CHAPTER VIII.

It could probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress. 
                                  —­Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.

When one glances at the map the members of the stupendous island wilderness of the Pacific seem to crowd upon each other; but no, there is no crowding, even in the center of a group; and between groups there are lonely wide deserts of sea.  Not everything is known about the islands, their peoples and their languages.  A startling reminder of this is furnished by the fact that in Fiji, twenty years ago, were living two strange and solitary beings who came from an unknown country and spoke an unknown language.  “They were picked up by a passing vessel many hundreds of miles from any known land, floating in the same tiny canoe in which they had been blown out to sea.  When found they were but skin and bone.  No one could understand what they said, and they have never named their country; or, if they have, the name does not correspond with that of any island on any chart.  They are now fat and sleek, and as happy as the day is long.  In the ship’s log there is an entry of the latitude and longitude in which they were found, and this is probably all the clue they will ever have to their lost homes.”—­[Forbes’s “Two Years in Fiji.”]

What a strange and romantic episode it is; and how one is tortured with curiosity to know whence those mysterious creatures came, those Men Without a Country, errant waifs who cannot name their lost home, wandering Children of Nowhere.

Indeed, the Island Wilderness is the very home of romance and dreams and mystery.  The loneliness, the solemnity, the beauty, and the deep repose of this wilderness have a charm which is all their own for the bruised spirit of men who have fought and failed in the struggle for life in the great world; and for men who have been hunted out of the great world for crime; and for other men who love an easy and indolent existence; and for others who love a roving free life, and stir and change and adventure; and for yet others who love an easy and comfortable career of trading and money-getting, mixed with plenty of loose matrimony by purchase, divorce without trial or expense, and limitless spreeing thrown in to make life ideally perfect.

We sailed again, refreshed.

The most cultivated person in the ship was a young English, man whose home was in New Zealand.  He was a naturalist.  His learning in his specialty was deep and thorough, his interest in his subject amounted to a passion, he had an easy gift of speech; and so, when he talked about animals it was a pleasure to listen to him.  And profitable, too, though he was sometimes difficult to understand because now and then he used scientific technicalities which were above the reach of some of us.  They were pretty sure to be above my reach, but as he was quite willing to explain them I always made it a point to get him to do it.  I had a fair knowledge of his subject—­layman’s knowledge—­to begin with, but it was his teachings which crystalized it into scientific form and clarity—­in a word, gave it value.