I fancied preparations might be made to feed
me with the sea-biscuit pudding I had heard
described, and had not felt any particular wish to
taste; so, as my time on the island was drawing
to a close, I rose to go. My host insisted on the
"pampered menial" seeing me to the coast, and
my proposed guide assured me that no one else
was to be found upon the island.

"Worse luck," he said, as we left the hut
together, "for he does try the best of tempers."

"You mean our eccentric friend yonder?'
I remarked, inquiringly, pointing back to the
hut.

"Yes," he said. "If his friend didn't pay
me very well, I should pitch him over, like a
shot."

"Isn't there something the matter with his
head?" I asked, trying to put the question very
delicately.

"Sometimes I think there is; sometimes I
don't. He took to this place because he was
fond of fishing, though we never catch much
worth speaking of. Even what the smacks catch
is sent up to London, and we have to get it down
again by signals."

"Fish?" I said; "I thought he lived upon
nothing but pudding."

"Oh, he's been pitching that yarn into you,
has he? He eats a precious sight more than I
do, and thinks a good deal more about his
dinner."

"I suppose," I said, "you have heard the
extraordinary story of his life?"

"Heard it?" he returned, "I should think I
have! He goes over it about three times a week,
or one hundred and fifty times a year. It all
comes of reading of one book—the only book he's
got with him—called Wilson's Wonderful
Characters. He muddles them all up together, and
then goes and swears he's been through all the
adventures, because his name happens to be Peter
Wilson!"

"That looks like madness," I said.

"So his friends think who live on the mainland
opposite," returned my guide, "but I think the
madness shows itself most in living here. They'll
find that out some day, when I leave them, and
they have to advertise for another 'companion'
to my gentleman."

When we arrived at the coast, we found my
boatmen within hail. Before embarking, I
inquired my guide's name, and, as he answered me,
he seemed to have something on his mind.

"Can I do anything for you on the opposite
shore?" I asked, willing to make myself useful
to the lonely islander.

"Well," he said, "there's one thing I want to
ask you. Is that census return, as you call it,
going to be put into print?"

"Undoubtedly," I replied.

"What have you got him down as—the party
up at the hut?"

"Peter Wilson: no profession: age, one
hundred and seventy-six."

"You can let that stand, if you like, but don't
go and call the island a private madhouse, and put
me down as a keeper."

"How shall I describe you?" I asked, willing
to humour him.

"Call me a shepherd," he said. "Because I've
got some friends on the opposite shore—especially
a female friend—and I don't want to be
laughed at."

I complied with his request in filling up the
official form; and he stands in his country's
account-books as Giles Storks: profession,
shepherd: age, forty-two.

INCORRIGIBLE ROGUES.

Most persons who, when the "Latest Intelligence"
from America and elsewhere has been
mastered, turn to that part of the daily
newspaper which contains the record of what takes
place in our law and police courts, must have
been especially struck lately by the continual
recurrence of cases of violence of a terrible and
unusual sort. Murder, manslaughter, and
murderous assault are crimes which appear to be
decidedly on the increase. At the recent
Quarter Sessions at Birmingham, the Recorder,
speaking on this subject, says: "In the two
last months of November and December, during
which the winter assizes have been held,
together with the usual sessions at the Old Bailey,
the number of convictions for murder has
amounted to twenty at the least, passing by
culprits who, by verdicts of manslaughter, have
escaped the penalty of death in cases which my
feeble perspicuity fails to distinguish from foul
and detestable murders. This period," the
Recorder goes on to say, "as there are three
assizes in each twelve months, may be considered
to furnish us with the criminal statistics of
one-third of the year, and would, therefore, if the
growth of the crime be the same in all seasons,
yield an annual total of sixty proved murders."

The Recorder admits the possibility that the
winter months may show a larger calendar of
crime than other parts of the year. He also
admits that these offences are infectious, and that
criminals imitate each other. Thus, he would
extract a hope that this first third of the criminal
year may be no criterion of the other two-thirds,
and that the total of sixty murders in a year may
not be attained. And, indeed, if it were, we
might well feel uneasiness, the average of
convictions during the last twelve years being only
seventeen, while the highest number—namely
that in 1856—only amounted to thirty-one.

Independently of exceptional cases, such as
the military murders by which the past year has
been characterised, deeds of violence committed
by persons not previously members of the criminal
population, there remains a large amount of
crime to which rule and calculation may be
applied, and valuable results obtained by doing so.
The offences of isolated individuals stimulated
by revenge or other bad passions to single acts
of crime, can never be considered useful or to the
purpose. It is with the criminal population alone
lhat we can deal statistically, and here the