214 WILD SPORTS OF THE HIGHLANDS chap, 



intent on the rushing cataract below him, and armed with a 

 staff of some sixteen feet in length ending in a sharp hook, with 

 which he strikes the salmon as they stop for a moment to rest 

 in some eddy of the boiling torrent before taking their final 

 leap tip the fall. Watch for a few moments, and you will see 

 the old man make a peculiar plunge and jerk with his long clip 

 into the rushing water, and then hoisting it into the air he 

 displays a struggling salmon impaled on the end of the staff, 

 glancing like a piece of silver as it endeavours to escape. 

 Perhaps it tumbles off the hook, and dropping into the water, 

 floats wounded away, to fall a prey to the otter or fox in some 

 shallow below. If, however, the fish is securely hooked, there 

 ensues a struggle between it and the old man, who, by a twist 

 of his stick, turns himself and the fish towards the dry rock, 

 and having shaken the salmon off the hook, and despatched it 

 with a blow from a short cudgel which he keeps for the purpose, 

 covers it carefully up with wet grass, and lowering the peak of 

 his cap over his eyes, resumes his somewhat ticklish seat on the 

 rock to wait for the next fish. On some days, when the water 

 is of the right height, and the fish are numerous and inclined 

 to run up the river, the old man catches a considerable number ; 

 though the capture of every fish is only attained by a struggle 

 of life and death between man and salmon, for the least slip 

 would send the former into the river, whence he could never 

 come out alive. I never see him catch one without feeling 

 fully convinced that he will follow the example of his predecessor 

 in the place, who was washed away one fine day from the rock, 

 and not found for some days, when his body was taken out of 

 the river several miles below. In these pools (every one of 

 which has a name) you will see some sportsman angling, not 

 like the sans-culotte shepherd's boy at Coignafern, with his 

 hazel-wand and line made by himself, but here you have a 

 well-equipped and well-accoutred follower of the gentle craft in 

 waterproof overalls, and armed with London rod and Dublin 

 fly, tempting the salmon from their element with a bright but 

 indefinable mixture of feathers, pigs'-wool, and gold thread ; 

 while his attendant, stretched at his ease, wonders at the labour 

 his master undertakes, and watches quietly the salmon as he 

 rises from some dark abyss of the water, poises himself for a 

 moment steadily opposite the glittering hook, makes a dash 



