Chapter IV (3)

The cormorants, too, are keen fishers; you will see them pounce on their silvery prey, and gluttonously struggle to swallow it alive, though it may be twice too big a mouthful, and wriggles most piteously during the process. Vast numbers of these weird black birds (scarts, we call them,) live in every cave along this rocky shore. They choose some quiet nook where they heap up a mass of sea-weed for their nest, and, with the unerring instinct of all sea-birds, select a spot where the highest spring-tide cannot touch them. Here they sit, guarding their homes, or else stand solemn and immovable on the rock ledges, and never stir as we enter the cavern, till, as we come close to them, a sudden flap from their dusky wings startles us, as though some spirit of darkness would resent our invasion. Then they dart to and fro with wild piercing cries, just as they do before stormy weather, when they come forth from their caves, as birds of ill omen to all seafarers. There is something so demoniacal about the bird, that the sight of it always recalls Milton’s legend of its form being the first selected by the Arch Fiend when, perched on the Tree of Life, he overlooked with envious eye that fair garden, and plotted how to wreak his malice on the blissful pair. They are, however, capable of being trained as useful servants, and I often wonder why their fishing propensities are not turned to account in this country, as well as in the Celestial Empire. There are certain Chinese lakes where vast numbers of boats are employed solely for this fishery. Each boat carries about a dozen birds, which, at the word of command, dart with marvellous speed down through the waters, and return with fish of good size in their bills. So thoroughly well are they trained, that they never swallow the fish, but deliver it up to their master, who gives them such portions as he sees fit. In olden days, when cormorant-fishing was an English sport, and at the present time in Holland, a ring or leathern strap is fastened round the lower part of the throat, and the bird swallows as many fish as it can catch, and, on returning to its keeper, disgorges them. On some parts of our own coast the cormorant is considered rather good eating; a happy combination of fish and fowl. Its fishy taste, however, is reduced by burying the bird in sand for four-and-twenty hours, and then skinning him, when he makes a very tolerable soup.

The deep-sea fishing here is excellent. White fish of all sorts is abundant. There is one poacher, however, who proves sorely annoying to the toiling fishers. This is the little star-fish, which at once makes for the lines, and eats the bait, and though he pretty often gets hooked himself as the penalty of his indiscretion, his useless death gives small satisfaction to the men whose night’s labour has been wasted. Not content with this, he destroys vast quantities of bait by attacking the mussel scalps, of which he makes sore havoc, destroying thousands of young mussels.

The best bait of all is the razor-fish or solen, the inhabitant of the long brown razor shells that strew our shores. He lies safely hidden beneath the sands, and so soon as he hears a step approaching, he digs a deeper hiding-place, and burrows his way lower and lower. But in the first anguish of terror he spouts a jet of water in the air, like a tiny whale, and thus betrays his presence to the watchful bait-gatherer, who from this custom, calls his hidden treasure the spout-fish. Plunging a barbed iron rod into the moist sand, he fishes up his victim; should he fail to strike him, he knows he need not try a second time, as the creature will have burrowed far beyond his reach; but, if bait is scarce, he will perhaps sprinkle salt on the hole, and then wait patiently till the solen rises to the surface, and is captured, to prove an irresistible dainty to all manner of fish.

Very fine turbot are sometimes caught, but the fishers have some curious prejudice against them, as they have against all fish without scales, and will, I believe, on no account eat them themselves. Possibly this may be from some insensible obedience to that old Levitical law which commanded, that “whatsoever hath no fins nor scales, in the seas and in the rivers, of all that moveth in the waters, that shall be an abomination unto you,” Certainly the abhorrence of the prohibited swine’s flesh is by no means forgotten in Scotland; and though, as I before said, the cormorant is occasionally used for food, it is a very rare exception, being the only unclean bird prohibited by the Levitical law ever eaten. Hares, too, are looked upon with repugnance by a large number of the people, as I have heard sundry Scottish housekeepers testify when their servants objected to eat the forbidden meat. To whatever cause this prejudice may be due, the same feeling exists in a much stronger degree amongst the Laplanders, between whom and the little Picts we have noticed various points of resemblance. With regard to the scaleless fish, it is curious to find that the ancient Romans were forbidden by Numa Pompilius to sacrifice such to the gods, while the Egyptians prohibited their use as being unwholesome.

