NEWHAVEN FISHWIVES.

Western Star, Issue 861, 19 July 1884, Page 1 (Supplement)

NEWHAVEN FISHWIVES.

Most? picturesque of all the figures to be se»n in Edinburgh are the Newhaven fishwives. With short, full, blue cloth petticoats, reaching barely to their ankles ; white blouses and gay kerchiefs; big, long-sleeved cloaks of the same blue cloth, fastened at the throat, but flying loose, sleeves and all, as if throvyn on in.haste : ; the girls bareheaded ; the married women with white caps, standing up straight in a point on the top of the head ; two big wickerwork creels, one above the other, full of fish, packed securely on their broad shoulders, and held in place by a stout leather strap passing round their foreheads, they pull along at a steady, striding gait, up hill and down, carrying weights that it taxes a man’s strength merely to lift. In fact it is a fishwife’s boast that she will run with a weight which it takes two men to put on her back. By reason of this great strength on the part of the women, and their immemorial habit of exercising it, perhaps also from other causes far back in the early days of Jutland, where these curious Newhaven fishing folk are said to have originated, it has come ‘about that the Newhaven men are a singularly docile and submissive race. The wives keep all the money which they receive for the fish, and the husbands take what is given them —a singular reversion of the situation in most communities. I did not believe this when it was told me, so I stopped three fishwives one day, and without mincing matters put the question direct to them. Two of them were young, one old. The young women laughed saucily, and the old woman smiled, but they all replied unhesitatingly, that they had the spending of all the money. “ It’s a’ spent i’ the hoos,” said one, anxious not to be thought too selfish —it’s a’ spent i’ the hoos. The men, they come hame an’ tak their sleep, an’ then they’ll be aff agen.” “ It ’ud never dae for the husbands to stoop i’ the city, an’ be spendiu’ a’ the money,” added the old woman, with severe emphasis. I learned afterward that, on the present system of buying and selling the fish, the fishermen do receive from their labour an income independent of

their wives. They are the first sellers of the fish—selling them in quantity to the wholesale dealers, who sell in turn at auction to the “ retail trade,” represented by the wives. This seems an unjust system, and is much resented by both husbands and wives; but it has been established by law, and there is no help for it. It came in with the introduction of the steam trawlers. They’re the destrooction o’ the place,” said one of the fishwomen. A mon canna go oot wi’ his lines an’ mak a livin’ noo. They just drag everything; they tak a’ the broods; they’re dooin’ a worrld o’ harrm. There’s somethin’ a-dooin’ abuot it in the Hoose o Commons, noo, but a canna tell hoo it wull go.. They ull be the destrooction o’ this place, if they’re na pit stop to, and she shook her fist vindictively at a puffing trawler which had just pushed away from the wharf.

Whoever would see the Newhaven fishwives at their best must be on the Newhaven wharf by seven o’clock in the morning, on a ,day when the trawlers come in and the fish is sold. The scene is a study for a painter. The fish are in long narrow boxes, on the wharf, ranged at the base of the sea wall; some sorted out in piles, each kind by itself; skates, with their long tails, which look vicious, as if, they could kick ; hake, witches, brill, sole, flounders, huge catfish, crayfish, and herrings by the ton. The wall is crowded with men, Edinburgh fishmongers, come to buy cheap on the spot. The wall is not over two feet wide, and here they stand, lean over, jostle, slip by to right and left of each other, and run up and down in their haste to catch the eye of one auctioneer, or to get first speech with another. The wharf is crowded with women—an army in blue, two hundred, three hundred, at a time ; white caps bobbing, elbows thrusting, shrill voices crying, fiery blue eyes shining, it is a sight worth going to Scotland to see.

The Newhaven wharf is a narrow pier running out to sea. On one side lay the steam trawlers, which had just unloaded their freight; on the other side, on the narrow, rampartlike wall of stone, swarmed the fishmonger men. In this line I took my place and the chances of the scramble. Immediately the jolly fishwives caught sight of me, and began to nod and smile. They knew very well I was there to “ speir ” at them.

“ Ye’ll tak cauld!” cried one motherly old soul, with her white hair blowing wildly about, almost enough to lift the cap off her head, “ Cum doon I Ye’ll tak cauld.”

