Poiet.—I begin to be tired. This is really a long day’s journey; and these last ten miles through bogs, with no other view than that of mountains half hid in mists, and brown waters that can hardly be called lakes, and with no other trees than a few stunted birches, that look so little alive, that they might be supposed immediately descended from the bog-wood, every where scattered beneath our feet, have rendered it extremely tedious. This is the most barren part of one of the most desolate countries I have ever passed through in Europe; and though the inn at Strathgarve is tolerable, that of Auchnasheen is certainly the worst I have ever seen,—and I hope the worst I shall ever see. We ought to have good amusement at Pool Ewe, to compensate us for this uncomfortable day’s journey.
Hal.—I trust we shall have sport, as far as salmon and sea trout can furnish sport. But the difficulties of our journey are almost over. See, Loch Maree is stretched at our feet, and a good boat with four oars will carry us in four or five hours to our fishing ground; a time that will not be misspent, for this lake is not devoid of beautiful, and even grand scenery.
Poiet.—The scenery begins to improve; and that cloud-breasted mountain on the left is of the best character of Scotch mountains: these woods, likewise, are respectable for this northern country. I think I see islands also in the distance: and the quantity of cloud always gives effect to this kind of view; and perhaps, without such assistance to the imagination, there would be nothing even approaching to the sublime in these countries; but cloud and mist, by creating obscurity and offering a substitute for greatness and distance, give something of an alpine and majestic character to this region.
Orn.—As we are now fixed in our places in the boat, you will surely put out a rod or two with a set of flies, or try the tail of the par for a large trout or salmon: our fishing will not hinder our progress.
Hal.—In most other lakes I should do so; here I have often tried the experiment, but never with success. This lake is extremely deep, and there are very few fish which haunt it generally except char; and salmon seldom rest but in particular parts along the shore, which we shall not touch. Our voyage will be a picturesque, rather than an angling one. I see we shall have little occasion for the oars, for a strong breeze is rising, and blowing directly down the lake; we shall be in it in a minute. Hoist the sails; On we go!—we shall make our voyage in half the number of hours I had calculated upon; and I hope to catch a salmon in time for dinner.
Poiet.—The scenery improves as we advance nearer the lower parts of the lake. The mountains become higher, and that small island or peninsula presents a bold, craggy outline; and the birch wood below it, and the pines above, form a scene somewhat Alpine in character. But what is that large bird soaring above the pointed rock, towards the end of the lake? Surely it is an eagle!
Hal.—Your are right, it is an eagle, and of a rare and peculiar species—the gray or silver eagle, a noble bird! From the size of the animal, in must be the female; and her aery is in that high rock. I dare say the male is not far off.
Phys.—I think I see another bird, of a smaller size, perched on the rock below, which is similar in form.
Hal.—You do: it is the consort of that beautiful and powerful bird; and I have no doubt their young ones are near at hand.
Poiet.—Look at the bird! How she dashes into the water, falling like a rock, and raising a colume of spray: she has dropped from a great height. And now she rises again into the air: what an extraordinary sight!
Hal.—She is pursuing her prey, and is one of our fraternity,—a catcher of fish. She has missed her quarry this time, and has soared further down towards the river, to fall again from a great height. There! You see her rise with a fish in her talons.
Poiet.—She gives an interest to this scene, which I hardly expected to have found. Pray are there many of these animals in this country?
Hal.—Of this species, I have seen but these two, and I believe the young ones migrate as soon as they can provide for themselves; for this solitary bird requires a large space to move and feed in, and does not allow its offspring to partake its reign, or to live near it. Of other species of the eagle, there are some in different parts of the mountains, particularly of the Osprey, and of the great fishing or brown eagle. I once saw a very fine and interesting sight above one of the Crags of Ben Weevis, near Strathgarve, as I was going, on the 20th of August, in pursuit of black game. Two parent eagles were teaching their offspring—two young birds, the manœuvres of flight. They began by rising from the top of a mountain in the eye of the sun (it was about midday, and bright for this climate). They at first made small circles, and the young birds imitated them; they paused on their wings, waiting till they had made their first flight, and then took a second and larger gyration,—always rising towards the sun, and enlarging their circle of flight so as to make a gradually extending spiral. The young ones still slowly followed, apparently flying better as they mounted; and they continued this sublime kind of exercise, always rising, till they became mere points in the air, and the young ones were lost, and afterwards their parents, to our aching sight. But we have touched the shore, and the lake has terminated: you are now on the river Ewe.
