“It would be awkward—­nay, it would be distressing, Harry, to have him refuse,” said the blushing Rose, as they walked slowly back to the house, more desirous to prolong their conversation than to partake of the bountiful provision of Jack Tier.  The latter could not but be acceptable, nevertheless, to a young man like Mulford, who was in robust health, and who had fared so badly for the last eight-and-forty hours.  When he sat down to the table, therefore, which was covered by a snow-white cloth, with smoking and most savoury viands on it, it will not be surprising if we say it was with a pleasure that was derived from one of the great necessities of our nature.

Sancho calls for benediction “on the man who invented sleep.”  It would have been more just to have asked this boon in behalf of him who invented eating and turtle-soup.  The wearied fall into sleep, as it might be unwittingly; sometimes against their will, and often against their interests; while many a man is hungry without possessing the means of appeasing his appetite.  Still more daily feel hunger without possessing turtle-soup.  Certain persons impute this delicious compound to the genius of some London alderman, but we rather think unjustly.  Aldermanic genius is easily excited and rendered active, no doubt, by strong appeals on such a theme, but our own experience inclines us to believe that the tropics usually send their inventions to the less fruitful regions of the earth along with their products.  We have little doubt, could the fact be now ascertained, that it would be found turtle-soup was originally invented by just some such worthy as Jack Tier, who in filling his coppers to tickle the captain’s appetite, had used all the condiments within his reach; ventured on a sort of Regent’s punch; and, as the consequence, had brought forth the dish so often eulogized, and so well beloved.  It is a little extraordinary that in Paris, the seat of gastronomy, one rarely, if ever, hears of or sees this dish; while in London it is to be met in almost as great abundance as in one of our larger commercial towns.  But so it is, and we cannot say we much envy a cuisine its pates, and soufflets, and its a la this and a la thats, but which was never redolent with the odours of turtle-soup.

“Upon my word, Jack, you have made out famously with your dinner, or supper, whichever you may please to call it,” cried Mulford gaily, as he took his seat at table, after having furnished Rose with a chair.  “Nothing appears to be wanting; but here is good pilot bread, potatoes even, and other little niceties, in addition to the turtle and the fish.  These good people of the light seem to have lived comfortably, at any rate.”

“Why should they not, maty?” answered Jack, beginning to help to soup.  “Living on one of these islets is like living afloat.  Everything is laid in, as for an outward bound craft; then the reef must always furnish fish and turtle.  I’ve overhauled the lockers pretty thoroughly, and find a plenty of stores to last us a month.  Tea, sugar, coffee, bread, pickles, potatoes, onions, and all other knick-knacks.”