French colour, went to Lyons for the purpose of improving his process,
and bargained with the most celebrated manufacturer in that capital for
the acquisition of his secret, for which he was to pay a thousand
pounds. He was shown all the processes, and saw a beautiful colour
produced, yet he found not the least difference in the French mode of
fabrication and that which he had constantly adopted. He appealed to the
manufacturer, and insisted that he must have concealed something. The
manufacturer assured him that he had not, and invited him to see the
process a second time. He minutely examined the water and the materials,
which were the same as his own, and, very much surprised, said, “I have
lost my labour and my money, for the air of England does not permit us
to make good carmine.” “Stay,” says the Frenchman, “do not deceive
yourself: what kind of weather is it now?” “A bright sunny day,” said
the Englishman. “And such are the days,” said the Frenchman, “on which I
make my colour. Were I to attempt to manufacture it on a dark or cloudy
day, my result would be the same as yours. Let me advise you, my friend,
always to make carmine on bright and sunny days.” “I will,” says the
Englishman; “but I fear I shall make very little in London.”
POIET.—Your anecdote is as much to the purpose as Physicus’s; yet I am
much obliged to you for the hint respecting the effect of shadow, for I
have several times in May and June had to complain of too clear a sky,
and wished, with Cotton, for
A day with not too bright a beam;
A warm, but not a scorching, sun.
HAL.—Whilst we have been conversing, the May-flies, which were in such
quantities, have become much fewer; and I believe the reason is, that
they have been greatly diminished by the flocks of swallows, which every
where pursue them: I have seen a single swallow take four, in less than
a quarter of a minute, that were descending to the water.
POIET.—I delight in this living landscape! The swallow is one of my
favourite birds, and a rival of the nightingale; for he cheers my sense
of seeing as much as the other does my sense of hearing. He is the glad
prophet of the year—the harbinger of the best season: he lives a life of
enjoyment amongst the loveliest forms of nature: winter is unknown to
him; and he leaves the green meadows of England in autumn, for the
myrtle and orange groves of Italy, and for the palms of Africa:—he has
always objects of pursuit, and his success is secure. Even the beings
selected for his prey are poetical, beautiful, and transient. The
ephemeræ are saved by his means from a slow and lingering death in the
evening, and killed in a moment, when they have known nothing of life
but pleasure. He is the constant destroyer of insects,—the friend of
man; and, with the stork and the ibis, may be regarded as a sacred bird.
His instinct, which gives him his appointed seasons, and teaches him
always when and where to move, may be regarded as flowing from a Divine
Source; and he belongs to the Oracles of Nature, which speak the awful
and intelligible language of a present Deity.
FOURTH DAY.
HALIEUS—POIETES—ORNITHER—PHYSICUS.
FISHING FOR SALMON AND SEA TROUT.
_Scene—Loch Maree, West of Rosshire, Scotland._
_Time—Middle of July._
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.