Poiet.—Are we to fish here? It is a broad clear stream, but I see no fish, and cannot think it a good angling river.
Hal.—We are nearly a mile above our fishing station, and we must first see our quarters and provide for our lodging, before we begin our fishing: to the inn we have only a short walk.
Poiet.—Why this inn is a second edition of Auchnasheen.
Hal.—The interior is better than the exterior, thanks to the Laird of Brahan: we shall find one tolerable room and bed; and we must put up our cots and provide our food. What is our store, Mr. Purveyor?
Phys.—I know we have good bread, tea, and sugar. Then there is the quarter of roe-buck presented to us at Gordon Castle; and Ornither has furnished us with a brace of wild ducks, three leash of snipes, and a brace of golden plovers, by his mountain expedition of yesterday; and for fish we depend on you. Yet our host says there are fresh herrings to be had, and small cod-fish, and salmon and trout in any quantity, and the claret and the Ferintosh are safe.
Hal.—Why we shall fare sumptuously. As it is not time yet for shooting grouse, we must divide our spoil for the few days we shall stay here. Yet there are young snipes and plovers on the mountains above, and I have no doubt we might obtain the Laird’s permission to kill a roe-buck in the woods or a hart on the mountains; but this is always an uncertain event, and I advise you, Ornither, to become a fisherman.
Orn.—I shall wait till I see the results of your skill. At all events, in this country I can never want amusement, and I dare say there are plenty of seals at the mouth of the river, and killing them is more useful to other fishermen than catching fish.
Hal.—Let there be a kettle of water with salt ready boiling in an hour, mine host, for the fish we catch or buy; and see that the potatoes are well dressed: the servants will look to the rest of our fare. Now for our rods.
Poiet.—This is a fine river; clear, full, but not too large: with the two handed rod it may be commanded in most parts.
Hal.—It is larger than usual. The strong wind which brought us so quickly down has made it fuller; and it is not in such good order for fishing as it was before the wind rose.
Poiet.—I thought the river was always the better for a flood, when clear.
Hal.—Better after a flood from rain; for this brings the fish up, who know when rain is coming, and likewise brings down food and makes the fish feed. But when the water is raised by a strong wind, the fish never run, as they are sure to find no increase in the spring heads, which are their objects in running.
Poiet.—You give the fish credit for great sagacity.
Hal.—Call it instinct rather; for if they reasoned, they would run with every large water, whether from wind or rain. What the feeling or power is, which makes them travel with rain, I will not pretend to define. But now for our sport.
Poiet.—The fish are beginning to rise; I have seen two here already, and there is a third, and a fourth—scarcely a quarter of a minute elapses without a fish rising in some parts of the pool.
Hal.—As the day is dark, I shall use a bright and rather a large fly with jay’s hackle, kingfisher’s feather under the wing, and golden pheasant’s tail, and wing of mixed grouse and argus pheasant’s tail. I shall throw over these fish: I ought to raise one.
Poiet.—Either you are not skilful, or the fish know their danger: they will not rise.
Hal.—I will try another and a smaller fly.
Poiet.—You do nothing.
Hal.—I have changed my fly a third time, yet no fish rises. I cannot understand this. The water is not in good order, or I should certainly have raised a fish or two. Now I will wager ten to one, that this pool has been fished before to-day.
Orn.—By whom?
Hal.—I know not; but take my wager and we will ascertain.
Orn.—I shall ascertain without the wager if possible. See, a man connected with the fishery advances, let us ask him.—There you see; it has been fished once or twice by one, who claims without charter the right of angling.
Hal.—I told you so. Now I know this, I shall put on another kind of fly, such as I am sure they have not seen this day.
Poiet.—It is very small and very gaudy, I believe made with humming bird’s feathers.
Hal.—No. The brightest Java dove’s hackle; kingfisher’s blue, and golden pheasant’s feathers, and the red feathers of the paroquet. There was a fish that rose and missed the fly—a sea trout. There, he has taken it, a fresh run fish, from his white belly and blue back.
Poiet.—How he springs out of the water! He must be 6 or 7lbs.
