14 MYSTIC ISLES 



the whirling screws, and then at the wide wake, which in 

 imagination went on and on in a luminous path to the 

 place we had departed from, to the dock where we had 

 left the debarred lover of nature. The deep was lit with 

 the play of phosphorescent animalculee whom our pas- 

 sage awoke in their homes beneath the surface and sent 

 questing with lights for the cause. A sheet of pale, 

 green-gold brilliancy marked the route of the Noa-Noa 

 on the brine, and perhaps far back the corpse of the 

 celestial philosopher floated in radiancy, with his face 

 toward those skies, so brazen to his desires. 



A Swiss with a letter of introduction to me presented 

 it when seven days out. It was from the manager of 

 a restaurant in San Francisco, and asked me to guide 

 him in any way I could. The Swiss was middle-aged, 

 and talked only of a raw diet. He was to go to the 

 Marquesas to eat raw food. One would have thought 

 a crude diet to be in itself an end in life. He spoke 

 of it proudly and earnestly, as if cooking one's edibles 

 were a crime or a vile thing. He told me for hours his 

 dictums — no alcohol, no tobacco, no meat, no fish; 

 merely raw fruit, nuts, and vegetables. He was a con- 

 vinced rebel against any fire for food, making known 

 to any one who would listen that man had erred sadly, 

 thousands of years ago, in bringing fire into his cave for 

 cooking, and that the only cure for civilization's evils 

 was in abolishing the kitchen. He would live in the 

 Marquesas as he said the aborigines do. Alas! I did 

 not tell him they ate only their fish raw. 



Ben Fuller, the Australian theatrical manager, 

 frowned on him. Fuller was as round as a barrel, and 

 he also was certain of the remedies for a sick world. 



