In order to partake of all the advantages offered by this famed spot, it is necessary to rise betimes. The fishing excursion of which we are now about to give a sketch, commenced at about four o’clock on a Monday morning. The rain which fell at the time did not much matter, on account of the sheltered position of that margin of the Thames to which we were bound. With a small basket, and the waistcoat pocket primed with a little of the proper sort of bait; with no other rod than a walking stick, and no fly whatever, (except one upon four wheels procured from a neighbouring cab stand,) we arrived at the great fish focus; which, we may as well mention, to relieve suspense, is situated on the Middlesex shore of the Thames at a short distance below London Bridge, close to the Custom House, opposite the Coal Exchange, and has been known from time immemorial as BILLINGSGATE. When we arrived at the collection of sheds and stalls—like a dilapidated railway station—of which this celebrated place consists, it was nearly five o’clock. Its ancient reputation had prepared us for scenes of confusion and for volubility of abuse, which have since the times of the Tritons ever been associated with those whose special business is with fish. It was, therefore, with very great surprise that we walked unmolested through that portion of the precinct set aside as the market. We went straight to the river’s edge, rod in hand, without having had once occasion to use it as a weapon, and without hearing one word that might not have been uttered in the Queen’s drawing-room on a court day. No crowding, no elbowing, no screaming, no fighting: no ungenteel nick-names, no foul-mouthed females hurling anathemas at their neighbours’ optics; no rude requests to despatch ourself suddenly down to the uttermost depth the human mind is capable of conceiving; no wish expressed that we might be inflated very tight indeed; no criticisms on the quality of our hat; no impertinent questions as to our present stock of soap; nothing whatever, in short, calculated to sustain the ancient reputation of Billingsgate. With easy deliberation we sauntered down to the dumb-barge which forms a temporary landing-place while a better one is being built. There we beheld a couple of clippers, quite as trim as any revenue-cutter; over the sides of which were being handed all sorts of fish; cod, soles, whitings, plaice, John Dorys, mackerel; some neatly packed in baskets. That nothing should be wanting utterly to subvert established notions of Billingsgate, the order, quietness, and system with which these cutters were emptied, and their cargoes taken to the stalls, could not be exceeded.