As to tasting an eel, a very small minority of the Scotch have ever been induced to do such a thing, partly from its resemblance to a water-serpent, partly from a belief that, like the turbot, it has no scales. I believe that a good microscope might dispel the latter prejudice by revealing the scaly armour of most varieties of the eel. But as to the turbot, it is unmistakably smooth, and until very late years all the turbot taken even on the coast of Fife and Aberdeen were thrown away, as there was no sale for them, and only the most degraded and miserable of the poor would condescend to take these despised dainties to their homes. They are called roden fluke all along the east coast, and by this name the would be-purchaser must ask for them, or he will be served with halibut, a very coarse fish of the same species. I do not know whether the objection to scaleless fish extends to flounders. Probably it does, the more so as some of the fishers on the west coast believe the flounder (or, as they call it, fluke,) to be a young turbot. The inhabitants of the various islands have each their peculiar notions as to what fish are good for food. Some will eat skate, some eat dog-fish. Some eat limpets and razor-fish, and, as a matter of course, those who do not, despise those who do. In olden times the Highlanders used to cure hams of the seal, and I believe that in the Orkney Isles young seals are still esteemed a great delicacy. Whale used also to be eaten in these isles with certain herbs, tolerably coarse food, but useful in the victualling of ships. That which was sent to bring over the Maid of Norway is especially stated to have had fifty pounds of whale among her provisions. Porpoises were also in much repute at that time; and one most dainty bill of fare is recorded, of swans, cranes and sea-gulls, eaten with bread sweetened with honey, and flavoured with spices. Also at the coronation of Queen Catherine of France, wife of Henry V., the bill of fare included porpoise garnished with minnows!

The southern market profits by the Scotch antipathy to eels, large quantities of great conger-eels being caught on the Argyllshire coast, which are at once despatched to London; for the fishers who capture these unclean monsters would rather starve than eat one themselves, regarding them as lineal descendants of the original serpent of Eden. If they _are_ such, we might suspect their wily ancestor of having pursued his researches in the garden farther than we wot of, inasmuch as nothing short of having tasted the life-giving tree could account for the horrible vitality of the whole race; a race which utterly defies all common modes of death, as you may see any day, by turning out a basketful of eels—hours after you believe them to have been thoroughly killed, still the thrill of life shoots with wavelike undulation along each fold of the writhing mass. Nay, you think you have secured death by severing the head from the body; yet woe betide the incautious finger that dares to examine that head too closely, for the sharp white teeth have lost none of their power, and can still inflict a vicious bite on the rash intruder.

Speaking of eels, I cannot resist telling you of the latest combination of the forms serpentine and satanic. On the occasion of a fancy ball, a gentleman, who shall be nameless, determined to appear in the form popularly ascribed to the Prince of Evil. A well-known Jew supplied the desired dress, but it was found that, as in the case of little Bo-Peep’s celebrated sheep, the tail had been left behind. How to supply a new one was the question. Some one vulgarly suggested a visit to a gin palace, where bad spirits are retailed, but his observation was treated with well-merited contempt. Suddenly a brilliant idea occurred to the poor tail-less demon. He repaired to the nearest umbrella shop, where he invested in the strongest shiny umbrella skin. Thence passing on to the fishmonger’s, he selected a fine healthy eel, in most active condition, just large enough to slip into the umbrella case, the ring at the further end allowing him breathing room. The said case being then attached to the dress, presented the appearance of a most lively tail in perpetual motion, wriggling and writhing;—now twined round the wearer’s neck, now round his waist, his arm, his leg—now moving aimlessly in mid-air, or darting suddenly towards some startled passer by. In short it was a complete success and matter of amazement to all beholders, but to none more so than to the Jewish owner of the costume, who stood gazing in wrapt admiration, offering free bribes if only this wonderful secret might be revealed to him!

