THE FISHING-TOWNS. 153 



The aspect of one of our fishing-ports during the her- 

 ring-season is very singular to the unaccustomed eye. 

 The place smells of herring, thinks of herring, talks of 

 herring. Of what importance to its inhabitants are the 

 contest between Pope and Kaiser, the struggles of the 

 Revolution in France, or even the banter between 

 political parties at home, when weighed with the 

 amount of the " take " of last night, or the prospects of 

 a good haul to-morrow? These herring-towns, as they 

 may appropriately be called, are dotted all along the 

 east coast from Yarmouth to Wick. The herring, be 

 it remembered, is a native of our British seas, and can 

 be captured all the year round on the shores of the three 

 kingdoms. But the fishery is either more abundant on 

 the east coast, or is there pursued with more activity, 

 and it is the eastern towns which furnish our markets 

 with their principal supplies. And so it is to Yarmouth, 

 D unbar, Buckie, Fraserburgh, Banff, or Wick that you 

 should go, if you would see the herring-commerce in all 

 its fulness. Wick is the chief seat of the fishery, and it 

 is to Wick we shall accompany Mr. Bertram* to gain 

 some idea of its appearance in the height of the season. 



It is morning, and the fleet of herring-boats is making 

 all sail for the harbour. Everybody in the town is astir ; 

 there are no idlers ; and everybody seems to have come 

 down to the pier or beach. Various quaint utterances in 

 the vernacular reach our ears as the boats arrive, and are 

 recognized by those interested. " Yon is Sandy Mac- 

 allister's !" "Hoot awa, man! Alick Macpherson's is 

 gaining fast upon him !" " Here comes old Donald 

 Ferguson's ! I ken her by the clout on her old sail !" 



* Bertram, " The Harvest of the Sea." 



