the opposite side. Some of these are wide, lofty, and well-lighted from
without. We walk in and out and around them, as if in great, irregular,
Gothic halls. Some are narrow and dark. Now, we crawl into them on hands
and knees; now, we wriggle onward a few feet, serpent-like, flat on our
bellies; now, we are suddenly able to stand upright in pitch darkness,
hearing faint moaning sounds of pent-up winds, when we are silent, and
long reverberations of our own voices, when we speak. Then, as we turn
and crawl out again, we soon see before us one bright speck of light
that may be fancied miles and miles away--a star shining in the earth--a
diamond sparkling in the bosom of the rock. This guides us out again
pleasantly; and, on gaining the open air, we find that while we have
been groping in the darkness, a change has been taking place in the
regions of light, which has altered and is still altering the aspect of
the whole scene.
It is now two o'clock. The tide is rising fast; the sea dashes, in
higher and higher waves, on the narrowing beach. Rain and mist are both
gone. Overhead, the clouds are falling asunder in every direction,
assuming strange momentary shapes, quaint airy resemblances of the forms
of the great rocks among which we stand. Height after height along the
distant cliffs dawns on us gently; great golden rays shoot down over
them; far out on the ocean, the waters flash into a streak of fire; the
sails of ships passing there, glitter bright; yet a moment more, and the
glorious sunlight bursts out over the whole view. The sea changes soon
from dull grey to bright blue, embroidered thickly with golden specks,
as it rolls and rushes and dances in the wind. The sand at our feet
grows brighter and purer to the eye; the sea-birds flying and swooping
above us, look like flashes of white light against the blue firmament;
and, most beautiful of all, the wet serpentine rocks now shine forth in
full splendour beneath the sun; every one of their exquisite varieties
of colour becomes plainly visible--silver grey and bright yellow, dark
red, deep brown, and malachite green appear, here combined in thin
intertwined streaks, there outspread in separate irregular
patches--glorious ornaments of the sea-shore, fashioned by no human
art!--Nature's own home-made jewellery, which the wear of centuries has
failed to tarnish, and the rage of tempests has been powerless to
destroy!
But the hour wanes while we stand and admire; the surf dashes nearer and
nearer to our feet; soon, the sea will cover the sand, and rush swiftly
into the caves where we have slowly crawled. Already the Devil's Bellows
is at work--the jets of spray spout forth from it with a roar. The sea
thunders louder and louder in the Devil's Throat--we must gain the
cliffs while we have yet time. The guide takes his leave; my companion
unwillingly closes his sketch-book; and we slowly ascend on our inland
way together--looking back often and often, with no feigned regret, on
all that we are leaving behind us at KYNANCE COVE.
VII.
THE PILCHARD FISHERY.
If it so happened that a stranger in Cornwall went out to take his first
walk along the cliffs towards the south of the county, in the month of
August, that stranger could not advance far in any direction without
witnessing what would strike him as a very singular and alarming
phenomenon.
He would see a man standing on the extreme edge of a precipice, just
over the sea, gesticulating in a very remarkable manner, with a bush in
his hand; waving it to the right and the left, brandishing it over his
head, sweeping it past his feet--in short, apparently acting the part of
a maniac of the most dangerous character. It would add considerably to
the startling effect of this sight on the stranger, if he were told,
while beholding it, that the insane individual before him was paid for
flourishing the bush at the rate of a guinea a week. And if he,
thereupon, advanced a little to obtain a nearer view of the madman, and
then observed on the sea below (as he certainly might) a well-manned
boat, turning carefully to right and left exactly as the bush turned
right and left, his mystification would probably be complete, and the
right time would arrive to come to his rescue with a few charitable
explanatory words. He would then learn that the man with the bush was an
important agent in the Pilchard Fishery of Cornwall; that he had just
discovered a shoal of pilchards swimming towards the land; and that the
men in the boat were guided by his gesticulations alone, in securing the
fish on which they and all their countrymen on the coast depend for a
livelihood.
