THE LION WHO HAS EATEN A MAN. 179 



The direction of his thoughts is constantly seawcards. Mur- 

 nmrs of old ocean linger in his soul, as they murmur in a 

 shell long since taken from the deep, and now 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 was forced to 

 trouble myself with "proofs," commentators, old writers, 

 dreary philosophies, and multiform affairs, the glass vases on 

 my table, 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 began to appear 

 like molluscs ; and their ways the ways of creatures in a 

 larger rock-pool. 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 painfullj- 

 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 eriger sa folie" 



says Boileau, and I was willing enough to demonstrate to 

 all recusants that my passion had a most rational basis. 