Hal.—Under five, I am sure; he will soon be tired. He fights with less spirit: put the net under him. There, he is a fine fed sea trout, between 4 and 5lbs. But our intrusive brother angler (as I must call him) is coming down the river to take his evening cast. A stout Highlander, with a powerful tail,—or, as we should call it in England, suite. He is resolved not to be driven off, and I am not sure that the Laird himself could divert him from his purpose, except by a stronger tail, and force of arms; but I will try my eloquence upon him. “Sir, we hope you will excuse us for fishing in this pool, where it seems you were going to take your cast; but the Laird has desired us to stand in his shoes for a few days, and has given up angling while we are here; and as we come nearly a thousand miles for this amusement, we are sure you are too much of a gentleman to spoil our sport; and we will take care to supply your fish kettle while we are here, morning and evening, and we shall send you, as we hope, a salmon before night.”
Poiet.—He grumbles good sport to us, and is off with his tail: you have hit him in the right place. He is a pot fisher, I am sure, and somewhat hungry, and, provided he gets the salmon, does not care who catches it!
Hal.—You are severe on the Highland gentleman, and I think extremely unjust. Nothing could be more ready than his assent, and a keen fisherman must not be expected to be in the best possible humour, when he finds sport which he believes he has a right to, and which perhaps he generally enjoys without interruption, taken away from him by entire strangers. There is, I know, a disputed point about fishing with the rod, between him and the Laird; and it would have been too much to have anticipated a courteous greeting from one, who considers us as the representatives of an enemy. But I see there is a large fish which has just risen at the tail of the pool. I think he is fresh run from the sea, for the tide is coming in. My fly and tackle are almost too fine for so large a fish, and I will put on my first fly with a very strong single gut link and a stretcher of triple gut. He has taken my fly, and I hold him—a powerful fish: he must be between 10 and 15lbs. He fights well, and tries to get up the rapid at the top of the pool. I must try my strength with him, to keep him off that rock, or he will break me. I have turned him, and he is now in a good part of the pool: such a fish cannot be tired in a minute or two, but requires from ten to twenty, depending upon his activity and strength, and the rapidity of the stream he moves against. He is now playing against the strongest rapid in the river, and will soon give in, should he keep his present place.
Poiet.—You have tired him.
Hal.—He seems fairly tired: I shall bring him in to shore. Now gaff him; strike as near the tail as you can. He is safe; we must prepare him for the pot.—Give him a stunning blow on the head to deprive him of sensation, and then make a transverse cut just below the gills, and crimp him, by cutting to the bone on each side, so as almost to divide him into slices: and now hold him by the tail that he may bleed. There is a small spring, I see, close under that bank, which I dare say has the mean temperature of the atmosphere in this climate, and is much under 50°—place him there, and let him remain for ten minutes; then carry him to the pot, and before you put in a slice let the water and salt boil furiously, and give time to the water to recover its heat before you throw in another; and so proceed with the whole fish: leave the head out, and throw in the thickest pieces first.
Phys.—Why did you not crimp your trout?
Hal.—We will have him fried. Our poacher prevented me from attending to the preparation; but for frying he is better not crimped, as he is not large enough to give good transverse slices.
Poiet.—This salmon is a good fish, and fresh as you said from the sea. You see the salt-water louse adheres to his sides, and he is bright and silvery, and a thick fish; I dare say his weight is not less than 14lbs., and I know of no better fish for the table than one of that size.
Phys.—It appears to me that so powerful a fish ought to have struggled much longer: yet, without great exertions on your part, in ten minutes he appeared quite exhausted, and lay on his side as if dying: this induces me to suppose, that there must be some truth in the vulgar opinion of anglers, that fish are, as it were, drowned by the play of the rod and reel.
