Too much cannot be said in favor of the islands as a health resort. They are so small in area, and lie so low, that living on them is practically living at sea. One may here take a protracted cruise with no reeling deck beneath him, and no nightmare of _mal-de-mer_ to threaten his dreaming hours. There are no manufactures of any kind on the island, nor is anything present to vitiate the air. Sea breezes, from the illimitable reaches of the ocean, sweep at will across these tiny bits of land, from every point of the compass, in quick succession. In winter the mean temperature is 45 and in summer it is 58. The rain fall is very moderate and, with fine consideration for the tourist, the rain generally comes at night, a phenomenon noticeable in Cornwall also. Here is a fine resting place for men and women, physically or mentally weary. The rush of modern business life is wholly unknown; there are no street cars nor elevated trains to catch; there is no congestion of traffic in the streets; no roar of vehicles nor hum of business to disturb the absolute rest that the place suggests or to chide one who is disposed to take life easy. One lies down at night with the murmur of distant waters echoing through his dreams and wakens in the morning to the song of the surf. The islands are said to be a “haven of refuge for sufferers from chronic bronchitis, phthisis and consumption in all its terrible forms, insomnia, and the strain of overwork; and for children one vast playground with free and open beaches and sands difficult to surpass.” Certainly it would be hard to find a more ideal place for overworked humanity seeking rest and recuperation. The climate is all that could be desired, living is cheap, the whole atmosphere breathes rest, and there are ever present the constant sunshine and the eternal sea. On St. Mary’s Sir Walter Besant lived while engaged on his celebrated romance, “Armorel of Lyonesse,” the home of whose beautiful Armorel Sir Walter located on the now uninhabited island of Samson. Half a century ago Samson had a population of fifty souls, with ten houses, among which “Armorel’s cottage” may still be seen. In 1885, only one family was left, and now nothing remains save the wreck of the houses and the traces of former cultivation, rapidly disappearing. The inhabitants were moved to other islands to insure the better education of their children, and, incidentally, to curtail a little private and untaxed trade which they carried on with their French neighbors.