I smiled, and pointed to my waterproof cloak, down which, it must be admitted, the “ mist” was trickling in streams, ; while the cloak itself flapped in the wind like a loose sail. She shook'her head scornfully. “ It’s a grat place to tak cauld,” she cried. “Ye’ll do vveel to cum doon.”

Some of the fishwives were greatly discomfited with their purchases when they came to examine them closely, especially one woman, who had bought a box of flounders. She emptied them on the ground and sorted the few big ones, which had been artfully laid on the top j then putting the rest, which were all small, in a pile by themselves, she pointed contemptuously to. the contrast, and with a toss of her head ran after the auctioneer, and led him by the sleeve back to the spot where her fish lay. She was very mad at the imposition. She had paid the price of big flounders, and had got small ones. The auctioneer opened his book and took out his pencil to, correct the entry which had been made against her. “ Wull, tak aft' saxpence,” he said. “Na I na 1” cried she." “ They’re owre dear at seven and saxpence.” < • . “Wull, tak aff a saxpence j it is written noo—seven shillin’.”

She nodded, and began packing up the flounders,

“ Will you make something on them at that price ?” I asked her. “ Wull, I’ll mak me money back,” she replied; but her eyes twinkled, and I fancy she had got a very good bargain, as bargains go in Newhaven; it being thought there a good day’s work to clear three shillings,—a pitiful sum, when a woman, to earn it, must trudge from Newhaven to Edinburgh, (two miles) with a hundred pounds of fish on her back, and then toil up and down Edinburgh hills selling it from door to door. One shilling on every pound is the auctioneer’s fee. He has all the women’s names in bis book, and it is safe to trust them ; they never seek to cheat, or even to put oif paying. “ They’d rather pay than not,” the blue-eyed auctioneer said to me. They’re the houestest folks i’ the warld.” The faces of the Newhaven women are full of beauty, even those of the old women ■, their blue eyes are bright and laughing, long after the sea wind and sun have tanned and shrivelled their skins and bleached their hair. Blue eyes and yellow hair are the predominant types; but there are some faces with dark hazel eyes of rare beauty and very dark hair—still more beautiful—which, spite of its darkness shows glints of red in the sun, The dark blue of their gowns and cloaks is the best colour-frame and setting their faces could have; the b unched fullness of the petticoat is saved from looking clumsy by being so short, and the cloaks are themselves graceful garments. The walking in a bent posture, with such heavy loads on the back, has given to all the women an

abnormal breadth of hip, which would be hideous in in any other dress thau their own. This is so noticeable that I thought perhaps they wore under their skirts, to set them out, a roll such as is worn by some of the Bavarian peasants. But when I asked one of the women, she replied,— “ Na, just the flannel; a’ tuckit.”

“ Tucked all the way up to the belt?” said I. “ Na, na,” laughing as if that were a folly never conceived of—“na, na;” and in a twinkling she whipped her petticoat high up, to show me the under petticoat, of the same heavy blue cloth, tucked only a few inches deep. Her massive hips alone were responsible for the strange contour of her figure.

As I drove out of the village I found a knot of the women gossiping at a corner. They had gathered around a young wife, who had evidently brought out her baby for the village to admire. It was dressed in very “ braw attire” for Newhaven : snowy White, and embroidery, and blue ribbons. It was but four weeks old, and its tiny red face was nearly covered up by the fine clothes. I said to a white-haired woman in the group—- “ Do yon recollect when it was all open down to the sea here—before this second line of newer cottages was built P”

She shook her bead and replied, “I’m na so auld’s I luik ; my hair it wentit white”—. After a second’s pause, and turning her eyes out to sea as she spoke, she added, “A’ at once it wentit white.”

A silence fell on the group, and looks were exchanged between the women. I drove away hastily, feeling as one does who has unawares stepped irreverently on a grave. Many griefstricken queens have trod the Scottish shores; the centuries still keep their memroies green, and their names hauntone’s thoughts in every spot they knew. But more vivid to my memory than all these, returns and returns the thought of the obscure fisherwoman whose hair, from a grief of which the world never heard, “a’ at once wentit white.” —Atlantic Monthly.