I shall never forget the utter loathing, ludicrously mingled with determination to conquer or conceal that feeling, which was depicted on the countenances of some of the guests at a memorable “octopus-lunch” given by my friend Sir John Cordy Burrows at Brighton, in 1874. His cook had never before prepared an octopus, and was, probably, not well pleased to do so then. The nasty-looking object was placed on the table in all its undisguised ugliness. Its skin, which in the process of boiling had become lividly purple, and had not been removed, was in places offensively broken and abraded; and its arms, shrivelled and shrunk, sprawled helplessly on the dish, and, somehow, looked, as they proved to be, as tough and ropy as so many thongs of hunting-whips. Our genial host saw in an instant that it was a failure in cookery, but, as usual, he was equal to the occasion. With a twinkle of his eye he “took a sly glance at me,” and gravely handed a portion of the octopus to an honoured guest. “Now, sir,” said he, “just taste that, and enjoy one of the luxuries of the ancient Greeks!” The ancient Greeks were, as it seemed to me, mentally anathematized; but the plate was accepted, its contents earnestly scanned, the knife and fork just brought into contact with the viand, and then all were thrust hastily away. A gallant colonel, who would probably be in “the first flight” across country, and would not hesitate to lead a charge of his regiment, also “craned” at his plate, and declined to taste the “luxury.” Sir Cordy then looked to me as his “forlorn hope.” With the air of a veteran and connoisseur I helped him and myself to some of the most approved portions of the leathery creature. Manfully and perseveringly for some minutes I tried to masticate a mouthful of it, but it was useless; and feeling that if human teeth could make no more impression on it than on the sole of an old boot, the human stomach incurred risk of difficulties which all the well-known medical skill of our good host might be unable to cure, I declined to sacrifice myself to an idea, and——; well, I did not swallow it. The octopus had not been beaten. We were! I afterwards saw this little private experiment seriously described in a newspaper paragraph, which was extensively quoted, as an endeavour to introduce to the public a new and valuable article of marketable food. In my opinion, the squid, or sleeve (_Loligo_), is the best of the three. Rondeletius recommends their being dressed with oil and vinegar. On the Normandy coast they are boiled with onions and other vegetables, the liquor being saved as good stock for soup. At Marseilles they are stuffed with dried tendrils of the vine. The Chinese and Japanese prefer them seasoned with vinegar and ginger, and attribute to the flesh various medicinal properties. In Mauritius and the neighbouring islands they are generally curried.