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\"Edited by G. Christopher Davies, author of 'Angling Idylls,' with illustrations by Beckwith & Topham\" -- Title page
Edition: A new edition.
","@language":"en"}],"DigitalResourceOriginalRecord":[{"@value":"https:\/\/open.library.ubc.ca\/collections\/hawthorn\/items\/1.0364310\/source.json","@language":"en"}],"Extent":[{"@value":"311 pages : illustrations ; 20 cm","@language":"en"}],"FileFormat":[{"@value":"application\/pdf","@language":"en"}],"FullText":[{"@value":" ^Hi'^Hi^i^\n 19\n\u2014^\n *\n f H \u00a3\nLy P. lister.\nMEW EDITION\n.OSDOH.FREDERICK WARNE &C\u00b0\n THE\nANGLER'S SOUVENIR,\nP. FISHEE.\nA NEW EDITION.\nEDITED BY\na. CHRISTOPHER DAVIES,\nAUTHOR OF \"ANGLING IDYLLS,\" \".THE \u00a7WAN*AND HER CREW,\" \"WILD CAT TOWER, ETC\nWITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY BECK WITH & TOPHAM.\nFEEDERICK WAENE AND CO.,\nBEDFORD STREET, STRAND.\n I\nIntroductory\nAngling\u2014Pro and Con\nAn Evening at the Rye House\nAngle-land ....\nThe Salmon .\nShade-fishing foe, Trout .\nThe Mill ....\nAn October Morning .\nThe Linn .\nAn Angler's Holiday:\nI. Home ....\nII. Up with the Lark .\nIII. The Portrait of an Angler\nIV. On a Cottage Door.\nV. Among the Carp\nYI. Kitten-pishing\nVII. The Meres\nVIII. Coedyballt\nIX. The Happy Valley\n81\n86\n98\n101\n113\n126\n138\n146\n149\n153\n158\n168\n170\n180\n CONTENTS.\nAngling Acquaintances (Animals, Birds,\netc.)\nWaterside Plants\nBream-fishing\nPvAIN\nA Rustic Angler .\nA Monster Pike .\nOn some Odd Ways of Fishing\nCarpe Diem ....\nA September Day .\nBlank Days ....\n\u00a3^*8!\u00a7^P^i\n INTRODUCTORY.\nThere are thre8 classes of men who read angling\nbooks. First, and least numerous, are those who\ncare nothing for fishing, but are fond of the country,\nand like to read those descriptions of country life\nand scenes which abound in angling books more\nthan others; next come those who are fond of\nfishing, and are so lucky as to have plenty of it.\nThese, although they cannot keep their hands off\na book on their favourite sport, if they see it, yet\nlook down upon it with some feeling of superiority\nto it: they know more than it can teach them, and\nall their lives are passed in the enjoyment to\nsatiety of what it describes as almost heavenly;\nand last, there is the large class for which books\nof this kind are chiefly written\u2014the men who\nare sportsmen at heart, and passionately devoted\nto angling, yet have little time, and perhaps less\nopportunity, to indulge in the pursuit of that\nwhich would bring them happiness; These men\nread with aviclity whatever is wrttten upon the\ngentle art, and so make up in fancy for the loss of\nthe reality. I confess that I am one of this last-\n n\nINTR OD UCTOR Y.\nnamed body. My opportunities for fishing- are\nabundant enough, but, between law and literature, I haven't the time to avail myself of them.\nTherefore I read what others write, and I write\nmyself for the sake of others. Yet, as I write of\nthe days when I had the time and used it well, the\nlonging to be off and away once more to river and\nlake comes with a painful force, and I strive to\nsnatch an hour or two for its gratification. But\na fisherman, if he is to be successful should be\nable to piek his days, and if he cannot do so, the\nchances are that the days on which he is compelled\nto fish, if, he fishes at all, are unsuitable, and he\nis unsuccessful. At least that is my experience.\nTherefore I am again driven back to my books for\nconsolation. Is this not the experience of many ?\nAll this is meant to show that a demand has\narisen and continues for angling-books, and that\nthere is ample excuse for adding more to their\nalready great number.\nSome years ago there appeared an excellent book,\nwith very beautiful steel engravings, called \" The\nAngler's Souvenir,\" by \"P. Fisher, Esq., assisted by\nseveral eminent piscatory characters.\" The earlier\npart of the present book consists of a portion of the\noriginal Angler's Souvenir. The practical matter of\nthe Souvenir has been omitted, because the practice\nof angling has materially improved since it was\nwritten, and its instructions would be of no value\nto modern anglers. The descriptive part of it,\nJifcifflgi\nI\nl\n INTR OD UCTOR Y.\nh\n> H\np3\nf \"\nW*\"0\n\u00a7|&s\nW*\nw^.