26 By Stream and Sea. 



Yarmouth that the auctioneers make as much out of the 

 herrings as any. 



Lying on the wet floor of the market-house are groups of 

 cod, taken by accident in the drift-nets, or by the single 

 hook-lines thrown casually by the sailors overboard for the 

 chance of a stray fish. These cod are arranged in lots of 

 from eight to five, the fish averaging perhaps six pounds 

 each, and they, too, are submitted by auction. Who says 

 that a cod has no expression ? It may not have a fine open 

 countenance for the portrayal of delicate emotions, but 

 expression it undoubtedly has. Here is one with gaping 

 mouth and expanded gills, meaning, as any one may observe, 

 blank astonishment. Its neighbour, by the curl of its tail, 

 compression of the jaws, and determination of the eye, 

 informs us that it died in a state of impotent rage. The 

 little three-pound rock codling, meekly stretched out with 

 fins demurely smoothed down and lips modestly parted, is a 

 touching picture of resignation. Another fish must, from the 

 turn of his half-closed eyes and funnily displayed fins, have 

 been a humourist in whom the ruling passion was strong in 

 death. The cod, thus examined, would seem to be, on the 

 whole, a rather genial fellow, very eligible, if such pursuits 

 obtain down yonder, for evening parties and the like. Not 

 so the wicked, leering conger, whom every man and boy in 

 passing kicks and execrates. The brute is eight feet long, 

 and sullen and murderous every inch of him. 



But the sale is beginning, and — hear it not, London house- 

 keeper, to whom the boiled cod's head and shoulders served 

 up with oyster-sauce, lemon, and horse-radish (pray never 

 forget that pungent garnishing), is not a trifle — half a dozen 

 fish are knocked down for two-and-ninepence. A worthy 

 Gray's Inn solicitor, keeping me company, waxes so excited 

 at this richness that he buys half a dozen lots in succession. 



