Chapter X · THE FISHER-FOLK. (continued 2)

On the case being called, the pursuer stated that he had been dismissed by the defender from his employment without just cause, indeed without any cause at all; and the defender, on being asked what he had to say, at once admitted the dismissal, and to the great astonishment of the Sheriff, confessed that he had nothing to assign as a reason for it, except the fact that the pursuer’s name was “Ross.”

“Ye see, my Lord, I did engage him, though I was weel tauld by my neibors that I sudna dee’t, and that I cudna expect te hae ony luck wi’ him, as it was weel kent that ‘Ross’ was an unlucky name. I thocht this was nonsense, but I ken better noo. He gaed te sea wi’ us for a week, and I canna say but that he did’s wark weel eneuch; but we never gat a scale. Sae the next week, I began to think there beet te be something in fat my neibors said; sae upo’ the Monday I wadna tak’ him oot, and left him ashore, and that very night we had a gran’ shot; and ye ken yersel’, my Lord, that it wad hae been ower superstishus to keep him after that, and sae I wad hae naething mair te dae wi’ him, and pat him aboot’s business.”

The Sheriff was much amused with this novel application of the word “superstitious;” but, in spite of that application, he had no difficulty in at once deciding against the defender, with expenses, taking occasion while doing so to read him a severe lecture upon his ignorance and folly. The lecture, however, has not been of much use, for I have ascertained that the “freit” in question is still as rife as ever, and that there is scarcely an individual among the communities of white-fishers on the Banffshire coast who, if he can avoid it, will have any transaction with any one bearing the obnoxious name of “Ross.”

I should now like to give my readers a specimen of the patois or dialect spoken by the Moray Firth fisher-folk, although it is somewhat difficult to do it effectively on paper; but I will try, taking a little dialogue between the fishermen and the curer about a herring-fishing engagement as the best mode of giving an idea of the language and pronunciation of the Buckie bodies:—

Scene—A Curer’s Office. Present—The Curer and the three “Shavies.”

Curer—Well, Shavie, ye’ve had a pretty good fishing this year.

Shavie senior—Ou ay, it’s been geyan gweed.

Shavie tertius—Fat did ye say, man? gweed—it’s nae been better than last.

Curer—Well, laddie, what was wrong with last year’s fishing?

Bowed Shavie—Weel awat, man, it was naething till brag o’, an’ fat’s mair, I lost my beets at it; ye’ll be gaun till gie’s a new pair neist fishin’.

Shavie senior—Ay, that was whan he k-nockit his k-nee again the boat-shore and brak his cweet.

Curer—Well, but lads, what about next fishing?

Shavie senior—Ou, is’t neist fishin’ ye’re wantin’ till speak o’?

Curer—Yes; will you engage?

Shavie junior—Fat are ye gaun till offer?

Curer—Same as last.

Bowed Shavie—Fat d’ye say, man?

Curer—Fourteen shillings a cran and fifteen pound bounty.

Shavie senior—Na, na, Maister Cowie; that winna dee ava, man.

Bowed Shavie—We can get mair nor that at Fitehills.

Shavie junior—I’ll be fuppit, lathie, if I dinna hae mair siller an’ mair boonty tee.

Curer—Well, make me an offer.

Shavie senior—Ou ay, man; we’ll tak’ saxteen shillin’ the cran an’ a boonty o’ twunty pound, an’ a pickle cutch, an’ a drappie whisky; an’ that’s ower little siller.

Curer—Well, I suppose I must give it.

Bowed Shavie—Gie’s oor five shillin’ then, an we’re fixed wi’ you an’ clear o’ a’ ither body.

And so, on the payment of these five shillings by way of arles, the bargain is settled, and the men engaged for the next herring-season.

As will be inferred from these details, the fisher-folk, as a body, are not literary or intellectual. They have few books, and many of them never look at a newspaper. It is not surprising, therefore, that only one author has arisen among the fisher-people—Thomas Mathers, fisherman, St. Monance, Fifeshire. We have had many poets from the mechanic class, and even the colliers from the deep caverns of the earth have begun to sing. Mathers’ volume is entitled, Musings in Verse by Sea and Shore. The following lines will at once explain the author’s ambition and exhibit his style:—

The British fisher-people as a class are very sober and industrious, and they are becoming more intelligent, and, it is to be presumed, less superstitious. The children in the fishing villages are being educated; and in time, when they grow to man’s and woman’s estate, they will no doubt influence the fisheries for the better. Many of the seniors are now teetotal, and while at the herring-fishing prefer tea to whisky. The homes of some of the fisher-folks, on the Berwickshire and Northumberland coasts, are clean and tidy, and the proprietors seem to be in possession of a great abundance of good cheer.

It is, no doubt, considered by some to be an easy way to wealth to prosecute the herring or white fisheries, and secure a harvest grown on a farm where there is no rent payable, the seed of which is sown in bountiful plenty by nature, which requires no manure to force it to maturity, and no wages for its cultivation. But it is not all gold that glitters. There are risks of life and property connected with the fishery which are unknown to the industries that are followed on the land. There are times, as I have just been endeavouring to show, when there is weeping and wailing along the shore. The days are not always suffused in sunshine, nor is the sea always calm. The boats go out in the peaceful afternoon, and the sun, gilding their brown sails, may sink in golden beauty in its western home of rosy-hued clouds; but anon the wind will freshen, and the storm rise apace. The black speck on the distant horizon, unheeded at first, soon grows into a series of fast-flying clouds; and the wind, which a little ago was but a mere capful, soon begins to rage and roar, the waves are tossed into a wilder and wilder velocity, and in a few hours a great storm is agitating the bosom of the wondrous deep. The fishermen become alarmed; hasty preparations are made to return, nets are hauled on board, sails are set and dashed about by the pitiless winds, forcing the boats to seek the nearest haven. Soon the hurricane bursts in relentless fury; the fleet of fishing-boats toss wildly on the maddening waves; gloomy clouds spread like a pall over the scene; while on the coast the waters break with ravening fury, and many a strong-built boat is dashed to atoms on the iron rocks in the sight of those who are powerless to aid, and many a gallant soul spent in death, within a span of the firm-set earth. Morning, so eagerly prayed for by the disconsolate ones who have all the long and miserable night been watching from the land, at length slowly dawns, and reveals a shore covered with fragments of wood and clothes, which too surely indicate the disasters of the night. The débris of boats and nets lie scattered on the rocks and boulders, dumb talebearers that bring sorrow and chill penury to many a household. Anxious children and gaunt women—

“Wives and mithers maist despairin’”—

with questioning eyes, rush wildly about the shore, piercing with their frightened looks the hidden secrets of the subsiding waters; and here and there a manly form, grim and stark and cold, cold in the icy embrace of death, his pale brow bound with wreaths of matted seaweed, gives silent token of the majesty of the storm.