Hal.—The vulgar opinion of anglers on this subject I believe to be perfectly correct: though, to apply the word drowning to an animal that lives in the water is not quite a fit use of language. Fish, as you ought to know, respire by passing water, which always holds common air in solution, through their gills or bronchial membrane, by the use of a system of muscles surrounding the fauces, which occasion constant contractions and expansions, or openings and closings of this membrane, and the life of the fish is dependant on the process in the same manner as that of a quadruped is on inspiring and expiring air. When a fish is hooked in the upper part of the mouth by the strength of the rod applied as a lever to the line, it is scarcely possible for him to open the gills as long as this force is exerted, particularly when he is moving in a rapid stream; and when he is hooked in the lower jaw, his mouth is kept closed by the same application of the strength of the rod, so that no aerated water can be inspired. Under these circumstances he is quickly deprived of his vital forces, particularly when he exhausts his strength by moving in a rapid stream. A fish, hooked in a part of the mouth where the force of the rod will render his efforts to respire unavailing, is much in the same state as that of a deer caught round the neck by the lasso of a South American peon, who gallops forwards, dragging his victim after him, which is killed by strangulation in a very short time. When fishes are hooked foul, that is, on the outside of the body, as in the fins or tail, they will often fight for many hours, and in such cases very large salmon are seldom caught, as they retain their powers of breathing unimpaired; and if they do not exhaust themselves by violent muscular efforts, they may bid defiance to the temper and the skill of the fisherman. A large salmon, hooked in the upper part of the mouth in the cartilage or bone, will sometimes likewise fight for a long while, particularly if he keep in the deep and still parts of the river: for he is able to prevent the force of the hook, applied by the rod, from interfering with his respiration, and by a powerful effort, can maintain his place, and continue to breathe in spite of the exertions of the angler. A fish, in such case, is said to be sulky, and his instinct, or his sagacity, generally enables him to conquer his enemy. It is, however, rarely that fishes hooked in the mouth are capable of using freely the muscles subservient to respiration; and their powers are generally, sooner or later, destroyed by suffocation.
Poiet.—The explanation that you have just been giving us of the effects of playing fish, I confess alarms me, and makes me more afraid than I was before, that we are pursuing a very cruel amusement; for death by strangling, I conceive, must be very laborious, slow, and painful.
Phys.—I think as I did before I was an angler, as to the merciless character of field-sports; but I doubt if this part of the process of the fly-fisher ought so strongly to alarm your feelings. As far as analogies from warm-blooded animals can apply to the case, the death that follows obstructed respiration is quick, and preceded by insensibility. There are many instances of persons who have recovered from the apparent death produced by drowning, and had no recollection of any violent or intense agony; indeed, the alarm or passion of fear generally absorbs all the sensibility, and the physical suffering is lost in the mental agitation. I can answer from my own experience, that there is no pain which precedes the insensibility occasioned by breathing gasses unfitted for supporting life, but oftener a pleasurable feeling, as in the case of the respiration of nitrous oxide. And in the suffocation produced by the gradual abstraction of air in a close room where charcoal is burning, we have the record of the son of a celebrated chymist, that the sensation which precedes the deep sleep that ends in death is agreeable. There is far more pain in recovering from the insensibility produced by the abstraction of air than in undergoing it, as I can answer from my own feelings; and it is, I believe, quite true, what has been asserted, that the pain of being born, which is acquiring the power of respiration, is greater than that of dying, which is losing the power.
Orn.—I have heard, that persons, who have been recovered from the insensibility produced by hanging, have never any recollection of the sufferings which preceded it; and as the blood is immediately determined to the head in this operation, probably apoplectic insensibility is almost instantaneous.
There is on record a very remarkable trial respecting the death of an Italian, who was for many years in the habit of being hanged for the purpose of producing the temporary excitement of organs that had lost their power, and who ultimately fell a victim to this depraved and dangerous practice; but I will not dwell upon this case, which is well authenticated, and which is equally revolting to good feelings and delicacy.
Hal.—The laws of nature are all directed by Divine Wisdom for the purpose of preserving life and increasing happiness. Pain seems in all cases to precede the mutilation or destruction of those organs which are essential to vitality, and for the end of preserving them; but the mere process of dying seems to be the falling into a deep slumber; and in animals, who have no fear of death dependent upon imagination, it can hardly be accompanied by very intense suffering. In the human being, moral and intellectual motives constantly operate in enhancing the fear of death, which, without these motives in a reasoning being, would probably become null, and the love of life be lost upon every slight occasion of pain or disgust; but imagination is creative with respect to both these passions, which, if they exist in animals, exist independent of reason, or as instincts. Pain seems intended by an all-wise Providence to prevent the dissolution of organs, and cannot follow their destruction. I know several instances in which the process of death has been observed, even to its termination, by good philosophers; and the instances are worth repeating: Dr. Cullen, when dying, is said to have faintly articulated to one of his intimates, “I wish I had the power of writing or speaking, for then I would describe to you how pleasant a thing it is to die.” Dr. Black, worn out by age and a disposition to pulmonary hemorrhage, which obliged him to live very low, whilst eating his customary meal of bread and milk, fell asleep, and died in so tranquil a manner, that he had not even spilt the contents of the spoon which he held in his hand. And the late Sir Charles Blagden, whilst at a social meal with his friends, Mons. and Mad. Berthollet and Gay-Lussac, died in his chair so quietly, that not a drop of the coffee in the cup which he held in his hand was spilt.
