We all replied in the affirmative.

“Oh, you don’t take.  D——­it, I don’t mean dead pickled salmon; I mean live pickled salmon, swimming about in tanks, as merry as grigs, and as hungry as rats.”

We all expressed our astonishment at this, and declared we never heard of it before.

“I thought not,” said he, “for it has only lately been introduced into this country, by a particular friend of mine, Dr Mac——.  I cannot just now remember his d——­d jaw-breaking Scotch name; he was a great chemist and geologist, and all that sort of thing—­a clever fellow I can tell you, though you may laugh.  Well—­this fellow, Sir, took nature by the heels and capsized her, as we say.  I have a strong idea that he had sold himself to the devil.  Well—­what does he do, but he catches salmon and puts them into tanks, and every day added more and more salt, till the water was as thick as gruel, and the fish could hardly wag their tails in it.  Then he threw in whole pepper corns, half-a-dozen pounds at a time, till there was enough.  Then he began to dilute with vinegar, until his pickle was complete.  The fish did not half like it at first; but habit is every thing, and when he shewed me his tank, they were swimming about as merry as a shoal of dace; he fed them with fennel chopped small, and black-pepper corns.  ’Come, doctor,’ says I, ’I trust no man upon tick; if I don’t taste, I won’t believe my own eyes, though I can believe my tongue.’” (We looked at each other.) “‘That you shall do in a minute,’ says he; so he whipped one of them out with a landing net; and when I stuck my knife into him, the pickle ran out of his body, like wine out of a claret bottle, and I ate at least two pounds of the rascal, while he flapped his tail in my face.  I never tasted such salmon as that.  Worth your while to go to Scotland, if it’s only for the sake of eating live pickled salmon.  I’ll give you a letter, any of you, to my friend.  He’ll be d——­d glad to see you; and then you may convince yourselves.  Take my word for it, if once you eat salmon that way, you will never eat it any other.”

We all said we thought that very likely.

The champagne corks flew as fast and as loud as his shells at Acre; but we were particularly reserved, depending entirely on his tongue for our amusement; and, finding the breeze of conversation beginning to freshen, I artfully turned the subject to Egypt, by asking one of my friends to demolish a pyramid of jelly, which stood before him, and to send some of it to the captain.

This was enough:  he began with Egypt, and went on increasing in the number and magnitude of his lies, in proportion as we applauded them.  A short-hand writer ought to have been there, for no human memory could do justice to this modern Munchausen.  “Talking of the water of the Nile,” said he, “I remember, when I was first lieutenant of the Bellerophon I went into Minorca with only six tons of water, and