CHAPTER I.

MACKEREL FISHING.

[Illustration] THE fishing village of Newlyn, which stretches about a mile along the west shore of Mount's Bay, in Cornwall, presented a busy scene one morning in April of the year 1862. The mackerel season had just begun, and some of the boats came in heavily laden.

"What's the take?" asked an old woman of a sailor.

"A thousand downwards," was the reply, which meant that the number of mackerel in each boat varied from that number to one hundred, fifty, twenty, ten, five or not one.

In Mount's Bay the boats are large, and among the safest and best craft to be found on any fishing coast. They each carry a crew of seven men, who share equally in the profits, after a certain portion has been set aside for the use of the vessel and the nets.

The "Mary Ann," which brought in the thousand mackerel, belonged to John Trevan. He was a man much respected in Newlyn, for all his dealings were fair and upright. He had for partners six other fishermen, of whom he was the captain, and who deferred to him at all times, placing the most implicit confidence in his judgment.

As the ship's boat containing John Trevan and his mates came near the shore, the agents of several London fish-dealers waded through the water to bid for the finest mackerel. The bargain was soon concluded to the satisfaction of all parties; then the fish were thrown into baskets and carried on to the sands, where they were turned into a tub of water, washed, packed neatly in the same baskets, and carried away in carts to the railway. The hake, cod, conger eels, a few soles, and some very small mackerel that remained, the crew divided with their captain.

Mrs. Trevan was awaiting the arrival of her husband with her basket. Every Cornish woman owns a basket of some sort: those carried by the fish-women are called "cowels," and are supported on the back by a band passed round the forehead.

"We've had splendid sport, Philippa," said John Trevan to his wife, "and there's a fine lot for home use. Let's have a conger pie for to-morrow. I'll be in to dinner; but we must hang our nets to dry first, and clean up a bit. The boat's off again at six. I can afford to take my holiday to-morrow cheerfully, after my good fortune of to-day."

"Yes, John, and if only we can have fine weather like this, you'll enjoy it," answered Mrs. Trevan.

"We must work hard all the afternoon, for the nets have got sadly broken. Father will have more than he can do, a boat ran clean through one of mine."

Philippa Trevan gathered up her share of fish, and placing it in her basket, walked slowly up the narrow road from the sands, towards Street-an-Nowan, or New Street, close to which she lived.

Newlyn is the principal fishing station in Mount's Bay. It is divided into two parts, which can only communicate, the one with the other, by the sands, unless you go far into the country, over the high hill which leads to the church-town of Paul. In ordinary tides the sea comes nearly up to the stepping-stones, but sometimes it dashes against the cliff, and renders the shore too dangerous to be crossed, even in a boat. The houses are irregularly built, and the streets are narrow, ill-paved, and in many parts run along the top of the sea wall, with no protection from the waves except what is afforded by a strong open iron railing.

Mrs. Trevan turned up narrow Rag-stone pathway before she reached the end of New Street, and mounted four steps which led into a comfortable sitting-room in a whitewashed cottage. The small door to the right opened into the best parlour, at the back were the kitchen and grandfather's bedroom, and overhead three more rooms.

An old man, a very old man, with snowy hair, sat in his arm-chair reading out of a large printed Bible; and in spite of the difference of years, his features were so like Mrs. Trevan's, there was no difficulty in recognising the relationship of father and daughter which existed between the two.

"You're soon home, Philippa," he said; "have you good news?"

"Very good, father; John has taken a thousand mackerel, and sold them well. He says there will be more work than you can do to mend the nets."

"I'll try my best, Philippa. We expect to mend them up every day. The Lord Jesus isn't here with his disciples. I'd just read these words when I heard your footstep: 'Simon Peter went up, and drew the net to land full of great fishes, an hundred and fifty and three: and for all there were so many, yet was not the net broken.'"

"No, He isn't walking in our midst as in those times, father," said Mrs. Trevan, "but he's just as near to us in spirit as he was then. I never see John start without commending him to God in Christ. I think as I grow older my Saviour seems to come nearer. But for his living presence in my heart, I could not go about my daily work as cheerfully as I do. Remember my boy, my first-born, and the awful uncertainty about him. Oh, father, I try hard to think of what my Saviour suffered on the cross for me, so as to get strength to endure my own sorrow with a lighter heart."

"Poor Philippa," answered the old man, tenderly. "Be of good courage. God will hear our prayers. I'm on the mountain-top of my pilgrimage, very soon I shall be running fast down the other side, entering into the dark valley and shadow of death; but I believe I shall see the lad before my sailing orders come."

"You've such strong faith, father. Mine is dimmed sometimes with waiting and longing; but only dimmed for the moment, for through all my bitterness of spirit, I remember that my Heavenly Father loves and cares for my poor misguided son. But here come the children from school."

Mrs. Trevan had just time to take up her basket and go hurriedly into the kitchen, drying her tears, when Dorothy and Judith, her twin daughters, entered, and coming up to their grandfather, kissed him affectionately. The old man returned their caresses, for he loved these girls next to, if not as well as his own daughter. He lived over past days with them, for they never wearied of hearing of the perils by land and sea, which had overtaken him during his long life.

Dorothy and Judith would complete their thirteenth year on the morrow. They closely resembled one another in features, but were unlike in disposition; for while Dorothy was high-spirited and quick-tempered, Judith was mild, tractable, and quiet. Their figures were upright and well-formed; they had bright jet black eyes, and long curling hair, fresh complexions, and frank open faces. They wore the gipsy hats made of beaver which are now out of date, short light-coloured print dresses, dark-blue knitted stockings of their own making, and strong leather boots.

"Have you done well at school this morning?" asked their grandfather.

"Yes, very well," answered Dorothy. "I did my sums so quickly that teacher said she was pleased for me to have a holiday to-morrow. She remembered that we spent our birthday at the Land's End last year with great-uncle Thomas Nance. You know Judith is always good at her lessons, grandfather."

"That's right, Dorothy," answered Captain Nance, for so the old man was called. "Do try, there's a good girl, to deserve the praise you've just bestowed on your sister. Let Judith be able to say of you, 'She is always good at her lessons.'"

"I do try, grandfather, to be attentive, but I can't always be the same. Judith hasn't such a nasty temper as I have to worry her."

"There's one cure for it; we may all go to the Great Physician, my little girl. How you will enjoy yourself, Dorothy, when to-morrow comes! I didn't think I should live to go with you again; I shall be fourscore years and ten if God spares my life until the 9th of November."

"That is a long, long time compared with our thirteen years," said Dorothy.

"It is a long time to have lived, my dear. I shan't be much more tossed on the billows, for the storm of life will soon be over, and my poor old weather-beaten bark will be safely landed on that happy shore where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."

"But, grandfather, what shall we do without you?" asked Judith, laying her soft cheek on the old man's. "We are so happy together."

"So we are, dearie, but it's not the happiness of yonder world. Don't want to keep me here, little one; you must try and be very glad when the old tar has his sailing orders."

"Come, children," called their mother, "lay the table for dinner. I have plenty to do to make ready for your birthday trip to-morrow."

Dorothy and Judith were soon busy in household matters, and we will leave them so engaged while we give a short account of the family to which we have introduced our reader.