To begin, however, with the pilchards themselves, as forming one of the
staple commercial commodities of Cornwall. They may be, perhaps, best
described as bearing a very close resemblance to the herring, but as
being rather smaller in size and having larger scales. Where they come
from before they visit the Cornish coast--where those that escape the
fishermen go to when they quit it, is unknown; or, at best, only vaguely
conjectured. All that is certain about them is, that they are met with,
swimming past the Scilly Isles, as early as July (when they are caught
with a drift-net). They then advance inland in August, during which
month the principal, or "in-shore," fishing begins; visit different
parts of the coast until October or November; and after that disappear
until the next year. They may be sometimes caught off the south-west
part of Devonshire, and are occasionally to be met with near the
southernmost coast of Ireland; but beyond these two points they are
never seen on any other portion of the shores of Great Britain, either
before they approach Cornwall, or after they have left it.
The first sight from the cliffs of a shoal of pilchards advancing
towards the land, is not a little interesting. They produce on the sea
the appearance of the shadow of a dark cloud. This shadow comes on and
on, until you can see the fish leaping and playing on the surface by
thousands at a time, all huddled close together, and all approaching so
near to the shore, that they can be always caught in some fifty or sixty
feet of water. Indeed, on certain occasions, when the shoals are of
considerable magnitude, the fish behind have been known to force the
fish before, literally up to the beach, so that they could be taken in
buckets, or even in the hand with the greatest ease. It is said that
they are thus impelled to approach the land by precisely the same
necessity which impels the fishermen to catch them as they appear--the
necessity of getting food.
With the discovery of the first shoal, the active duties of the
"look-out" on the cliffs begin. Each fishing-village places one or more
of these men on the watch all round the coast. They are called "huers,"
a word said to be derived from the old French verb, _huer_, to call out,
to give an alarm. On the vigilance and skill of the "huer" much depends.
He is, therefore, not only paid his guinea a week while he is on the
watch, but receives, besides, a perquisite in the shape of a per-centage
on the produce of all the fish taken under his auspices. He is placed at
his post, where he can command an uninterrupted view of the sea, some
days before the pilchards are expected to appear; and, at the same time,
boats, nets, and men are all ready for action at a moment's notice.
The principal boat used is at least fifteen tons in burden, and carries
a large net called the "seine," which measures a hundred and ninety
fathoms in length, and costs a hundred and seventy pounds--sometimes
more. It is simply one long strip, from eleven to thirteen fathoms in
breadth, composed of very small meshes, and furnished, all along its
length, with lead at one side and corks at the other. The men who cast
this net are called the "shooters," and receive eleven shillings and
sixpence a week, and a perquisite of one basket of fish each out of
every haul.
As soon as the "huer" discerns the first appearance of a shoal, he waves
his bush. The signal is conveyed to the beach immediately by men and
boys watching near him. The "seine" boat (accompanied by another small
boat, to assist in casting the net) is rowed out where he can see it.
Then there is a pause, a hush of great expectation on all sides.
Meanwhile, the devoted pilchards press on--a compact mass of thousands
on thousands of fish, swimming to meet their doom. All eyes are fixed on
the "huer;" he stands watchful and still, until the shoal is thoroughly
embayed, in water which he knows to be within the depth of the "seine"
net. Then, as the fish begin to pause in their progress, and gradually
crowd closer and closer together, he gives the signal; the boats come
up, and the "seine" net is cast, or, in the technical phrase "shot,"
overboard.
The grand object is now to enclose the entire shoal. The leads sink one
end of the net perpendicularly to the ground; the corks buoy up the
other to the surface of the water. When it has been taken all round the
fish, the two extremities are made fast, and the shoal is then
imprisoned within an oblong barrier of network surrounding it on all
sides. The great art is to let as few of the pilchards escape as
possible, while this process is being completed. Whenever the "huer"
observes from above that they are startled, and are separating at any
particular point, to that point he waves his bush, thither the boats are
steered, and there the net is "shot" at once. In whatever direction the
fish attempt to get out to sea again, they are thus immediately met and
thwarted with extraordinary readiness and skill. This labour completed,
the silence of intense expectation that has hitherto prevailed among the
spectators on the cliff, is broken. There is a great shout of joy on all
sides--the shoal is secured!