Poiet.—Give us no more such instances, for I do not think it wise to diminish the love of life, or to destroy the fear of death.
Hal.—There is no danger of this. These passions are founded on immutable laws of our nature, which philosophy cannot change; and it would be good if we could give the same security of duration to the love of virtue and the fear of vice or shame, which are connected with immutable interests, and which ought to occupy far more the consideration of beings destined for immortality.—But to our business.
Now we have fish for dinner, my task is finished: Physicus and Poietes, try your skill. I have not fished over the best parts of this pool: you may catch a brace of fish here before dinner is ready.
Phys.—It is too late, and I shall go and see that all is right.
Poiet.—I will take one or two casts; but give me your fly: I like always to be sure that the tackle is taking.
Hal.—Try at first the very top of the pool,—though I fear you will get nothing there; but here is a cast which I think the Highlander can hardly have commanded from the other side, and which is rarely without a good fish. There, he rose: a large trout of 10lbs., or a salmon. Now wait a few minutes. When a fish has missed the fly, he will not rise again till after a pause—particularly if he has been for some time in the fresh water. Now try him again. He has risen, but he is a dark fish that has been some time in the water, and he tries to drown the fly with a blow of his tail. I fear you will not hook him except foul, when most likely he would break you. Try the bottom of the pool, below where I caught my fish.
Poiet.—I have tried all the casts, and nothing rises.
Hal.—Come, we will change the fly for that which I used.
Poiet.—Now I have one: he has taken the fly under water, and I cannot see him.
Hal.—Straighten your line, and we shall soon see him. He is a sea trout, but not a large one.
Poiet.—But he fights like a salmon, and must be near 5lbs.
Hal.—Under 3lbs.; but these fish are always strong and active, and sometimes give more sport than larger fish. Shorten your line, or he will carry you over the stones and cut the link gut. He is there already: you have allowed him to carry out too much line; wind up as quick as you can, and keep a tight hand upon him. He is now back to a good place, and in a few minutes more will be spent. I have the net. There, he is a sea trout of nearly 3lbs. This will be a good addition to our dinner: I will crimp him, that you may compare boiled sea trout with broiled, and with salmon. Now, if you please, we will cool this fish at the spring, and then go to our inn.
Poiet.—If you like. I am endeavouring to find a reason for the effect of crimping and cold in preserving the curd of fish. Have you ever thought on this subject?
Hal.—Yes: I conclude that the fat of salmon between the flakes of the muscles is mixed with much albumen and gelatine, and is extremely liable to decompose, and by keeping it cool, the decomposition is retarded; and by the boiling salt and water, which is of a higher temperature than that of common boiling water, the albumen is coagulated, and the curdiness preserved. The crimping, by preventing the irritability of the fibre from being gradually exhausted, seems to preserve it so hard and crisp, that it breaks under the teeth; and a fresh fish not crimped is generally tough. A friend of mine, an excellent angler, has made some experiments on the fat of fish; and he considers the red colour of trout, salmon, and char, as owing to a peculiar coloured oil, which may be extracted by alcohol; and this accounts for the want of it in fish that have fed ill, and after spawning. In general, the depth of the red colour and the quantity of curd are proportional.
Poiet.—Would not the fish be still better, or at least possess more curd, if caught in a net and killed immediately? In the operation of tiring by the reel there must be considerable muscular exertion, and I should suppose expenditure of oily matter.
Hal.—There can be no doubt but the fish would be in a more perfect state for the table from the nets; yet a fish in high season does not lose so much fat during the short time he is on the hook, as to make much difference; and I am not sure, that the action of crimping after does not give a better sort of crispness to the fibre. This, however, may be fancy; we will discuss the matter again at table. See! our companion on the lake, the eagle, is coming down the river, and has pounced upon a fish in the pool near the sea.
