afternoons, when his sleep is
over, he walks up and down in the Row and gazes around; but he rarely
laughs, and few things interest him unless he is religious. Fishermen
seldom gossip like rustics. Sometimes they have a queer dry humour which
comes out in short phrases, but they never carry on sustained
conversation. The faculty of expression is granted them in very sparing
degree. The fisherman's courage is perfect, yet he cannot speak of his
own actions. He will do the most brave things in a stolid, unconscious
way; but he could not frame a hundred consecutive words to tell anyone
what he had done. He never shows any emotion excepting when under the
influence of religious excitement. The melancholy of the sea seems to
have entered his nature, and his chief efforts aim at self-restraint.
When the little Methodist chapel resounds with the noise of appreciative
groanings and sighing, it is very rarely that anything like
gesticulation or vivid facial change is seen. Deep-chested men utter
sonorous ejaculations and the women sigh, but there is no shuffling of
feet and no movement. As a class, the fishers have grown to be more
religious than almost any other body of men, and they like powerful
excitement; but they are always severely decorous. In his behaviour
toward his social superiors the fisherman is rugged--perhaps morbidly
rugged--but his brusque familiarity is not offensive. To touch his cap
would be impossible to him, but his direct salute is neither
self-assertive nor impolite. The fisherman toils on till the time comes
for him to stay ashore always. His life is a very risky one, and the
history of every village is largely made up of stories about drowned
men, for the coast is an ugly place, and the utmost skill and daring can
hardly carry a man through a lifetime without accident. If the accident
is fatal, there is an end of all: the bruised bodies are washed up; the
women wring their hands, and the old men walk about silently. But if
things go well, then the fisherman's old age is comfortable enough. The
women look after him kindly, and on sunny mornings he enjoys himself
very well as he nurses the children on the bench facing the sea.

A LONG CHASE.

The "Halicore" ran into harbour one October morning and took up her
berth at the quay. The brig had come from a nine months' voyage and the
men were regarded as heroes when they came ashore, for most of our
vessels were merely coasters. When all was made s