we are decidedly of opinion that for the most
part their "books" deal too much with
externals, and that one might peruse folio after
folio, until doomsday, without getting at the
inner life of the topic in hand.

To explain our meaning more precisely, the
Board of Fisheries for Scotland has issued its
report for the current year, which tells, and
doubtless tells faithfully, the number of boats
engaged in fishing, the number of hands
manning the boats, the quantity caught, cured,
and exported; but all this is mere externalism
—inseparable, no doubt, from the constitution
and objects of the bodies who report on such
matters to Government; but still showing
conclusively that to learn the social bearings
of any question, we must extend our investigations
further than "blue books" will carry
us. The dangers of the calling are not to be
adequately painted in prose. The poet in
one couplet carries us to regions where the
statist never penetrates. Take for example
the popular song of "Caller Herrin'." What
a revelation is made by the two lines—

"Wives and mithers, maist despairin',
Ca' them lives o' men!"

Song and arithmetic lie at two extremes—
there is a wide territory between them, and all
must be traversed, middle ground and termini,
before we can grasp the subject even in
outline.

We lately visited a seaport town in the
north-east of Scotland, during the herring
season; and the scenes then witnessed,
naturally suggested the "dry-as-dust" character of
blue books, when compared with the living
reality. The harbour was filled with a forest
of boat-masts, moving fantastically with every
swell of the water; towards sunset a thousand
oars were dipped, and the boats swept out of
the harbour and glided to the west end of
the bay; then, setting their red-barked sails,
they stood out in hundreds for the open sea.
As each skiff bounded over the ocean, "wives,"
"mithers," and daughters looked anxiously
on; and the motley groups remained on cliff
and beach till the receding canvas was lost in
the distant horizon. With slow march and
thoughtful look, the naiads proceeded
homewards. In the mornings we took our place
to witness the return of the fishermen. On
some occasions the sea would be calm as an
inland lake, reflecting every image as from a
surface of molten silver; but this quiet beauty,
however picturesque to the tourist, was little
better than death to the poor crews of the
boats. They had sailed thirty miles
overnight; had cast their nets; and, at approach
of morn, hauled them, but found them as
empty as when first sunk in the mighty
waters; and now, weary and heavy-hearted,
they must make for the land. Their nets are
all adjusted; but where is the friendly breeze
that carried them out? It has passed away,
and no breath of air moves the atmosphere,
or ripples the world of water that surrounds
them; they have no resource but to betake
themselves to their oars, and with them pull
their reluctant boat back again to port. It is
a wearisome task; for nothing lowers
muscular effort more than disappointment. They
labour on for hours against tide, perhaps, and
slowly make the harbour; the disappointed
female countenances on the shore more than
reflecting back the gloom on their own haggard
features. Moored to the quay, their task is
not ended. Their nets are saturated with sea-
brine; and if left in that state in the hold of
the boat, would speedily rot: they must
carefully disentangle and place them on carts to
be driven away to the fields; there to be
dried ready for the evening fishing.

This process being accomplished, a few
hasty hours of sleep are snatched from the
busy day, and the nets are again gathered,
carted, and shipped. The boats stand out to
sea. But this night may be precisely the
reverse of the first. The clouds gather in
blackness above the heads of the devoted
men, the hurricane raises its thunder-notes in
their ears, and the angry waves rage around
them. The beacon-light may be seen, but
must not be reached, for the wind blows
inland, and neither oar nor rudder could
guide with safety through the narrow opening
that leads to the harbour. Missing it,
they would be dashed on the iron-bound coast.
The larger bays or estuaries, however distant,
must now be run for. Decked vessels might
stand further out to sea and brave the storm;
but open boats, shipping waves at every
bound, must seek for safety under the lee of
the friendly land. Thus shaping their course,
they commence their dangerous experiment;
some reach the desired retreat, others do not
—the litter of broken oars and timber, that
strew the beach and rocks; and occasionally
the weather-beaten body, with its long matted
hair, telling but too mournfully the tale of
their doom.

Again, the boat fleet returns. It is seen
in the offing, with gunwales deep in the water,
rising heavily on the ascending wave, and
then the joyful news goes round, that there
has been good fishing, and forthwith
preparations are made to turn the success to the
best account. The boats arrive, and all hands
to the beach. The nets, filled with herrings,
are rapidly disentangled, and measured off in
baskets; two of which answer to the technical
denomination of a cran. They are then driven
off to the curers' stations, where processes are
gone through more remarkable for energy
than purity of appearance. One set of nymphs,
with knife in hand, operate on the fish; a
second class seize the prepared specimens, and
pack them in barrels, strewing handfuls of
salt between each layer; then follows the
cooper, who inserts the lids into the barrels.
Last of all comes the fishery officer, who
affixes the crown brand, and then the herrings
are ready for shipment to Stettin and other
continental ports of consumption. In the case