The fish is sold by auction in the long-roofed but open-sided shed that runs the whole length of the harbour, and the auctioneers settle weekly with the skippers, after deducting their commission, the market-dues, and the earnings of the lumpers, as the fish-porters who carry the catches from the smack to the market are called. Rougher, more rugged, ragged, or more quaintly dressed and bearded men than those of the Brixham trawling fleet, and those others who attend the auctions, it would be difficult to find; but many among them are of the famous “Brixham lords.” A “Brixham lord” is the product at a considerable distance of time, of the vicissitudes of the old lords of the manor of Brixham. That manor, passing from the Novants and the Valletorts, and coming eventually to the Bonviles, was at length divided into quarters, of which one quarter came to the Gilberts, from whom it was purchased by what in these financial days we should term a “syndicate” of twelve fishermen. In the course of many generations and the natural subdivision of property, those original twelve shares of that quarter have been so apportioned that the “lords” of Brixham, owning infinitesimal portions of the manor, are a very large crowd indeed. Some of them, too, are “ladies.” The saying of Brixham is therefore easily credible, that there are more lords of the manor in it than in any other town in England. A pathetic literary interest belongs to Brixham, for it was here that the Rev. Henry Francis Lyte was vicar for twenty-five years. He died at Naples, whither he had gone to seek health, in his fifty-fourth year. One last evening, before he left Brixham for ever, as he knew it must be, he prayed that he might be allowed to write something by which the memory of him might be kept green to all time, and, returning from the fisher-town as sun was setting, to Berry Head House, conceived and wrote that best-known of hymns, “Abide with Me.” In the widespread favour it immediately obtained, and in the vogue it must ever retain while hymns last, his prayer was answered. It is a beautiful hymn, but a thing of tears, depression, and hopelessness, that leaves you a great deal worse, and a great deal more self-pitying, than before indulging in it. As well might one suggest sitting in a draught as the remedy for a cold, as hope to revive the spirits on “Abide with Me.” It is beautiful, but for my part, I want something more uplifting and robustious, and would rather go forth and do battle with blue-devils and kick stumbling-blocks out of the way, and keep a stout heart to the ultimate breath, on some swashbuckling Hew-Agag-in-Pieces-before-the-Lord psalmody, than dissolve in tears on the minor key of “Abide with Me.”