attention, from its having been asserted that it was frequently made
into turtle-soup. Whether that be so or not, the conger eel is in
reality one of our most valuable food-fishes. There is, unfortunately,
a prejudice in the public mind against it. In all continental
fish-markets—at least in those situated on seas which contain the
fish—a plentiful supply of congers may always be had. The writer has
seen hundreds of them in the markets at Dieppe, Boulogne, and Paris,
and in the _cuisine_ of France the conger occupies a prominent place.
It can be converted into excellent soup, and may be cooked in various
other palatable ways: it may be roasted, stewed, or broiled, or made
into a succulent pie. In Guernsey and Jersey, its flesh is highly
esteemed, as being adaptable to the culinary art in an eminent degree.
This fish ought to be much more plentifully exposed for sale than it
is; and if our fishermen found a market for it, it would no doubt
be so. It is a most prolific animal, yielding its eggs in literal
millions. A specimen which weighed twenty-eight pounds possessed a roe
of the weight of twenty-three ounces, which was computed to contain the
almost incredible number of fifteen millions of eggs! Mr Buckland, in
one of his fishery Reports, says: ‘What becomes of this enormous number
of eggs, is unknown to man; they probably form the food of many small
sea-creatures, especially crabs. They are exceedingly minute.’ How
curious it seems that the common herring, which yields on the average
about thirty thousand ova, should be so plentiful, and the conger,
which contains many millions of eggs, should be comparatively so scarce.
SERENADE.
Sweet maiden, awake
From the region of sleep,
Alone for thy sake
Here my vigil I keep;
The moon rides on high,
The stars shine above,
Yet sleepless am I
By the charm of thy love.
All nature reposes:
The sun is at rest,
Fast shut are the roses,
Each bird in its nest;
The air is unstirred
By the drone of the bee,
Safe penned is each herd—
And my thoughts are of thee.
Oh, what is dull Time
In true love’s estimation?
Who measures each chime,
In its rapt contemplation?
Immortal in birth,
It descends from above,
And raises from earth
The frail creatures who love.
Oh, spurn me not, maiden!
Dismiss me not home,
With misery laden
Henceforward to roam;
By the spell of thy power,
Which has fettered the free,
Creation’s sweet flower,
Bend thy fragrance to me!
ALBERT E. STEMBRIDGE.
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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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_All Rights Reserved._