\nWjto\n'l\/\/i\nW>$i\ni\ni\nhowever, will not lose, but rather gain, by beiDg\nold-fashioned, and should be received with the same\nfavour by the present generation of anglers as by\nthe past.\nThe concluding portion of this work is also a\npart of a book which was published under the title-\nof \" Angling Idylls.\" The critics who then made the\nauthor blush, in his exceeding modesty, at the too\ngenerous nature of their criticisms, are responsible\nfor this mixture of the new wine with the old. The\nlast three sketches or articles are quite new, except\nthat Carpe Diem appeared in the pages of \"London\nSociety.\" Critics like to .have a raison d'etH for the\nproduction of a book now, although I don't see the\nleast reason why they should, and hope that I have\nestablished a sufficient one for the existence of this\nnew edition of \" The Angler's Souvenir.\"\nSpifelis^\ns^\u2014\n When fair Aurora rising early shewes\nHer blushing face beyond the eastern hils,\nAnd dyes the heavenly vault with purple rewes,\nThat far abroad the world with brightnesse flls ;\nThe meadows green are hoare with silver dewes,\nThat on the earth the sable night distils,\nAnd chanting birds with merry notes bewray\nThe near approaching of the chearf ull day. ,\nThen let him go to river, brook, or lake,\nThat loves the sport, where store of fish abound,\nAnd through the pleasant fields his journey make,\nAmidst sweet pastures, meadows fresh and sound,\nWhere he may best his choice of pastime take, \u25a0\nWhile swift Hyperion runs his circle ronnd;\nAnd, as the place shall to his liking prove,\nThere still remain, or further else remove.\nThe Secrets of Angling, by John Dennys, Esq. 1613.\nThe true secret of the Angler's purest and most\nlasting pleasure\u2014whose remembrance is sweet, and\nanticipation exhilarating,\u2014is discovered in the\nstanzas which we have prefixed as a befitting introduction to the present chapter. The practice of\nAngling is closely and necessarily associated with\nobjects, the contemplation, nay, tn*e very beholding of which fails not to impart a pleasure to every\nman whose soul is not insensible to the charms\npresented by the natural combination of.\n\" Field and forest, flood and hill,.\nTower, abbey, chtrrch, and mill,\"\u2014\n such us our friend here will enjoy afl\nlanded the salmon, which has held hi\nfor this last hour and a half.\nThough the love of angling is general];\nin youth, yet it sometimes attacks persoi\nmature age; conveys a maggot into t\nand then they dream of gentles; tickles\nwith a Hny-tly, and straight they talk o\nred and black, dmvents, grananis, coach\nfessors, gnats, moths, March browns, an\nhackles; shows them a salmon in a tN\nshop, and then they think of landing an\npounder ; makes them dream, speak. an<\nrecollections of real, heartfelt, unalloyed pleasu\namongst which that of angling, with an episode\nbathing or Hrd-nesting, is not the least d eli gh t\nOn a fine summer afternoon\u2014when the new m<\nhay smells sweet, when the trees are in full L\niappy are it*\niday; and fe\\\npresent enjoym\n'Sggsia\nS \u25a0\n ifw*^\n w\"\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nN*\n%\nmm\nw\n)\\j\nof such an occasion. The kind master\u2014masters\nwho occasionally give such an indulgence are always kind, good men\u2014with a suppressed smile of\nsatisfaction announces the glad tidings, and immediately retires, that he may not witness the\nsomewhat indecorous haste with which books and\nslates are laid aside, and hats and caps scrambled\nfor. Like a swarm of bees casting, they rush out\nof school with a joyful hum, and then, spreading\nthemselves in groups upon the green, hold council\nhow they shall best dispose of the portion of golden\ntime which has been accorded to them per gratiam\ndomini\u2014through the kindness of the master. One\nparty, is off to the meadpw, to plague the farmer by\n3a5fe^^ tumbling among the hay, when they pretend to assist\nJ-jT him in tedding it ; another is gone to the wood and\nthe coppice, to cut sticks,- gather flowers, and seek\nbird-nests ; and a third has-determined to try the\nfishing, after taking a bathe in the Friar's Pool, as\nthey go up the burn. Those of the latter party\nwho have rods, now produce them, and a survey and\n|i|g| fitting of tackle take place ; while such as are not\nso well provided set out in search of brandling\nworms and cad-bait; their reward for such service\nbeing a cast now and then, with the honour of\ncarrying the fish home.