The "seine'" is now regarded as a great reservoir of fish. It may remain
in the water a week or more. To secure it against being moved from its
position in case a gale should come on, it is warped by two or three
ropes to points of land in the cliff, and is, at the same time,
contracted in circuit, by its opposite ends being brought together, and
fastened tight over a length of several feet. While these operations are
in course of performance, another boat, another set of men, and another
net (different in form from the "seine") are approaching the scene of
action.
This new net is called the "tuck;" it is smaller than the "seine,"
inside which it is now to be let down for the purpose of bringing the
fish closely collected to the surface. The men who manage this net are
termed "regular seiners." They receive ten shillings a week, and the
same perquisite as the "shooters." Their boat is first of all rowed
inside the seine-net, and laid close to the seine-boat, which remains
stationary outside, and to the bows of which one rope at one end of the
"tuck-net" is fastened. The "tuck" boat then slowly makes the inner
circuit of the "seine," the smaller net being dropped overboard as she
goes, and attached at intervals to the larger. To prevent the fish from
getting between the two nets during this operation, they are frightened
into the middle of the enclosure by beating the water, at proper places,
with oars, and heavy stones fastened to ropes. When the "tuck" net has
at length travelled round the whole circle of the "seine," and is
securely fastened to the "seine" boat, at the end as it was at the
beginning, everything is ready for the great event of the day, the
hauling of the fish to the surface.
Now, the scene on shore and sea rises to a prodigious pitch of
excitement. The merchants, to whom the boats and nets belong, and by
whom the men are employed, join the "huer" on the cliff; all their
friends follow them; boys shout, dogs bark madly; every little boat in
the place puts off, crammed with idle spectators; old men and women
hobble down to the beach to wait for the news. The noise, the bustle,
and the agitation, increase every moment. Soon the shrill cheering of
the boys is joined by the deep voices of the "seiners." There they
stand, six or eight stalwart sunburnt fellows, ranged in a row in the
"seine" boat, hauling with all their might at the "tuck" net, and
roaring the regular nautical "Yo-heave-ho!" in chorus! Higher and higher
rises the net, louder and louder shout the boys and the idlers. The
merchant forgets his dignity, and joins them; the "huer," so calm and
collected hitherto, loses his self-possession and waves his cap
triumphantly; even you and I, reader, uninitiated spectators though we
are, catch the infection, and cheer away with the rest, as if our bread
depended on the event of the next few minutes. "Hooray! hooray! Yo-hoy,
hoy, hoy! Pull away, boys! Up she comes! Here they are! Here they are!"
The water boils and eddies; the "tuck" net rises to the surface, and one
teeming, convulsed mass of shining, glancing, silvery scales; one
compact crowd of tens of thousands of fish, each one of which is madly
endeavouring to escape, appears in an instant!
The noise before was as nothing compared with the noise now. Boats as
large as barges are pulled up in hot haste all round the net; baskets
are produced by dozens: the fish are dipped up in them, and shot out,
like coals out of a sack, into the boats. Ere long, the men are up to
their ankles in pilchards; they jump upon the rowing benches and work
on, until the boats are filled with fish as full as they can hold, and
the gunwales are within two or three inches of the water. Even yet, the
shoal is not exhausted; the "tuck" net must be let down again and left
ready for a fresh haul, while the boats are slowly propelled to the
shore, where we must join them without delay.
As soon as the fish are brought to land, one set of men, bearing
capacious wooden shovels, jump in among them; and another set bring
large hand-barrows close to the side of the boat, into which the
pilchards are thrown with amazing rapidity. This operation proceeds
without ceasing for a moment. As soon as one barrow is ready to be
carried to the salting-house, another is waiting to be filled. When this
labour is performed by night, which is often the case, the scene becomes
doubly picturesque. The men with the shovels, standing up to their knees
in pilchards, working energetically; the crowd stretching down from the
salting-house, across the beach, and hemming in the boat all round; the
uninterrupted succession of men hurrying backwards and forwards with
their barrows, through a narrow way kept clear for them in the throng;
the glare of the lanterns giving light to the workmen, and throwing red
flashes on the fish as they fly incessantly from the shovels over the
side of the boat--all combine together to produce such a series of
striking contrasts, such a moving picture of bustle and animation, as
not even the most careless of spectators could ever forget.