Drawing the salmon nets in the early morning was always a point of attraction to me. I was generally astir by 4 A.M.—the loveliest hour of a summer morning—and the sailor who had been on watch all night was glad enough to give me my lesson in rowing till it was time to return and awaken the crew at 6 A.M. So to the salmon nets I generally made my way, and a very exciting moment it is when the nets are hauled in—sometimes with a prize of bonnie silvery fish—which of course means salmon exclusively, for to apply that sacred word to any less noble species would mark you ignorant indeed. I’d like to see old Lauchlan’s face if you used it with reference to the lean dark long-nosed article he has just thrown back into the river. “Fish! indeed! Ou! it wasna a fish! It was no but a kelt!”

But fish or no fish, the nets are safe to draw up some curious treasures of the deep. Creatures such as you will see nowhere else, for they are so useless, that they are at once thrown back to mother ocean. Sea hedgehogs, and sea-urchins, and sea-hens, and queer beasts all head and fins, and young sea-serpents, and all manner of odd monsters. The gulls well know their chance of securing these prizes, and always follow the drawing of the nets; black-headed gulls, and kittiwakes, and graceful sea-swallows with their sharp wings and forked tails, hover expectantly around, with wild, musical cries, and gradually the line of floating corks narrows, and as the net is drawn in, great agitation prevails among the captives, who flop about, and tumble over and over in dire dismay. Now a great fin appears, now a tail, now a nose, and quick flashes of silver tell what treasures will reward the fisher’s toil.

Then as the meshy prison is hauled in an eager discussion goes on in Gaelic, and the bonnie silver fish are laid aside with honour due. After that their fellow-prisoners are sorted. White fish of all sorts—flounders, scythe, lythe, rock-codlings, skate, cuddies, and many another are judged worthy of human consumption, and the fishers teach us to call them by names unknown to ichthyologists, sometimes, perhaps, with a sly laugh at our ignorance. We point out something that we mistake for a haddock, and the skipper gravely says, “Na, it isna a haddock. I’m thinking it will be”——a pause reflective, so long that we wonder what is coming next.... “Weel, _likely_ it will be—the son of a cod—or it may be the daughter!!”

But it is by no means all fish that comes to the net, for, as I before said, all the quaintest, and, to you or me, the most interesting sea creatures are thrown away with infinite contempt, when they give a shake and a wriggle, and dive into their beloved depths with all speed, provided they can escape the rapid swoop of rapacious, hungry-eyed gulls, who watch vigilantly over the nets hoping for their share of the spoil.

Their reflections on the tenderness of the lords of the creation are probably highly subversive of discipline in our sea realms; for the fishers are not tender in their handling, and generally administer such a parting blow on the head as ought to kill them, but unfortunately does not do so; so they sink down “through their dim water world” with eyes battered and bruised heads—perhaps, if they are big enough, with a gash from a clip in their side—and all this because they are just what Heaven made them; and enjoy dining off their lesser fellow-creatures just as much as we do ourselves.

One of the foes most hated by the fisher folk, is the dog-fish, with its sharp shark-like teeth and rough skin like coarse sandpaper. It generally gets an extra blow, and wriggles away very sorely and sadly to its rock home. In some of the outermost isles, even this little shark is made available for human food, as it also is in West Cornwall, where the species known as toughhound is made into morghi soup; morghi being an ancient British word meaning sea-dog. (To an old Indian it might be suggestive of chicken-broth!)

Another creature which receives small pity from the fishers is known as the sea-pig. He is armed with sharp prickles down the back, which make him rather an unpleasant customer. Crabs too of all sorts and kinds come in, clinging to their dinner of fine large half-eaten fish, of which they make very short work; and once in the boat, how they do run from side to side, giving each of their companions in misery, a vicious nip as they pass. Then there was a very odd fish, with a huge head and gaping jaws, in wonderful disproportion to his small, lean body. He was like a Brobdingnagian species of the little miller’s thumb of our fresh-water streams; or still more like the sting-fish, which, however, is said only to grow four or five inches long, whereas this creature was fully eighteen.

