was great; but when the grave was covered
in, the people immediately and quietly
dispersed. The City marshal was present, lest
there should be any disturbance on the
occasion.

The remains of the other six were
deposited in one grave, in the vault under the
Reverend Mr. Harper's chapel, in the London-
road, St. George's-fields.

          A DAY ON THE DEEP SEA.

I DON'T think deep-sea fishing is open to the
old sneer about a line with a worm at one
end and a fool at the other. In the first
place, a worm is rarely used at one end; and in
the next, when it comes to hauling in a big
fish of sixty pounds or so, that will pull like
a baker, fight like a man, and bark like a dog,
something better than a fool is needed at the
other end.

The day's fishing alluded to in my title I
enjoyed (sic) during a visit to Guernsey in the
autumn of last year. Considering what capital
sport sea-fishing really is, and the facilities
afforded for its practice by our coasts, it is
a subject of surprise that a pastime so readily
accessible should be so generally ignored.

Down at "Point," I found out an old fisherman,
and made known my desire to accompany
him on his next turn. The Guernsey peasantry
and labourers, with scarcely an exception,
possess a native gentleness and ease of manner
that go far to corroborate their claim as
descendants of Huguenot refugees of high birth.
Most of them speak good English, with a very
pretty accent, as well as a somewhat unintelligible
patois of Norman-French. Guernsey folk
have a much neater way of getting you to repeat
a request than an abrupt British "Eh?" or
"What?" or the still more unceremonious
"What say?"

"What do you please?" asked the old man,
not quite understanding my proposition.

I told him I "pleased" fishing, not delicate
fine-weather sport, but a genuine experience of
real rough fisherman's fishing. It took a vast
amount of persuasion to induce old Pierre
Jacquelines to allow me to go with him. There
"weren't much fish," 'twas "a bad tide," "too
much sea on," "didn't know if he should go out
to-day," or if he did "where he should get bait,"
and so on. In point of fact, there was a deal of
"sea on" at the time, and being not a little doubtful
of my own ability to stand such a quantity,
perhaps I should have been less anxious to press
ttie matter but for feeling a little piqued at the
old man's reluctance to go. He gave way at
last, however (almost to my chagrin, I own, for
there certainly was a deal of "sea on"), and
trotted off with me to the quay to get some
bait. Detaching one from many small egg-
shaped wicker baskets I saw moored to stakes
in the water, he opened it and showed me the
bait—writhing, glancing little sand-eels, of the
sort known as "sand-launce," which glistened
like silver and purple in the water. Making the
basket fast to the stern of a boat, old Pierre
bade me step in, and rowed off to his fishing
smack, a large, wide, flat-bottomed craft, drawing
scarce a foot of water, built very strong and
stiff to withstand heavy seas, and carrying two
little sails, with peaks, schooner-wise, but without
fore-sheet or jib.

On board we found the old man's "boy,"
"young Pierre," as he called him—a bronzed,
stalwart child indeed, tall, and broad-chested
and forty, if a day. Their first care was to
make me into a waterproof parcel by wrapping
me up in oil-cloths and canvas, and neatly tying
me round and across with twine, explaining as
they did so that they "expected it wettish."
Next, each of the two fishermen went down into
an enormous pair of leggings, which came up
and tied round their necks with a string, like a
long two-legged bag having arm-holes. A great
slouchy oilskin coat, with a high collar that
fitted in under their canvas hats, completed their
armour.

Would I steer? Wouldn't I? I caught at
the chance, for, rough as it was, even a tiller was
something to hold on by. Well, our course was
a mile out, by those rocks; I should see a buoy
there—that was their buoy, and there was their
"trot"—all I had to do was to make for the
buoy, and "keep her to the wind." That was
all very well, but it seemed as though we should
never keep the craft to the water, she had such
an unaccountable propensity for mounting up
skywards, and trying to leap right out of the
sea, then rushing down into a wave, and hurtling
over on to the next one, much as a young
bird trying to fly. However, I endeavoured to
put a good face on it, and asked the men if they
would have some tobacco.

"Please?" inquired old Pierre,
interrogatively, meaning, as I found, "what did I
please?" and not "thank you." I therefore
repeated my offer, somewhat rashly adding that,
for my own part, I required a pretty constant
supply of the weed. "No, please," they didn't
smoke; and if I intended to do so, I had better
be quick about it. The same idea occurred to
me simultaneously, for we were pitching about
at such a wild rate I could not predicate with
any degree of certainty that a few minutes more
would find me in the same mind.

"Keep her up to it, sir," said the fishermen,
encouragingly. She was already so much "up
to it," that the water came splashing in sheets
over us all, nearly blinding me as to where we
were going; she was so much "up to it," that
I could seldom see anything ahead of us but
some great crested hill of glistening water, up
which our boat was always going to climb, or
poised for a moment on its top before darting
down with a swash and a hiss into the seething
valley below. She was so much "up to it," in
fact, that when the first wave that washed over
us had put out my pipe, nearly washing it down
my throat into the bargain, I let it go without
a pang.

"Hi, now sir, steady! Here we are. Sharp