Having watched the progress of affairs on the shore, we next proceed to
the salting-house, a quadrangular structure of granite, well-roofed in
all round the sides, but open to the sky in the middle. Here, we must
prepare ourselves to be bewildered by incessant confusion and noise; for
here are assembled all the women and girls in the district, piling up
the pilchards on layers of salt, at three-pence an hour; to which
remuneration, a glass of brandy and a piece of bread and cheese are
hospitably added at every sixth hour, by way of refreshment. It is a
service of some little hazard to enter this place at all. There are men
rushing out with empty barrows, and men rushing in with full barrows, in
almost perpetual succession. However, while we are waiting for an
opportunity to slip through the doorway, we may amuse ourselves by
watching a very curious ceremony which is constantly in course of
performance outside it.
As the filled barrows are going into the salting-house, we observe a
little urchin running by the side of them, and hitting their edges with
a long cane, in a constant succession of smart strokes, until they are
fairly carried through the gate, when he quickly returns to perform the
same office for the next series that arrive. The object of this
apparently unaccountable proceeding is soon practically illustrated by a
group of children, hovering about the entrance of the salting-house, who
every now and then dash resolutely up to the barrows, and endeavour to
seize on as many fish as they can take away at one snatch. It is
understood to be their privilege to keep as many pilchards as they can
get in this way by their dexterity, in spite of a liberal allowance of
strokes aimed at their hands; and their adroitness richly deserves its
reward. Vainly does the boy officially entrusted with the administration
of the cane, strike the sides of the barrow with malignant smartness and
perseverance--fish are snatched away with lightning rapidity and
pickpocket neatness of hand. The hardest rap over the knuckles fails to
daunt the sturdy little assailants. Howling with pain, they dash up to
the next barrow that passes them, with unimpaired resolution; and often
collect their ten or a dozen fish a piece, in an hour or two. No
description can do justice to the "Jack-in-Office" importance of the boy
with the cane, as he flourishes it about ferociously in the full
enjoyment of his vested right to castigate his companions as often as he
can. As an instance of the early development of the tyrannic tendencies
of human nature, it is, in a philosophical point of view, quite unique.
But now, while we have a chance, while the doorway is accidentally clear
for a few moments, let us enter the salting-house, and approach the
noisiest and most amusing of all the scenes which the pilchard fishery
presents. First of all we pass a great heap of fish lying in one recess
inside the door, and an equally great heap of coarse, brownish salt
lying in another. Then we advance farther, get out of the way of
everybody, behind a pillar, and see a whole congregation of the fair sex
screaming, talking, and--to their honour be it spoken--working at the
same time, round a compact mass of pilchards which their nimble hands
have already built up to a height of three feet, a breadth of more than
four, and a length of twenty. Here we have every variety of the "fairer
half of creation" displayed before us, ranged round an odoriferous heap
of salted fish. Here we see crones of sixty and girls of sixteen; the
ugly and the lean, the comely and the plump; the sour-tempered and the
sweet--all squabbling, singing, jesting, lamenting, and shrieking at the
very top of their very shrill voices for "more fish," and "more salt;"
both of which are brought from the stores, in small buckets, by a long
train of children running backwards and forwards with unceasing activity
and in bewildering confusion. But, universal as the uproar is, the work
never flags; the hands move as fast as the tongues; there may be no
silence and no discipline, but there is also no idleness and no delay.
Never was three-pence an hour more joyously or more fairly earned than
it is here!
