they find themselves drawn to shore, whether
they will or no, and seized by the hot, cruel
hands of man. If our trout of the Bann kept
outside, or were alert enough to spring over
at the last moment, it is on its way to its own
river, rejoicing. The Bush river comes first,
and there the Bush salmon take leave of all
the rest for a season, and part off to their
country seats for the autumn and Christmas.
When the mouth of the Bann is reached, so
do the Bann fish, whisking up stream, under
Coleraine bridge, and onwards another mile,
to where the salt water meets the fresh.

Here is a point of such danger, that we
pause to take breath. There are some few
chances of escape; but the perils are awful.
All that the poor fish has any doubt about is
as to whether it can leap up those rocks, over
which the fresh waters are pouring like a
cataract. It can make the leap, no doubt.
Every salmon does. And it will no doubt
keep at the top when it has got there—which
is the most wonderful part of the business to
the human observer. How it is that the
rush of the stream over the natural weir does
not carry back the fish in a moment is a
mystery to us: but the salmon would probably
despise us if we asked any questions,
even as old women despise kings who inquire
how the apple gets into the dumpling. So
we will merely say that the young salmon
obeys instructions as it did in going down;
sets its rudder straight, stiffens its body, and
shoots forward with all its might, against the
rush of waters.

And is it safe, after all? There are so
many perils that it knows not of! There are
buildings in the bed of the river, every stone
and every brick of which was laid in malice
prepense against the salmon of the Bann.
There are half-a-dozen stout stone walls or
piers, built backwards from the rocky weir,
enclosing spaces which are (all but the middle
one) as many traps for the fish. At the upper
end, there are iron gratings to each trap—
doors which open and shut: and at the lower
end there are also iron gratings which are
nearly closed, but not quite. A space of a
few inches is left between the gratings, which
incline backwards so as to direct, as it were,
the approaching fish to the little gap. When
they have once leaped in, they can never
more get out. For a few moments, amidst
the dash and roar of the descending waters,
they are unconscious of their fate. They are
whirled back; they shoot across the pool;
and at length they dash themselves madly
against the upper gratings: but it is all in
vain. If they could pass this one grating,
they would be safe for this year; for there is
no net—no salmon fishing above the weir.
The Irish Society, to whom the fishery
belongs, take care of that: and if, as at
present, they let the fishery to an individual,
he is no less careful. One of the two neat
red-brick cottages which are built on the
outermost piers, is for the watchman who
looks to the poachers. The other has the
great scales for weighing the fish, and other
apparatus. It is somewhat piteous to see the
silvery scales of many a fish sticking to the
balance, while the seething traps below are
tempting more to their fate. As for the
other cottage, it contains a little bed, where
the watchman takes his sleep in the daytime,
amidst such a din of waters as would make
a fierce lullaby to most of us. By night,
while his solitary candle burns within, throwing
a feeble gleam from the lattice upon the
surrounding foam, he is stealing about along
the piers, and across the shaking planks,
which make bridges from one to another.
He peeps and pries and peers about, to see
if any improper nets be in the water.
Perhaps while he is doing so, the poachers
may be watching his dim form from under
the shadow of the solemn woods which come
down to the river banks. Perhaps they may
be actually in the river—up to their waists
in water, under the shadow of the piers. If
caught, their punishment is a fine of about
six pounds for each offence; in default of
payment, six months imprisonment.

The flapping and frightened fish remain in
their trap till the next Tuesday, Thursday,
or Saturday morning, when the men fish
them out with landing-nets. Last Thursday
morning there were seventy-three salmon:
this morning, there were sixty-one. The
youngest and smallest weigh four pounds:
the greater number rise from twelve pounds
to twenty pounds; and even twenty-five
pounds is not an uncommon weight. The
price of salmon in the towns along the
coast is about sixpence per pound—unless
where hotel-keepers impose on inexperienced
travellers. But, the fish from these
traps are packed in boxes, and forwarded
by cart to Port Rush for export. When the
railway to Londonderry is finished, they will,
no doubt, be sent there too, on their way to
many new places. The ice in which they are
packed is supplied, in hard winters, from
Irish lakes and ponds: but the last two
winters have been too mild to supply the
requisite quantity; so that the fish from the
green depths of this solemn coast have been
preserved in ice from the still, unfathomable
lakes, freezing below the black pine forests
of Norway.

Our subject has grown sombre and
somewhat too pathetic. Let us take a brighter
view.

Our young salmon was certainly not caught
on this, its first ascent; for it is known to
have revisited the haunts of its infancy. We
have said that there was one space (it is the
centre one) between the piers which is not a
trap. It is called the Queen's Gap; and any
fish which are lucky or discreet enough to go
straight up mid-stream, pass here without
impediment. It is wide open at both ends.
The same may be said of all on Sundays,
except that any fish that have entered between