k at every seat, and lumps of salt here and there. To be a
Manxman you must eat Manx herrings; there is a story that to transform
himself into a Manxman one of the Dukes of Athol ate twenty-four of them
at breakfast, a herring for every member of his House of Keys.

The Manx herring fishery is interesting and very picturesque. You know
that the herrings come from northern latitudes, Towards mid-winter a
vast colony of them set out from the arctic seas, closely pursued by
innumerable sea-fowl, which deal death among the little emigrants. They
move in two divisions, one westward towards the coasts of America, the
other eastward in the direction of Europe. They reach the Shetlands in
April and the Isle of Man about June. The herring is fished at night. To
be out with the herring boats is a glorious experience on a calm night.
You have set sail with the fleet of herring boats about sun-down, and
you are running before a light breeze through the dusk. The sea-gulls
are skimming about the brown sails of your boat. They know what you are
going to do, and have come to help you, Presently you come upon a flight
of them wheeling and diving in the gathering darkness. Then you know
that you have lit on the herring shoal. The boat is brought head to the
wind and left to drift. By this time the stars are out, perhaps the moon
also--though too much moon is not good for the fishing--and you can just
descry the dim outline of the land against the dark blue of the sky.

Luminous patches of phosphorescent light begin to move in the water,
"The mar-fire's rising," say the fishermen, the herring are stirring.
"Let's make a shot; up with the gear," cries the skipper, and nets are
hauled from below, passed over the bank-board, and paid out into the
sea--a solid wall of meshes, floating upright, nine feet deep and a
quarter of a mile long. It is a calm, clear night, just light enough
to see the buoys on the back of the first net. The lamp is fixed on the
mitch-board. All is silence, only the steady plash, plash, plash of the
slow waters on the boat's side; no singing among the men, no chaff, no
laughter, all quiet aboard, for the fishermen believe that the fish can
hear; all quiet around, where the deep black of the watery pavement
is brightened by the reflection of stars. Then out of the white
phosphorescent patches come minute points of silver and countless faint
popping sounds, The herrings are at play about the nets. You see them in
number