APPEXDIX. 143 



In Canada, and in tlie British Provinces to the eastward of Maine, it 

 is true tliat soa trout, or salmon peel, are taken of larjje size in the St. 

 Lawrence, and in the rivers falling into tlie bays of Gaspe and Chaleurs, 

 but althoug-h occasionally confounded with the trout proper, this is in 

 truth a totally ditfereut Hsh, and one, so far as I know, which is never 

 taken in any of the waters of the United States. 



In appearance, the brook trout of America and Great Britain are to my 

 eye identical ; both presenting, in well fed and well conditioned fish, the 

 same smallness of head, depth of belly, and breadth of back ; the same 

 silvery lustre of the scales, the same bright crimson spots, and the same 

 yellow fins. The flesh of the American fish, when in prime order, and 

 taken in the best waters, is, I must confess, of a deeper red hue, and of a 

 higher flavor, than that of any which it has been my fortune to taste at 

 home — and I have often eaten the Thames trout, which, rarely taken 

 below ten pounds in weight, are esteemed by epicures the very best of 

 the species. 



We travel now, be it observed, by railroad to our fishing stations, but 

 for the convenience of reviewing the country, and scanning the waters, 

 in regular succession as we pass eastward, I will suppose that, as in the 

 pleasant days of old, we are rolling along in our light wagon, over the 

 level roads, on a mild afternoon in the latter days of March, or the first 

 of April. 



We have started from Williamsburgh or Brooklyn, after an early din- 

 ner ; passed through Jamaica ; rolled over the plains towards Hempstead ; 

 and, passing through it without stoppage, have turned suddenly to the 

 right towards the bays, beyond which lies the beach, with the incessant 

 surge of the Atlantic moaning in the deep monotony of its calm, or 

 thundering in the hoarse fury of its storm, against its pebbly barrier. 



Now we are in the land of trout streams, baymen, and wild fowl. 



The rippling dash of falling waters catches our ear, at every half mile 

 as we roll along, and every here and there, the raised bank on our left 

 hand with its line of stunted willows bent landward by the strong sea- 

 breeze, the sluice-gate, and the little bridge, with the clear stream rusli- 

 ing seaward under it, tell us that wo are passing a trout pond. 



On the right hand, the salt meadows stretch away, a wide, waste, deso- 

 late expanse, to the bays which glitter afar off under the declining sun, 

 whence you can hear at times the bellowing roar of a heavy gun, telling 

 of decimated flocks of brant and broadbill. 



Now we pass by a larger pond than any we have yet seen, with a mill 

 at its outlet, and in a mile further, pull up at the door of Jem Smith's 

 tavern. 



And there we will halt to-night, although it be a better station for 

 fowling than for fishing, for we are sure of neat though homely accommo- 

 dation, and of a kindly welcome ; and here it is that the first essay is to 

 be made of Long Lsland waters. 



On this stream there are two ponds, both of which were formerly pri- 

 vate property and closed against all persons except those who were fur- 

 nished with a permit; they are now open to all persons indiscriminately, 

 and I believe without restriction as to the number that may be taken by 



