THE SALMON 



what was good, it was the kindly Abbot of Kennaqu- 

 hair. He must have had salmon every day of his 

 life when Tweed salmon was in season. Yet when 

 he suddenly taxes the hospitality of Glendearg, the 

 convent miller undertakes to send back to that tower 

 in the wilderness a noble fish to furnish out Dame 

 Elspeth's table. And look at the drawing in Scrope's 

 ' Days and Nights of Salmon-fishing,' by Charles 

 Landseer, of 'The Pretty Kettle of Fish.' Doubtless 

 it perpetuates time-honoured tradition. The portly 

 priest, probably an abbot sitting in the House of 

 Lords, stands with beaming smiles of sharp-set 

 expectancy over the caldron, into which the fresh- 

 caught salmon are being passed. Long use and an 

 indolent life had never staled his appetite. To come 

 down to a humbler degree, Scrope tells a capital 

 story of a water-bailiff whose mouth watered for the 

 forbidden delicacies he was paid to preserve. When 

 dinner was served, his wife brought in a platter of 

 potatoes and a napkin. The napkin was tied over 

 his eyes. Then came the salmon, nor was the 

 napkin taken off till all the debris was removed. 

 It is a good story, and yet we doubt it. Try 

 sipping Chateau Lafitte in the dark, or smoking 

 fhe choicest furo of the Yuelta Abajo, and we fancy 

 most men will sav that thev might as well have 



