influence on the luck and fortunes of the fishermen),
each man threw a small coin as tribute
towards it, thus, as he supposed, ensuring good
fortune. The Lively Polly, true to her reputation,
sailed like a sprite. The night was dark,
and the wind hauling ahead, raised a chopping
sea, causing a rocking motion that begat decided
symptoms of qualmishness, but whisky-toddy, in
large and repeated doses, worked wonders; sleep
also lent its aid, and, as I came on deck all right
in the morning, Nature seemed to smile as sweetly
as a child after having been in a pet. The rippling
waves were tinted with the rosy hue of the early
sunlight, as the Lively Polly glided easily on her
course, her snowy wings filled by a freshening
breeze.

The toilet at sea is always a difficult matter
even in a commodious steamer, but, in a banker,
it is reduced to the most elementary and simplest
system: a tin bowl filled with salt water for the
ablution, a towel with a surface like glass-paper,
the finishing touches accomplished by raking
your hair into position with your fingers. Breakfast
follows in due course, prepared by Old Ivory;
not that this chef de cuisine exhibited any peculiar
skill in artistically varying the viands, that alternated
between salt pork, salter fish, the very
saltest beef, and hard tack (biscuit), the whole
washed down with a black pungent acrid mixture
like Epsom salts dissolved in porter, proudly
offered by the darky as "bery fine corfee, massa
cappen."

We had a most enjoyable passage, but somewhat
monotonous; one tires of old threadbare
jokes and yarns, and wearies even of gazing day
after day into the clear blue sea, each day
appearing the very counterpart of the other.
Sluggish lump-fish, with their uncouth heads
and mis-shappen bodies, continually wriggle
slowly and idly along with us; sun-fish, in their
parti-coloured armour, float by, performing
eccentric undulations. Now, a stiff black-looking
fin cleaves the water suspiciously, leaving
a wake behind, as would a minature ship, the
danger-signal of a greedy shark; huge leaves of
kelp, wrack, and sea-tangle drift by, rafts to
myriads of crustaceans and minute zoophites;
the rudder creaks and groans to the music of
its iron chains, clanking over the friction rollers
as the brawny helmsman turns the wheel; sea-
birds peep at us, then wheel away to be seen no
more, whilst ever following are the chickens of
Mother Carey, dipping, but never resting, on
the ripple at the stern. Thus week follows week,
until the dense fog and chilly feeling of the air
proclaim our near approach to the banks of
Newfoundland.

This great hidden bank of sand, or whatever
it may be, extends north and south for about
six hundred miles, and two hundred east and
west. To the southward, it narrows away to a
point, with almost precipitous edges, that drop
off suddenly into fathomless water. This appears
the grand rendezvous for cod and various
species of fish. There are, besides, several localities
equally productive known to the fishermen:
Bank Queran, the Flemish Cap, and others of
like celebrity. Codfish are also found in great
abundance close to the shore, and in the harbours
of Cape Breton and Nova Scotia. How this
immense bank came where we find it, is a
question more easily asked than answered:
whether, according to the skipper's theory, it was
a great island, that suddenly sank from having
the columns, or whatever might have supported
it, broken by an earthquake; or whether it is an
accumulation of sand and boulders brought by
icebergs and the Gulf Stream, and lodged at this
spot by meeting with currents from the north,
wiser heads than mine must decide.

The cheery voice of the leadsman, as he sang out
the depth, proclaimed at last the welcome news
that we had reached anchoring-ground, where
fish were to be expected. A dense impenetrable
fog hung like a pall over the water, not a breath
of wind to lift or disperse it, as the little craft
rolled lazily at her anchor in the heavy swell
that tumbled in from the north-east. Not a
sound but the lip-lap of the water against the
vessel's bows; no sign of fish nor living thing.
The men lolled listlessly about, peering into
the sea over the vessel's side, throwing in small
bits of bait, indulging in a whistle, or softly
chanting the refrain of some familiar song that
came unbidden to the memory, and carried
back the singer to his home and all that he
loves in it, be it sweetheart, wife, or children.
Old Ivory, who was perched up in the bows on a
cask puffing away at his pipe, suddenly startled
all hands by literally screaming, as he rolled off
his seat, "Massa cap—massa cap, by golly
him see cod as long as de bowsprit." As if by
magic, listlessness vanished, and all hands were
suddenly awakened to new life and activity;
the lines were seized, and, as the heavy sinkers
plunged into the sea, each man took his place
without any undue bustle or confusion. A space
of three feet and a half on the side-rail is allotted
to each fisher, a cleet being fastened there, over
which his line runs; a similar space is also
allowed him on deck to coil away his slack line
as a fish is hauled in.

Cod invariably keep close to the bottom,
hence from thirty to forty fathoms of line runs
out before the sinkers touch the ground; the line
is then hauled taut, so as to free the hooks
from the sand; the bait is usually salted clams,
barrelled for the purpose, squid, and capelin,
if they can catch them. A junk from a cod's
throat is also a killing bait, Sir Codfish having
no possible objection to feast on a delicate part
of his brother.

The fishermen lean over the bulwarks, the
line held lightly in the hand, waiting for the
sharp tug signalling a bite; then, standing up,
haul away until the struggling fish reaches the
surface, when he is gaffed (speared), if too heavy
to lift on deck with a line. He is then unhooked
and thrown into a square box named the kid, there
to kick and flounder, whilst the fisher rapidly
re-baits his hooks; then, as the line runs out, he
seizes the fish, gives it a sharp crack on the
head, cuts out the tongue, and throws it on
the deck to be "dressed."