures on the beach. The 15th of March, therefore, was the very latest date I could afford for departure; and on that day the journey began.

Why the Isles of Scilly were ob stinately selected, may not be so easi ly explained. I had a fixed idea on this point; no argument could make me swerve from it. The main attraction was doubtless lurking in my profound geographical ignorance, which invested these Isles with a mysterious halo. In days when ladies take pleasure-trips to Algiers, and reach it in four days, or run up the Nile, as formerly they scampered through France, any real bit of untravelled country necessarily creates

*This is Shelley's translation. The reader who has not quite forgotten his Greek may like to have the original :

Ως ἔκπλεώς γε δαιτός εἴμ' ὀρισκόου

“Αλις λεόντων ἐστὶ μοι κοινωμένῳ

Ελάφων τε, χρόνιος δ' εἴμ' ἀπ ̓ ανθρώπων β

an interest; and for travellers, in the adventurous or pleasure-hunting sense, Scilly is as virgin ground as Timbuctoo. Vessels in abundance touch there; but who goes there? Indeed, on entering a shop to make a small purchase, the bland woman compassionately inquired whether I had been "driven by contrary winds" to this unfrequented spot; evidently never conceiving the possibility of a sane Englishman coming here. They are also difficult of access: "a very dangerous flat, and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried." Ten days, owing to contrary winds, were consumed in getting here; and under the most favourable conjuncture of trains, coaches, and winds, three days would be the very shortest time required. This difficulty secured the place from the nuisance of "visitors." Moreover, I had an idea of its being a good spot for zoological research; and with these two advantages, I could afford to listen unmoved to the sarcastic questions pelted at me, such as: Can you get anything to eat there? Are the Islands inhabited? Do the people speak English? Are they civilised?

Contrary winds, and what sailors call "dirty weather," detained me a week at Penzance, where I was stranded in a lodging-house, kept by a middle-aged Harpy, rearing a brood of young Harpies, and rendered all the more fierce in lodging-house instincts by her condition of widowhood, which, you may have observed, generally throws a woman on the naked ferocities of her nature. Were you ever in nautical lodgings? Do you remember their ornaments, "above all reach of art"-the cases of stuffed birds and fish, the shells on the mantelpiece, and the engravings irradiating the walls-a "Sailor's Departure," with whimpering wife and sentimental offspring; a "Sailor's Return," with joyous wife and capering juveniles? All these adorned my rooms, which were further adorned by a correct misrepresentation of the brig Triton, as she appeared entering an impossible harbour flanked by a portrait husband, master of the pain

resplendent shirt-front with a head attached, sternly inexpressive, on a mahogany background. The defunct mariner seemed blank with astonishment at my courage in coming to such a house-a ruin, not a lodging. Everything in it was afflicted with the rickets. The chair-backs creaked inharmonious threats, if you incautiously leaned against them. The fire-irons fell continually from their unstable rests. The bed-pole tumbled at my feet when I attempted to draw the curtain. The doors wouldn't shut. Even the tea-pot had a wobbly top, which resisted all closing. Nay-and this will surprise you--in the moral world I noticed a similar dilapidation. The discrepancies were painful.

In the "bill," arrangements were made which showed great fiscal genius; and when a suggestion was offered that the remains of yesterday's fowl might serve for to-day's luncheon, a look of pained reproach passed over the widow's face, followed by a gulp, and a silence which was broken only by diversion of the dialogue into quite other directions--the look, the gulp, the silence expressed, as plainly as words, the mean opinion which the widow entertained of her victim. Low as her opinion had placed him before, it had not reached such depths as that; the request for a paltry remnant of fowl, indeed, was answerable only by profound silence. Thus it was answered. I never gazed upon that bird again.

Weather-bound in such a placethe equinoctial gales hurrying onboxes corded, soul unquiet-you may imagine the alacrity with which I sprang out of bed the morning when a sailor came up from the packet to say that anchor was weighed, and we should start as soon as I could slip on my things. This was at six in the morning, and, by half-past, the Ariadne, formerly Lord Godolphin's yacht, but now the property of Captain Tregarthen, who runs it between Scilly and Penzance, as the mail and sole communication, left the harbour, and reached Scilly by one o'clock. This was on Thursday, 26th March 1857. A century ago, on the 25th May 1752, Borlase, the admirable antiquarian, whose Observations on the Ancient and Present State of

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Scilly Islands was among my books, set sail in the sloop Godolphin at seven in the morning, and about nine in the evening drew near the islands -drew near, but dared not venture nearer; because, a “very thick fog ensuing, the sailors began to be apprehensive whether they should fall in with the proper passage into St Mary's Island or not: sometimes they thought they could see the land, but were always uncertain what part of the island it was. This determined us to continue turning off and on (in sea-affairs give me leave to use sea expressions), and wait for the morning. During this interval we had a very uneasy time of it, and nothing to do but to expect the daylight, which, you may be assured, was with great impatience. The day came, but the fog continued so thick that we had no benefit from it." In this fog they continued beating about, in terror of getting entangled among the narrow guts; but about six the fog cleared, and revealed to them St Mary's Island close at hand. "We were such true sailors," he says, "that we immediately lost sight of the danger we had escaped, delighted as we were with the thoughts of being scon in port, and the uncommon appearance of the land (if what is mostly rocks can be called so) on each side of us as we passed. It was Crow's Sound; and I must own the sight of it gave me much pleasure, which you will, and justly may in some measure, attribute to our sudden transition from a state of uncertainty to that of safety, but not wholly; for these islets and rocks edge this Sound in an extremely pretty and very different manner from anything I had seen before. The sides of these little islands continue their greenness to the brim of the water, where they are either surrounded by rocks of different shapes, which start up here and there as you advance, like so many enchanted castles, or by a verge of sand of the brightest colour." If this was the passage made during gentle May, surely we were very fortunate, in

