Fishing villages look charming from the sea, the houses rising one above another against the hills, with green fields and windswept trees for background; and they are very picturesque when looked upon from hilltops, with all their boats riding to their moorings, or sailing about in the offing. This is the home of the pilchard in summer and autumn, and the industry is important. When confectioned in oil, and tinned, the pilchard is "sardine." One of the most beautiful sights on the coast is the united fleets from Mevagissey, Polperro, and Looe, "drifting" on a clear, dark night, with their riding-lights twinkling. So peaceful, and not a sound reaches the shore, for deep-sea fishing is a silent occupation. Fish are supposed to be very sensitive to sounds, and it is one of the deadly sins to whistle or sing on board a boat when her nets are in the water. These places live for the most part on Wesley and pilchards. Speak well of both, and you may be happy.

Pickled pilchards are exported to Italy in casks; and the abusers of the Pope and all his works wax fat. The man who ventures to say a good word for his Holiness needs courage; but those who make faces now would feel bad without Lent and fish days in the Roman calendar. Guy argued that it showed a fine spirit to feed poor benighted Italians who crossed themselves, and pouch a hundred thousand sterling a year for the trouble. Pickled pilchards he looked on as a bond of union between the two countries. Pilchards feed bodies, the Pope souls, and the shekels come here. Long live the pilchard! Commerce is the fifth gospel, and Rashleigh puts it in a nutshell—Father Prout couldn't do better—

The incense of fish, fried and grilled, ascends to high heaven, or as far as it can reach in that direction, morning and evening; and when there's no incense times are hard. The sign is said to be infallible.

Pilgrims sometimes fancy that fish is cheap where it is caught, but this is one of the fallacies of the day. Soles go to Billingsgate when they die, and so do most fish of good table reputation. A visitor may sometimes secure a sole when landed, but only the millionaire class can do so often. The Bookworm tried the experiment, and Guy told him he should have known better; but he was carried away with excitement at seeing a real live sole flap its fins and gape. People standing around told him the fish was alive, but would be iced with the rest, and sent to Billingsgate. The Bookworm thought he would like to buy it, and there was a sudden lull in the business going on on the quay. The sole belonged to a man in a blue flannel shirt, and every one crowded round and stared at him, and listened attentively when he was asked to name a price. The man seemed sorry to part with the fish in this way, and then he asked a price which might have affected the price of "stocks" had it been reported. The Bookworm brought home his capture in triumph. Guy studied the question afterwards, and found that the people liked to pack fish in ice, and pay cartage, and railway charges, and commissions, and make bad debts, all for the honour of selling fish at Billingsgate at a lower price than they would sell it on the spot. "The nearer the sea the further from fish," is the working motto, but it loses its strangeness after a time.

Fisher people eat fish, but prefer flesh at the midday meal. We found the man in a blue flannel shirt sitting on a post, smoking a short clay as black as ebony, and he told us that his boy Tom wouldn't even ask a blessing on "no vish" when it was served for dinner. "I shaan't ask no blessing over no vish, nor nothing but butchers maate," says young Tom; and the man in the blue shirt told us he thought this thankless spirit resulted from too much schooling!

A deep-sea fisher, with a boat of his own, is the most independent man in the universe, having no landlord, paying no rent, burdened with no tax on boat and gear, going and coming as he pleases. He reaps without sowing, and is "protected" within the three-mile limit by gunboats in a land of "free trade." A blue-water fisher is not ashamed of his calling, hiding himself under the title of "artist" in shrimps, or "purveyor" of lobsters, or "merchant" in mackerel, and the rest. A fisherman, honest fisherman, is not too proud to be called what he is. The art of fishing is as old as humanity, and it has been discovered that a fish diet can produce a great nation in the Far East.[J] Guy wanted to know why fishers are always called "poor," and why sentimental tears were shed over their hard lot? Fish cost nothing to feed, yet fetch about twice as much as beef and mutton for the table, and so somebody made a good thing if the fisherman was poor. If the calling was a hard one, one must go to some other part of the world to discover it; and as for danger, cases of drowning at sea here are very rare. The moan of the "Three Fishers" doesn't suit the part in this place.

Fish "charms" are comparatively rare, but fish oil is said to be good for weak vision, and the smoke from burning fish is a protection against evil spirits. The eating of skate accounts for large families, and a dogfish secures an heir male, if eaten in the month of May. Kings and queens, and all persons worried on this subject, please note.

The curative effects of sea-water drunk fasting are believed in. Some of the old people say they have never taken any other medicine. A master mariner told us that, at sea, sailors would drink sea-water instead of coming to him for a dose of "traade" out of the medicine-chest. The Bookworm said a medical journal had recently drawn attention to the subject, and recommended it to people who rose bad-tempered in the morning. Certainly the ocean wouldn't miss a few bucketfuls, and mothers-in-law and M.P.'s, studying the questions of the day, might go in strongly for the ocean cure. What a sweet-tempered world to live in then, and plenty of water for fish to swim in left!

