Pg. 609

¶ 1 Leave a comment on paragraph 1 0 Charles Dickens.] THE LIFE OF A SALMON. 609

¶ 2 Leave a comment on paragraph 2 0 the drawing on Saturday morning and the opening of the traps that night, are turned into a special little dungeon, railed off on one side, there to pass their Sunday. For all others, the way is completely clear from Saturday night to six o’clock on Monday morning. Whether our young fish went up by the Queen’s Gap, or on the Sunday, it got through, and without knowing anything of the perils it had escaped. How sweet the lapse of the fresh waters was, after the inces­sant roll and crash of the surge on the iron-bound coast of the Atlantic; how the autumnal woods contrasted with the black basaltic precipices above the main; how the wildflowers on the banks appeared after so many miles of tangled and floating seaweeds; which looked best, the little column of blue peat-smoke from the peasant’s cabin under the woods, or the brown smoke-clouds from the kelp-fires in the stony amphitheatres of the coast?—which was the most loveable, the swallow skimming the meadows, and brushing the blue waters with the tip of its wing, or the red-legged crow throwing the drops about in the little salt-pools in the rock, poking its red bill into salt crevices; or, again, the cormorant perched on its solitary basaltic pillar amidst the translucent green waters: now rearing its head to survey the whole land and sea, and then intent once more on its fishing? Which of these varieties may be most charming to a salmon, we will not undertake to decide. We only assert that the salmon has the opportunity of judging, as it lives and moves among them all.

¶ 3 Leave a comment on paragraph 3 1 Having found the tranquil cove it hoped for, and deposited its spawn where itself first began to move in the universe; having done that great duty of the year, and somewhat replenished its strength with alternate repose under the banks, and pleasure excursions among the windings and inlets of the great river, the salmon set about its descent. There was no fear of molestation now. The descending salmon are too poor in flesh and condition to be a desirable prize. So, once more, in the midst of spring, it found itself again with its comrades in the deep. Perhaps it is because the eastern coast is somewhat too sombre, that our fish now turns its head westward. Ah! there are perils there, too. Wherever there is a cluster of black rocks near the shore, and therefore in the path of the salmon, there may the white cottage of the fisherman be seen, niched into some recess. There may one great net be drying on poles or gibbet on the rocks, while the buoy out yonder, and the line of corks, show where the other is. Everywhere in the path of salmon, may the drawing of the net on Saturdays be seen, from May Day till the 20th of August. But it is certainly only by experience, if even so, that our young salmon, or any young salmon, can learn how dangerous the path of life is, through its whole course. So, on it went, merrily, in its first cruise along that cheerful shore; past the arches of limestone through which the railway is to run; past that won­drous verdant slope, from the white beach up and up for 1000 feet to the crest of rocks which crown the Coleraine heights; that slope where frost and snow and blight and tempest never come; where fairies resorted to their very latest day, as everybody remem­bers; where miles of trailing roses, and blue bells and periwinkles and heaths, with sweet berries enough to feed the whole fairy race, might tempt them back to their flowery tents, if the myriads of rabbits were not too formidable, and if, alas! the fairies were not dead, cold, and gone; where the few dwellings peep out from thickets of blossoms, and gardens are so many little wildernesses of sweets; where turfy paths girdle the steeps, that watchers may sit on a heather cushion, and look out for the silvery spangling of the sea where the salmon are at play;—by this cheerful shore went our young fish ; and it swept by the turning of the great plain which spreads from those heights to Lough Foyle; and into Lough Foyle it went, and up and down in it—up to where old Derry stands on its hill; and where on a high pillar stands her hero-pastor, Walker, with the Bible in one hand, while the other points to the Lough where the ships are passing the boom, and bringing food to the starving citizens to whose fortitude Queen Victoria owes her crown. Up to the woods near the town, and down and away among the labyrinth of stake- nets, roves our young salmon; but not to stay, for it is a salmon of the Bann, and there­fore without any intention of becoming an immigrant of Lough Foyle. As a salmon of the Bann, it will live and die.

¶ 4 Leave a comment on paragraph 4 0 And when and how did the dying happen? As to the when, there is no saying. How should there be, while salmon are so resolute against telling their ages? Whether our fish made many voyages or few, whether years or generations passed, whether watchers, poachers, and lessees remained the same, or were superannuated and buried away, while our salmon’s eye was still clear, and its flesh firm and flaky, and its scales brilliant and flexible,—its day of doom came at last. The victim came up the Bann—not on a Sunday; and it entered the wrong gap. Neither was it on a Saturday that it came; for it certainly did not pine and waste in a state of panic during a long Sabbath day. It was spared that. Its pain was short. One wild attempt to leap—one frantic rush round the place— and it was fished out, and presently flapped its last in the scale where its value was sure to be duly estimated. For its shroud, it had ample folds of the purest powdered ice, gathered in far lands, by foreign hands, for the purpose. Its burial service was the grace said by the chaplain of a great London company; and its tomb was one which was not devoid of outward ornament of some richness—since over it was hung a massive