Phys.—I fear he will interfere with our sport: let us request Ornither to shoot him. I wish to see him nearer, and to preserve him as a specimen for the Zoological Society.
Hal.—O! no. He will not spoil our sport; and I think it would be a pity to deprive this spot of one of its poetical ornaments. Besides, the pool where he is now fishing contains scarcely any thing but trout; it is too shallow for salmon, who run into the cruives.
Poiet.—I am of your opinion, and shall use my eloquence to prevent Ornither from attempting the life of so beautiful a bird; so majestic in its form, so well suited to the scenery, and so picturesque in all its habits.
The Innkeeper.—Gentlemen, dinner is ready.
Hal.—Now take your places. What think you of our fish?
Phys.—I never ate better; but I want the Harvey or Reading sauce.
Hal.—Pray let me intreat you to use no other sauce than the water in which he was boiled. I assure you this is the true Epicurean way of eating fresh salmon: and for the trout, use only a little vinegar and mustard,—a sauce à la Tartare, without the onions.
Poiet.—Well, nothing can be better; and I do not think fresh net-caught fish can be superior to these.
Hal.—And these snipes are excellent. Either my journey has given me an appetite, or I think they are the best I ever tasted.
Orn.—They are good, but I have tasted better.
Hal.—Where?
Orn.—On the continent; where the common snipe, that rests during its migration from the north to the south in the marshes of Italy and Carniola, and the double or solitary snipe, become so fat, as to resemble that bird, which was formerly fattened in Lincolnshire, the ruff; and they have, I think, a better flavour from being fed on their natural food.
Hal.—At what time have you eaten them?
Orn.—I have eaten them both in spring and autumn; but the autumnal birds are the best, and are like the ortolan of Italy.
Hal.—Where does the double snipe winter?
Orn.—I believe in Africa and Asia Minor. They are rarely seen in England, except driven by an east wind in the spring, or a strong north wind in the autumn. Their natural progress is to and from Finland and Siberia, through the continent of Europe, to and from the east and south.[5] In autumn they pass more east, both because they are aided by west winds, and because the marshes in the east of Europe are wetter in that season; and in spring they return, but the larger proportion through Italy, where they are carried by the Sirocco, and which at that time is extremely wet. Come, let us have another bottle of claret: a pint per man is not too much after such a day’s fatigue.
Hal.—You have made me president for these four days, and I forbid it. A half pint of wine for young men in perfect health is enough, and you will be able to take your exercise better, and feel better for this abstinence. How few people calculate upon the effects of constantly renewed fever, in our luxurious system of living in England! The heart is made to act too powerfully, the blood is thrown upon the nobler parts, and, with the system of wading adopted by some sportsmen, whether in shooting or fishing, is delivered either to the hemorrhoidal veins, or, what is worse, to the head. I have known several free livers, who have terminated their lives by apoplexy, or have been rendered miserable by palsy, in consequence of the joint effects of cold feet and too stimulating a diet; that is to say, as much animal food as they could eat, with a pint or perhaps a bottle of wine per day. Be guided by me, my friends, and neither drink nor wade. I know there are old men who have done both, and have enjoyed perfect health; but these are devil’s decoys to the unwary, and ten suffer for one that escapes. I could quote to you an instance from this very county, in one of the strongest men I have ever known. He was not intemperate, but he lived luxuriously, and waded as a salmon fisher for many years in this very river; but before he was fifty, palsy deprived him of the use of his limbs, and he is still a living example of the danger of the system which you are ambitious of adopting.
Orn.—Well, I give up the wine, but I intend to wade in Hancock’s boots to-morrow.
Hal.—Wear them, but do not wade in them. The feet must become cold in a stream of water constantly passing over the caoutchouc and leather, notwithstanding the thick stockings. They are good for keeping the feet warm, and I think where there is exercise, as in snipe shooting, they may be used without any bad effects. But I advise no one to stand still (which an angler must do sometimes) in the water, even with these ingenious water-proof inventions. All anglers should remember old Boerhaave’s maxims of health, and act upon them: “Keep the feet warm, the head cool, and the body open.”
Phys.—I am sorry we did not examine more minutely the weight and size of the fish we caught, and compare the anatomy of the salmon and the sea trout; but we were in too great a hurry to see them on the table, and our philosophy yielded to our hunger.