A deep-sea fisher has a good eye for colour, and every shade and tint upon the face of the sea and heavens he knows as well as any artist. Fish colours he knows to a shade of a shade, and when the sky has a queer look, he likens it to "mackerel" tints, and every tint is an omen to him.

How many hours a day a fisherman passes looking at the sea has never been counted. There is, perhaps, some unknown fascination for eye and ear, something calling which will not be denied. We noticed an old man who seemed glued to a stump in a nice sunny corner, out of the way of the wind, and the old man took possession of it. The view from this post was seaward, of course, and when the old man wasn't gazing at the sea and clouds, he took off his sou'wester and looked inside of that. Sometimes he put something inside his sou'wester, and then took something out and popped it in his mouth. The lining of his sou'wester was his storehouse of unexhausted tobacco-quids. This was "Uncle Tom" and "Uncle Tom's post," and the men, in passing, would hail him, "How ar'ee to-day, Uncle Tom?" to which he would reply, "Toll-loll." It wasn't much, but Guy, taking it as evidence that he could speak, laid in a stock of black, rank Irish roll tobacco, fit for chewing, and scraped an acquaintance.

Did he ever tire of looking at the sea? Not that he was aweer on. The vish was in the zay, an' th' wind was in the clouds, and what else was there in this world worth looking at? Man and boy, he had followed the sea till his hair was white, until he knew its coquetries and passions, and generation after generation before him were sailor-fishers, until "the salt was in his blood." The old man's eyes were wild-violet-blue, and a mystic light came into them when he said that at times the sea "called" to him, and "ef zo be I had my way, I'd die at zay, and be buried in salt watter, like Jan Tregose."

Guy paid court to the old sea-dog, until his sou'wester was full of fresh quids, and wormed out the story of Jan Tregose, who, it appeared, was one of the good old sort in the good old times, who could sing a song, and swear a swear, and loved a fiddle, and a maid, and brandy-toddy with the best. Now, when Jan found his timbers so shaken that he had to take to his bed, a longing came over him to die at sea, and be buried in deep water. The sea-spirit came to him in his dreams—the same spirit, tall and diaphanous, that used to come to him when a young man and tell him what was going on at home whilst he was on his voyages. The sea-spirit had not troubled him since he had remained ashore, until now, and it was a sign to him.

Jan Tregose called his sons together, and made them swear that never, whilst breath was in them, should he be laid in a coffin, or buried in the earth. Then the sea-spirit came again, and told him that when the tide turned that night she would receive him. The old man called his sons again, and they carried him on board their lugger, and sailed away in the calm night, with the stars alone for witnesses. The spare lugsail was spread over the nets, and upon it Jan lay, his long, thin white hair gently lifting in the breeze; and there was nothing heard but the sea-splash against the boat, and nothing seen but a long-necked gannet on the wing.

The boat was far enough from land when the tide turned. The sons looked, and there was a mist before their eyes, but it went "like a flash," and the old man lay stark. Then the sons knew it was the sea-spirit they had seen as mist.

The sons kept their oath, and wrapped their father in the old lugsail, and watched him disappear in thirty fathoms of water, ten miles from the Stone. And many a man has declared that he has heard Jan Tregose fiddling and singing before a storm. Those who are wise put back when they hear "Jan's tune" at sea, for there is "sartin to be a coose time."

"The salt is in the blood of these children of the sea, and has developed a strange mysticism," said the Bookworm. "Of course, I don't understand it," he added quickly, seeing Guy brace himself up and put on his cross-examining air. "It's there all the same, and the sea has voices and prophecies for them which we landsmen miss; and why not? The sea is as a human face to them, and they know when it is troubled with the spirit of passionate unrest. It may be that, like the fishes, they have a sixth sense, and can see dark shadows fluttering under cloudless skies, and hear voices from afar preluding passionate symphonies."

"These fellows are always looking on the sea, and no doubt spot things before we should. Wonder if they didn't; but why this high-falutin?" asked Guy.

"It may be magnetic phenomena, and these men unconsciously receive messages; but it is none the less mystical to me," said the Bookworm, unruffled.

"I see; kind of receiving officers to the Clerk of the Weather. The newspapers will come out with this sort of thing in the near future: 'Our special correspondent writes that a change may be expected soon—he feels it in the marrow of his bones;' or, 'Our infallible predicter at the Land's End heard sea-voices last night, and recommends umbrellas and mackintoshes for the next week.' Take out a patent in time and make a fortune; ideas are money just now," rejoined Guy, holding out the red flag.

The Bookworm was provokingly unconscious.