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.

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.

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