The labour is thus performed. After the stone floor has been swept
clean, a thin layer of salt is spread on it, and covered with pilchards
laid partly edgewise, and close together. Then another layer of salt,
smoothed fine with the palm of the hand, is laid over the pilchards; and
then more pilchards are placed upon that; and so on until the heap rises
to four feet or more. Nothing can exceed the ease, quickness, and
regularity with which this is done. Each woman works on her own small
area, without reference to her neighbour; a bucketful of salt and a
bucketful of fish being shot out in two little piles under her hands,
for her own especial use. All proceed in their labour, however, with
such equal diligence and equal skill, that no irregularities appear in
the various layers when they are finished--they run as straight and
smooth from one end to the other, as if they were constructed by
machinery. The heap, when completed, looks like a long, solid,
neatly-made mass of dirty salt; nothing being now seen of the pilchards
but the extreme tips of their noses or tails, just peeping out in rows,
up the sides of the pile.
Having now inspected the progress of the pilchard fishery, from the
catching to the curing, we have seen all that we can personally observe
of its different processes, at one opportunity. What more remains to be
done, will not be completed until after an interval of several weeks. We
must be content to hear about this from information given to us by
others. Yonder, sitting against the outside wall of the salting-house,
is an intelligent old man, too infirm now to do more than take care of
the baby that he holds in his arms, while the baby's mother is earning
her three-pence an hour inside. To this ancient we will address all our
inquiries; and he is well qualified to answer us, for the poor old
fellow has worked away all the pith and marrow of his life in the
pilchard fishery.
The fish--as we learn from our old friend, who is mightily pleased to be
asked for information--will remain in salt, or, as the technical
expression is, "in bulk," for five or six weeks. During this period, a
quantity of oil, salt, and water drips from them into wells cut in the
centre of the stone floor on which they are placed. After the oil has
been collected and clarified, it will sell for enough to pay off the
whole expense of the wages, food, and drink given to the
"seiners"--perhaps defraying other incidental charges besides. The salt
and water left behind, and offal of all sorts found with it, furnish a
valuable manure. Nothing in the pilchard itself, or in connexion with
the pilchard, runs to waste--the precious little fish is a treasure in
every part of him.
After the pilchards have been taken out of "bulk," they are washed clean
in salt water, and packed in hogsheads, which are then sent for
exportation to some large sea-port--Penzance for instance--in coast
traders. The fish reserved for use in Cornwall, are generally cured by
those who purchase them. The export trade is confined to the shores of
the Mediterranean--Italy and Spain providing the two great foreign
markets for pilchards. The home consumption, as regards Great Britain,
is nothing, or next to nothing. Some variation takes place in the prices
realized by the foreign trade--their average, wholesale, is stated to be
about fifty shillings per hogshead.
As an investment for money, on a small scale, the pilchard fishery
offers the first great advantage of security. The only outlay necessary,
is that for providing boats and nets, and for building salting-houses--an
outlay which, it is calculated, may be covered by a thousand pounds. The
profits resulting from the speculation are immediate and large.
Transactions are managed on the ready money principle, and the markets of
Italy and Spain (where pilchards are considered a great delicacy) are
always open to any supply. The fluctuation between a good season's
fishing and a bad season's fishing is rarely, if ever, seriously great.
Accidents happen but seldom; the casualty most dreaded, being the
enclosure of a large fish along with a shoal of pilchards. A "ling," for
instance, if unfortunately imprisoned in the seine, often bursts through
its thin meshes, after luxuriously gorging himself with prey, and is of
course at once followed out of the breach by all the pilchards. Then, not
only is the shoal lost, but the net is seriously damaged, and must be
tediously and expensively repaired. Such an accident as this, however,
very seldom happens; and when it does, the loss occasioned falls on those
best able to bear it, the merchant speculators. The work and wages of the
fishermen go on as usual.
Some idea of the almost incalculable multitude of pilchards caught on
the shores of Cornwall, may be formed from the following _data_. At the
small fishing cove of Trereen, 600 hogsheads were taken in little more
than one week, during August, 1850. Allowing 2,400 fish only to each
hogshead--3,000 would be the highest calculation--we have a result of
1,440,000 pilchards, caught by the inhabitants of one little village
alone, on the Cornish coast, at the commencement of the season's
fishing.