One queer animal that we occasionally caught was the lumpfish, a hideous, fatty creature, singularly grotesque in form. It is covered all over with rows of hard, rough lumps; and on its under-side is a hard, lumpy mass, whence it derives its name. Its flesh is soft and oily; hence it is esteemed one of the dainties of Greenland, and such cold, oil-loving regions. In this country we resign the delicious morsel to the seals, who are said to be marvellously expert in flaying their rough-skinned prize, just as you would do a fine ripe peach, and swallow it with equal enjoyment. It seems that this fish, in the course of his little life, passes through changes more numerous and quite as remarkable as the development of frog’s spawn into tadpoles and full-grown frogs. When first he escapes from his tiny egg he strongly resembles the said tadpole, with large head and slim body. The next transformation shows him still large-headed and smooth-skinned, and duly provided with fins. In his last stage he becomes the bloated creature I described, with head and fins alike buried in fat, and his whole body covered with coarse, rough tubercles. The fishers call this ludicrous fish a sea-hen; and they firmly believe it to be either the parent or child of the common jelly-fish—a statement which I was not in a position to disprove, so listened with reverence.

I did not then know through what strange and beautiful transformations these exquisite _medusæ_ (sea-butterflies we might call them) pass in the course of their short summer life. How, when the autumn days draw on, and the mother jelly-fish knows that the time has come when she must melt away, and lose herself in ocean-foam, she lays thousands of tiny eggs, each covered with invisible hairs—movable hairs like the spines of the sea-urchin—whereby the little living eggs paddle their way to some safe hiding-places in the crannies of the rock, and there fasten themselves, and wait to see what will happen next. Soon from each egg there grows a tiny stem, and from it spring delicate branches, and every branch is covered with minute cups, edged with little dainty arms—living arms, that float on every side. And when spring changes to summer, each graceful flower-like cup develops a new life, and buds and blossoms, and each fairy blossom proves to be a living rose, a little tiny jelly-fish, with thousands of fringe-like fingers; and the little creature frees itself from the stem, and floats away in the warm summer sea to commence its own life of gladness and independence.

The fishers will tell you of many a strange transformation, if you care to listen. Many of them still believe that the barnacles which cluster on old ships, or any old wood, are really the young of the barnacle goose—a faith by no means confined to the Isles. Even in France this legend of a marine birth has led to this goose being eaten on fast days, though so _foul_ a fish has met with some opposition from ecclesiastical authorities. So late as the twelfth century, we find a great Welsh divine[34] warning the priests of Ireland against such Lenten fare. For though he himself evidently fully believes the fable, he declares that fowl born of fish is no more fit food for fast days, than might be “a leg of Adam,” who was not born of flesh either.

A trace of this curious discovery in natural history is retained in the scientific name which describes the ship barnacle as the _Anatifera_ or goose-bearer. The account of its transformation into a great winged fowl is given most circumstantially by divers old writers, together with minute illustrations of the creature in its various stages. Thus Gerard writes, in 1636: “What our eyes have seen and hands have touched we shall declare.” And he goes on to tell how, on various old timbers cast up by the sea, is found “a certaine froth, which in time breedeth into certaine shells, whence commeth the shape and form of a bird. When it is perfectly formed, the shell gapeth open, and the first thing that appeareth is the aforesaid lace or string; next come the legs of the bird hanging out, and as it groweth greater, it openeth the shell by degrees, till at length it is all come forth, and hangeth only by the bill. In short space after, it cometh to full maturitie, and falleth into the sea, where it gathereth feathers and groweth to a fowle.”

