up to the wind when I say now—now!" As
I put up the helm, young Pierre grappled the
buoy, and the old man struck the masts, leaving
us tossing about with one end of the "trot"
across our bows. The " trot" or "bolter," as
it is sometimes called, is a strong line, a rope
indeed, some three hundred yards long, from
which depend four or five hundred hooks,
snooded on strong water-cord or wired strands
at regular intervals of about two feet. It is
buoyed across the run of the tide, secured in
its place by a grapnel, and floated by large
corks, which dot out its track in the sea. In
this position it becomes like a long row of
baited meat-hooks, on which the fish come and
hang themselves up. We commenced what is
called "under-running the trot," that is to say,
hauling the "trot" over our boat, taking off the
fish, and fresh baiting the hooks with offal and
pieces of mackerel and shad.

We had a pretty good haul, for there were a
John Dory, two or three fine turbot, numbers
of brill, and several great gaping skate of
twenty pounds and more apiece, besides
mackerel, and pollack, and smaller fry. The
two first-named sorts and some of the largest
brill are what the fishermen term "royal fish."
Nearly all of them find their way to the London
market, which depends in a great measure for
its supply on Guernsey and the other Channel
Islands. These great flat fish are not easily
unhooked by a novice, having great strength in
their tails, wherewith they can give the unwary
a very severe blow. The skate especially is a
very ugly customer to deal with in more senses
than one, for it is the most hideous fish that
swims. However, our fishermen put one hand
into their great gills, throwing them one by one
into a kind of tank that is "forrard," in a very
matter-of-fact sort of way, occasionally
administering a blow with an iron pin to some fish
more unruly than the rest. Having baited and
laid down our "trot" again (I may mention it
is an offence punishable with transportation to
haul another person's "trot"), we step our
masts and set sail for more active fishing, in
which we meditate hooking the fish, instead of
leaving it to them to hook themselves.

Our fishing-ground is thirteen miles off, right
at the back of the island, so we have a long
run before us. We go down with the tide,
keeping well out from land, since the island is
so rocky it is dangerous to coast it when there
is much "sea." We fish at low water and about
two hours into the "young flood" (these being
the universal sea-fishing hours), and come back
again at night with the turn of the tide.

During a three hours' sail, tacking down
against the wind, my whole energies were
devoted to holding on, to prevent, on the one
hand, being pitched head first into the fish-
tank "forrard," and, on the other, so to manage
to dodge the waves that broke over us, as
to avoid being washed over the stern. Now
and then, I believe, I made a sickly attempt to
smile, but so palpably artificial was the effort,
that on every such occasion old Pierre would
ask if I didn't feel well. I kept on assuring
him I was quite well in so marked a manner
that he invariably recommended me to try and
nibble a biscuit and take a drop of brandy. It
being utterly impossible to act upon his advice,
since when I opened my mouth a wave was sure
to fill it, carrying biscuit and brandy to the
fishes, I gave up the attempt in despair, and
framed some utterly transparent excuse (but
which I thought wholly inscrutable at the time)
for abandoning the helm. I then took to
contemplating the sky, doubtless with a very fixed
expression of countenance, until I became so
giddy I could not tell which was sky and which
was sea, for the billowy clouds were heaving and
rolling like the water. Fully aware of feeling
very particularly unwell, I was actually debating
in my mind about offering the men a handsome
consideration to toss me overboard, when a
violent lurch of the boat hurled me right across
into old Pierre's lap. With consummate coolness,
the old fellow merely inquired, "What did
I please?"

The exclamation "Oh!" is a word peculiarly
adapted to sufferers, because, though a short
one, you may yet make a great deal of it by
sighing it out in a helplessly lugubrious drawl,
as I believe I did. What I am afraid I meant
by it at the time was, "Oh! fisherman, fisherman!
—take all the ready money about my
person, only take me up quick, and put me
ashore." I think he must have so understood
it, for he replied:

"Bear up, sir—it is all right; we have
reached our fishing-ground, and there's a capital
tide. Bring her to, my son," this to Pierre
junior (the vessel he meant, not me; I was
beyond "bringing to" at the time, and nearer
"bringing up"). "Look out for our marks—
Pleinmout Cave and the white house in a line,
one mile out. So, let go the anchor!"

I listened in a most uncomfortable kind of
trance, my deliberate opinion being at the
moment that all the fish in the sea were worth
nothing in comparison to the blessedness of
setting foot once more on dry land. I remember
they scuffled about a good bit in getting the
sails down, and I was vaguely conscious of the
grating noise the anchor chain made in running
out. Then we were left tossing on a heaving
ground swell, up and down, lurch, down, roll,
up, lurch. When we went down, the boat
seemed to sink away from underneath, falling
quicker than I did, and always in the opposite
direction to that for which I was prepared,
dodging all my efforts to accommodate myself to
its motion. Our craft had "heaved to and
reached." So had I, and forthwith commenced
throwing myself overboard by instalments.
Oh! my brothers and sisters who know what it
is to be sea-sick, paradox it may seem to others,
not so to you, you are all very well so long as
you can be ill; it is when you can't you are
truly and deplorably bad. The study of
anatomy teaches that the human heart and the,
human liver are intimately connected with the
human larynx by certain cords and membranes.