in, there are shelly heaps in each net, numbering
about eight hundred oysters. The haul is
emptied on to the soppy deck, the nets are again
cast over, and the happy dredgers stoop down in
their tight thick costume, with very red faces
and red hands, to begin the labour of sorting.

A few whelks have come up in the haul; a few
strips of green glistening seaweed; a few
cockles, whose kicking claws are hanging from
their shells, as if they were struggling to crawl
in out of the cold; a few snuff-coloured old
oyster-shells, eaten through till they are like
rusty rings; and a few muddy spider crabs, who
run quickly from between the crevices of the
little shelly hill. The oysters are of all sizes,
in their different stages of growth. Some are
like blocks of flint, a mass that, perhaps,
numbers thirty nearly mature oyster lives. Some
shells are covered with little pearly counters, the
size of shillings, which represent a brood of
infant oysters, all less than a year old. Some
shells are ornamented with red-looking pimples,
which the happy free-dredgers call "quats."
Some oysters come up highly clean and perfect
in their formation, but not much larger than
half-a-crown. These are generally the two-year
olds, and, with all the preceding varieties, they
are pushed on one side by the dredger, while he
picks out only the sightly fish of four years'
growth, and casts them into his basket. His
theory is that the oyster, if left alone, may live
about ten years; and that it is extremely good
eating at five years of age. He knows the five-
year old oyster by the layers outside the bottom
shell. The little perfect yellow circle at the small
end of the fan represents one year; the three
successive brown pearly semicircles represent three
other years, and the rough fringe round the outer
edge represents the one year more. He is satisfied
with the four-year old oyster for general eating;
and what he considers good the London market
is compelled to take. His belief about the
origin of the oyster is that the spawn, or "spat,'
as it is termed, will float, in the season of June
and July (in this climate), upon the surface of
the water until the sun has dried it into lumps.
When these lumps reach a weight sufficient to
sink, they fall to the bottom of the sea, where
they find a bed which produces the nourishment
they want. This is his natural history, and it is
good enough for all practical ends.

When the sorting of the oysters is finished,
and the baskets, which serve as measures, are
filled with the picked fish, the refuse is swept
back into the sea through trap-holes in the
bulwarks. This latter process gives rise to
reflections on the advantages of ugliness. It
shows that an old oyster, with a repulsive
exterior, may be pulled up many times in a general
haul, but with the certainty that it will be
returned to the water, to live there till it dies.

The loaded baskets, after being dipped in the
bay, for the purpose of giving the oysters a
slight wash, are placed on one side, and the
same work is gone through again, until the
"stint" (or allotted number) is caught. The
vessel shifts its moorings once or twice in the
course of a single morning's dredge, in order
that the hauls may be mixed, and that the taste
of the metropolitan oyster-eater may not be
spoiled by feeding upon one quality, and that
quality, perhaps, the best. When the proper
number of baskets are filled, they are placed in
the boat belonging to the smack, and rowed to
one of the market-hoys that are anchored
amongst the fleet. Each one of these hoys is
capable of receiving about one hundred bushels,
or nearly one hundred and sixty thousand
oysters; and fourteen of these vessels, as
before stated, are constantly employed going to
and fro in the Whitstable happy fishers carrying
trade. The baskets are lifted out of the boat
into the hands of the hoy sailors — a very fishy,
patched, and soppy crew— and their separate
hundred-weights of contents are tilted, like coals,
into the long wet hold. A soddened inspector, who
looks like a hoy captain, is kneeling on the deck,
and watching through a pair of spectacles the
descent of the quantity and quality at the same
time. When the last smack has delivered its
required load, the market-hoys turn their heads
due Billingsgate; the fishing vessels are mopped
up, are run to their coast moorings, and made
tight for the night; and the happy fishers go on
shore to dinner, the masters of their own time
for the remainder of the day. Towards night
they assemble at the "Duke of Cumberland" to
hear and participate in the result of the last
sale. The money is sent down by the two market
salesmen in London, through the town agent of
a Canterbury bank, and the sum is drawn out
and divided by the managing jury of twelve.
Their gains may fluctuate, being dependent upon
profits, but it is generally found that if they want
a pound on account, they know exactly where
they can get it.

Without wishing to pry into free-dredging
trade secrets, and overhaul the company's
account-books, it is easy to see that they
are not very hardly dealt with by nature and
the metropolitan appetite, from certain signs
that are not easily concealed. The joyous songs
that come from the free-dredgers' chief tavern
up to a late hour of the night, are not the sounds
usually made by men who linger over an
unsatisfactory pay table.

Just published, in one vol. demy 8vo, price 9s.,
A TALE OF TWO CITIES.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
With Sixteen Illustrations by Hablot K. Browne.

THE FIRST VOLUME OF ALL THE YEAR
ROUND, PRICE 5s. 6d., IS NOW READY.