All along the quay at which we landed I noticed hundreds of fishwives dealing in their finny wares. The fish were as various in size and kind as the women who sold them were in appearance and manner. Most of these humble fish-dealers were of uncertain age, and of very uncertain appearance and cleanliness; but I recall several that were extremely pretty in a wild rustic way that was set off charmingly by their picturesque dresses. I secured a picture of one — the Queen of the Quay — who had dark, laughing eyes, a smile that would have made her fortune on the stage, and a manner full of
chic and
bonhomie. She wore over her head a handkerchief of soft white material picked out with scarlet spots, and loosely knotted under her chin; beneath a tiny shawl of rich brown, decorated with spangles of gilt, she wore a tight-fitting bodice of tender pink; her skirt was a bright green, trimmed down the side with gold braid and at the bottom encircled with rows of black braid. On her bare feet were wooden clogs, and her bare arms and hands were evidently subjects of personal vanity, as she kept them constantly on the move. She made a pretty contrast to some of her neighbours, and was more constantly surrounded by customers than any of the rest, the members of the sterner sex predominating.
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