blustering March, to have got over all our troubles in six hours. Shorter, our passage undeniably was; whether it was also sweeter, remains a problem, towards the solution of which I will say thus much, that under no extension of euphuism could it be called sweet. In the first place, there had been no breakfast to begin the day, and the Ariadne offered nothing in the culinary way. Cheering Souchong, or aromatic Mocha, to warm the matutinal ventrals, were not to be thought of; we were even lucky to have a dry biscuit to munch in philosophic resignation. Deprived thus of our natural fortifications against the advancing enemy, we were further disabled by the rain, which forced us to descend into the cabin, and get into our berths. In these exiguous spaces we remained until the joyful tidings of arrival flooded us with sudden energy, and flung the past hours from us like a hideous dream. Except during the brief intervals of sleep and semidelirium, the hours were not pleasant. The cold, not to be kept out by any amount of rugs, cloaks, and tarpaulin, seemed stealthily creeping into the very centres of life. The sensations which fly around sea-sickness need scarcely be alluded to. Constantly, when my intellect was sufficiently disentangled from these sensations to exercise itself, would the thought arise that pleasanter far was the pursuit of zoology in comfortable homes, (where Mr Lloyd of Portland Road, Mr Bohn of Essex Street, or Mr Damon of Weymouth, would supply tanks and vases with the desired animals in exchange for vulgar dross, thus bringing the forces of commerce and civilisation to minister to our pursuits), compared with this harum-scarum method of trusting oneself to "sea-traversing ships," in order to become one's own purveyor. This thought would occur. then the fluctuating intellect passed into self-condemnation at thoughts so base, remorse so ill-timed, cowardice so unzoological. These passing pangs, however unattract

Thanks to that most convenient, and, to all students, most valua tions, The London Library, which manifold experience causes me to ur letters to join.

And

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they not inevitably pass? And how the released spirit, in its reinstated vigour, would rejoice at having undergone such torments for such weeks of enjoyment!

As I said, the joyful tidings came at last. With alacrity I urged my staggering steps up the ladder, and emerged upon the deck, where the bright sunlight revealed a scene, which of itself was repayment and full discharge for any arrears of misery. We were in St Mary's Sound. The islands lay around us, ten times bigger than imagination had prefigured, and incomparably more beautiful. On their picturesque varieties I might turn a green countenance and glazed eye, but the heart within me bounded like a leopard on his prey. This was worth coming to! Those poor devils who sit at home at ease, and supply their tanks from commercial sources, were now the objects of pitiless sarcasms for their want of enterprise. In such a mood I hastily secured comfortable lodgings, clean as a Dutchman's, at the Post-office; swallowed some tea and toast, to appease the baser appetites, and hurried forth to satisfy the hunger of the soul, by a survey of the Bay, and its promises. The promontory on which stands Star Castle, offered a fine breezy walk over downs resplendent with golden furze, and suffered the eye to take the widest sweep. How thoroughly I enjoyed that walk! The downs were so brilliant that one could sympathise with the enthusiasm of Linnæus on his arrival in England, and his first sight of furze, as he flung himself on his knees, and thanked God for having made anything so beautiful. The downs were all aflame with their golden light. Ever and anon a rabbit started across the path, or the timid deer were seen emerging from the clumps of golden bush. A glance at the many reefs and creeks along the wavy shores raised expectation tiptoe, forcing hope into certainty of treasures abounding. Whatever draw Scilly might possibly have in s bitable

*

Not that any shadow of a drawback darkened the horizon; for what could the heart desire more? Here was a little archipelago, such as Greek heroes might have lived in-bold, rugged, picturesque,-secure from all the assaults of idle watering-place frequenters,-lovely to the eye, full of promise to the mind, and health in every breeze. Ithaca was visibly opposite. Homer's cadences were sweetly audible. Here one might write epics finer than the Odyssey, had one but genius packed up in one's carpet-bag; and if the genius had been forgotten, left behind (by some strange oversight), at any rate there was the microscope and scalpel, with which one might follow in the tracks of the "stout Stagyrite," whom the world is now beginning to recognise among the greatest of its naturalists. Homer, or Aristotle? The modest choice lay there; and as Montaigne says "nous allons par là quester une friande gloire à piper le sot monde." (The sot monde being you, beloved reader.)

It is puzzling to determine the number of the Scilly Isles, because, where the largest, St Mary's, is on a scale of no greater magnitude than nine miles in circumference, it becomes a nice point to settle how small a patch of rock is to be reckoned as an island. There are some hundred, or hundred and twenty distinct islets; but of inhabited islands only six. The area in statute acres is 3560, and the population in 1851 was, according to the census, 2600 in 511 houses-the females predominating in the ratio of 1439 to 1162. The average of death is 16 in 1000; in other parts of England it is 23 in 1000, showing a decided hygienic superiority in favour of Scilly. Much arable land there is not, but an occasional upland smiles prosperity at you; and in the sheltered nooks of Holy Vale you are startled with the appearance of what almost looks like a tree. In the other parts of the island no tree is discoverable-without a lens. The lanes are formed of stone hedges, as in Devonshire and Cornwall; but these hedges are not, at

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