“Na; it's the thing on the hill that makes signals.” “Telegraph, ye fulish goloshen!” “Oo ay, telegraph! Geraffe 's sunest said for a'.” Thus Jess Rutherford's life came into Christie Johnstone's hands. She told it to a knot of natives next day; it lost nothing, for she was a woman of feeling, and by intuition an artist of the tongue. She was the best _raconteur_ in a place where there are a hundred, male and female, who attempt that art. The next day she told it again, and then inferior narrators got hold of it, and it soon circulated through the town. And this was the cause of the sudden sympathy with Jess Rutherford. As our prigs would say: “Art had adopted her cause and adorned her tale.” CHAPTER V. THE fishing village of Newhaven is an unique place; it is a colony that retains distinct features; the people seldom intermarry with their Scotch neighbors. Some say the colony is Dutch, some Danish, some Flemish. The character and cleanliness of their female costume points rather to the latter. Fish, like horse-flesh, corrupts the mind and manners. After a certain age, the Newhaven fishwife is always a blackguard, and ugly; but among the younger specimens, who have not traded too much, or come into much contact with larger towns, a charming modesty, or else slyness (such as no man can distinguish from it, so it answers every purpose), is to be found, combined with rare grace and beauty. It is a race of women that the northern sun peachifies instead of rosewoodizing. On Sundays the majority sacrifice appearance to fashion; these turn out rainbows of silk, satin and lace. In the week they were all grace, and no stays; now they seem all stays and no grace. They never look so ill as when they change their “costume” for “dress.” The men are smart fishermen, distinguished from the other fishermen of the Firth chiefly by their “dredging song.” This old song is money to them; thus: Dredging is practically very stiff rowing for ten hours. Now both the Newhaven men and their rivals are agreed that this song lifts them through more work than untuned fishermen can manage. I have heard the song, and seen the work done to it; and incline to think it helps the oar, not only by keeping the time true, and the spirit alive, but also by its favorable action on the lungs. It is sung in a peculiar way; the sound is, as it were, expelled from the chest in a sort of musical ejaculations; and the like, we know, was done by the ancient gymnasts; and is done by the French bakers, in lifting their enormous dough, and by our paviors. The song, in itself, does not contain above seventy stock verses, but these perennial lines are a nucleus, round which the men improvise the topics of the day, giving, I know not for what reason, the preference to such as verge upon indelicacy. The men and women are musical and narrative; three out of four can sing a song or tell a story, and they omit few opportunities.