Hal.—We shall have plenty of opportunities for this examination; and we can now walk down to the fishing-house and see probably half a hundred fish of different sizes, that have been taken in the cruives, this evening, and examine them at our leisure.
All.—Let us go!
Phys.—I never saw so many fish of this kind before; and I conclude that heap of smaller fish is composed of trout.
Hal.—Certainly. Let us compare one of the largest trout with a salmon. I have selected two fresh run fish, which, from their curved lower jaws, are, I conclude, both males. The salmon you see is broader, has a tail rather more forked, and the teeth in proportion are rather smaller. The trout, likewise, has larger and more black brown spots on the body; and the head of the trout is a little larger in proportion. The salmon has 14 spines in the pectoral fins, 10 in each of the ventral, 13 in the anal, 21 in the caudal, and 15 in the dorsal. The salmon measures 38½ inches in length and 21 inches in girth, and his weight, as you see, is 22¼lbs. The trout has one spine less in the pectoral, and two less in the anal fin, and measures 30¼ inches in length, and 16 inches in girth, and his weight is 11lbs. We will now open them. The stomach of the salmon, you perceive, contains nothing but a little yellow fluid, and, though the salmon is twice as large, does not exceed much in size that of the trout. The stomach of the trout, unlike that of the salmon, will be found full of food: we will open it. See, there are half digested sand eels which come out of it.
Phys.—But surely the stomachs of salmon must sometimes, when opened, contain food?
Hal.—I have opened ten or twelve, and never found any thing in their stomachs but tape-worms, bred there, and some yellow fluid; but, I believe, this is generally owing to their being caught at the time of migration, when they are travelling from the sea upwards, and do not willingly load themselves with food. Their digestion appears to be very quick, and their habits seem to show, that after having taken a bait in the river they do not usually seek another, till the work of digestion is nearly performed: but when they are taken at sea, and in rivers in the winter, food, I am told, is sometimes found in their stomachs. The sea trout is a much more voracious fish, and, like the land trout, is not willingly found with an empty stomach.
Phys.—I presume the sea trout is the fish called by Linnæus, in his Fauna, Salmo Eriox?
Hal.—I know not: but I should rather think that fish a variety of the common salmon.
Phys.—But there are surely other species of salmon, that live in the sea and come into our rivers: I have heard of fish called grays, bull trout, scurfs, morts, peales, and whitlings.
Hal.—I have never been able to identify more than the salmo salar, or salmon, and salmo trutta, or sea trout, in the rivers of Britain and Ireland. The whitlings I believe to be the young of the sea trout. A sea trout which I saw in Ireland, called a bull trout, was of the same kind as these you see here, but fresh water trout are sometimes carried in floods to the sea, and come back larger and altered in colour and form, and are then mistaken for new species: and as each river possesses a peculiar variety belonging to it, this, with differences depending upon food and size, will, I think, account for the peculiarities of particular fish, without the necessity of supposing them distinct species. I remember many years ago, the first time I ever fished for salmon in spring in the Tweed, I caught with the fly, one fine morning in March, two fish nearly of the same length: one was a male of the last season, that had lost its melt; the other a female fresh from the sea. They were so unlike, that they did not appear of the same species: the spent or kipper salmon was long and lean, showing an immense head, spotted all over with black and brown spots, and the belly almost black; the other bright and silvery, without spots, and the head small. Even the pectoral and anal fins had more spines in the newly run fish, some of the smaller ones having been probably rubbed off in spawning by the other. I would not for some time, till assured by an experienced fisherman, believe, that the spent fish was a salmon; and when their flesh was compared on the table, one was white, flabby, and bad, and without curd; the other of the brightest pink, and full of dense curd. Then, though of the same length, one weighed only 4lbs., the other 9½lbs. When it is recollected, that different salmon and sea trout spawn at different times in the same river, and that fish of the same year, being born at different seasons, from Christmas to Lady-day,—and having migrated to the sea in spring—run up the rivers of all sizes in summer and autumn—the young salmon from 2 to 10lbs. in weight, the young sea trout from ½ to 3lbs. in weight—it is not difficult to account for the variety of names given by casual observers to individuals of these two species. But I must not forget my promise of sending a fish to the Highlander, with whose sport we have interfered. There is a good salmon, which shall be taken to him immediately, and for which I shall pay the taxman his usual price of 5d. per pound.