Various other learned ornithologists have left us the most minute description of the gradual development of this long-legged shell-fish, and the growth of its feathers, till it becometh a fowl bigger than a mallard. Even Southey speaks of “The barnacle, a bird breeding upon old ships.” Not content with this simple transition from fish to fowl, divers of our most learned forefathers taught (and the vulgar, of course, believed), that the barnacles themselves were indeed the blossoms of the old wood on which they were found clustering so abundantly. One renowned scholar[35] says: “We find trees in Scotland which produce a fruit enveloped in leaves, and when it drops into the water at a suitable time, it takes life, and is turned into a live bird, which they call a _tree-bird_!” Of this curious tree he gives a faithful picture, with leaves and blossoms, and half-ripe fruit, whence issues forth the head of the young duck, while fully-developed birds swim in the pool below. Another celebrated ornithologist[36] favours us with a yet more elaborate picture of the duck-bearing tree, whereon each fruit is a carefully drawn barnacle, whence newly-hatched ducks fall into the water, and there joyously disport themselves. When such strange fables were gravely discussed by the naturalists of the day, we need scarcely wonder to find traces of the same folly among the ignorant fishers. As to the loose reasoning which admitted this goose to the rank of Lenten fare, it became weaker still in the case of the otter, which was also eaten on the lesser fast days, its flesh being so fishy as to allow room for the quibble.

A quaint trace of the old Celtic belief in some forms of transmigration long lingered in some of these isles, where it was fully believed that those who were drowned, assumed the form of seals, and disported themselves joyously in ocean depths, or else passed onward to “the realm beneath the waves”—a world with an atmosphere like our own, where Vikings, and all brave pirates, sailors, and fisher folk, dwelt in a beautiful world, in pearl and coral caves—a world over which the blue sea arched, as the blue heaven does above this earth; and it was only when a craving for old ocean, or for mother earth, came over these denizens of that mysterious land, that they needed to wear their seal-skin coats to enable them to return to the upper world. Once a month they were allowed to lay aside their seal-skin raiment and, resuming mortal form, might dance and sing all night upon the shore; but, ere the sun rose, they must resume their amphibious character, and plunge once more into the green waves. Strange legends were told of how venturesome mortals had found and stolen the seal-skins as they lay on the rocks, and had thus won back fair wives and friends from their marine bondage. It is thus that the MacPhees of Isle Colonsay are descended from a drowned maiden, whose seal-skin the chief found one day upon a rock. When the weeping damsel came to search for her lost raiment, he shrouded her in his plaid, and rowed her ashore to his castle, when she became his wife. Sometimes, however, the brides thus captured found their seal-skins again among their lords’ treasures, and, having tried them on, could not resist plunging once more into the sea, whence they never returned.

The existence of mermen and mermaids is equally a matter of implicit credence. There are men and women now living on our coasts who believe in these curious compounds as truly as did the Syrians in their mermaid goddess, Derceto, for whose sake they would eat no manner of fishes, but rendered them all homage. We know too in what honour the Phœnician and Assyrian mermen, Dagon and Oannes, were held, both being marvellous combinations of fishes and human beings, and possessing human voices. The Babylonians believed that Oannes came every morning from the sea to the city, where he spent the day teaching men arts sciences, returning every evening to his ocean home. One of his statues was discovered by Layard at Nineveh—a genuine merman deity; not that we need go to such remote ages for well-authenticated mermaid stories. The Dutch chronicles give a minute account of a woman-fish, who, after a fearful storm, in the year 1430, was caught and tamed. She wore a woman’s dress, and was taught to spin. Moreover, she would never pass a crucifix without bowing lowly. It is especially recorded that she received Christian burial. Hence it is inferred that the magistrates of Haarlem had probably had her christened!

The story goes that these maidens and men of the sea possess a magic belt, without which they cease to be amphibious. Any one finding this treasure could keep the owner captive on the dry land for so long as he should please. There is a family now living at Hilton of Cadboll, in the parish of Fern, Easter Ross, who claim descent from a merman, whose belt a human girl had stolen. At Tarbert, in Easter Ross, lives another family, who believe that wind and tempest can never harm their boat; for their father, James Môr (who is still living to tell the tale), once found a mermaid’s belt, and would on no account restore it to her till she promised that none of his family should ever be drowned—a promise which she has faithfully kept.

So the fishers gave me Hebridean views on transmigration; and gave me too bonnie syth and flounders, and fine large crabs, so that “The Gannet”[37] might have a due share of the spoil; though, like a dignified old bird, she had lain still in her place, and refused a scramble for breakfast with all her white-winged fellows.