\nTo attend our fishing-party : they have now had\ntheir bathe in the Friar's Pool; the swimmers\nboldly plunging in from the ledge of rocks at the\nhead, and the sinkers prudently confining them-\n HIT\n^\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nselves to dabbling about in the shallows at the\nfoot. Two young ones, who would not go overhead voluntarily, were, to prevent them taking\ncold, thrice ducked nolens volens; and another, who\nwould not bathe, was gently bumped against a sod-\ndyke. They now proceed to the serious business\nof the afternoon,\u2014fishing. The strongest, as a\nmatter of right, select such parts of the water as\nappear to them best; the weaker fish where they\ncan ; and those who have neither rod nor line, wait\non such as have, or try to catch minnows and\nloaches with their hands, or to spear eels with the\nprongs of an old fork stuck in a broomstick.\nHere is a chubby little fellow, in a pinafore, five\nlast birthday, making his first essay as an angler.\nHis rod is an untrimmed stick of hazel, which he\nhas picked up by the way; his line a couple of\nyards of packthread ; his hook one of the four old,\nbeardless, rusty ones which be bought as a bargain\nof a schoolfellow; and his bait the worms which\nhe dug in his grandmother's garden, breaking the\nhandle of her fire-shovel in turning up the earth.\nBut though rude his tackle and small his skill, ere\nthe sun set great was his reward. The water was\nin prime order, and the fish bit freely. He caught\nfive minnows, and an eel twice as long as his middle\nfinger, and almost as thick ; and lost, as he affirmed\nand verily believed, a trout about three pounds\nweight, which dropped off just as he was whisking\nhim out. This is the first step of the angler's pro-\n^)\n0jmk\n !\u00ablp*\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ngress ; and from this day forward, when time and\ntide serve, will he fish by rapid stream and broad\nriver, by highland loch and lowland mere ; until,\n{' sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything,\" he relapse into childhood again.\nThe boy who has thus auspiciously entered on\nhis novitiate proceeds gradually until he takes a\nmaster's degree, an honour to which no one is\nadmitted before he has performed the qualifying\nact of hooking and landing, without assistance, a\nsalmon not less than fourteen pounds weight; after\nwhich he ought, on producing his testimonium, to\nhave the entree of every angling club throughout\nGreat Britain and Ireland. Should there be no\nsalmon-fishing in the waters where he exercises his\nskill, then a jack of the same weight, also taken\nwithout assistance, or a stone and a half of trout,\nhalf a hundredweight of barbel, or a peck of dace,\nroach, or perch, caught in a day's fair fishing, not\nin dock or pond, may be allowed as a qualification,\nspeciali gratia, for the same degree. It is here to\nbe noted that bream may be allowed instead of\nbarbel, or be weighed with them, if taken in the\nsame day's fishing; and that carp and tench may\nbe weighed, with trout. Eels are not reckoned;\nand gudgeon-fishers are always to*be considered in\na state of pupilage, and their ta&e not to be admitted in proof of angling skill, either by weight,\ntale, or .measure. Gudgeon-fishing, as Michael\nAngelo said of oil-painting, is only fit for women\n-?l^d^\ng^ygj^^^i\n H\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR:\nfl\nm\nK\nand boys. To take a salmon in fresco\u2014that is, in\na fresh or spate, as a north-country friend translates\nit\u2014is the perfection of the angler's art.\nThough no person, however partial to angling,\nand however fond of walking, in pursuit of his\nsport, through pleasant meads and by rippling\nstreams, can be entitled to the character of a skilful\nangler, unless he be capable of bringing home, by\nthe fair exercise of his rod and line, a tolerable\nload of fish; yet it by no means follows that mere\nfish-killers, whose practice had never extended\nbeyond the Docks at Blackwall, the Surrey and\nRegent's Canals, or a mile from Islington, on the\nNew River, are entitled to the name* of anglers, in\nthe best sense of the word. Their hands are dabbled in blood\u2014from the butcher's tub\u2014and fouled\nwith the garbage with which they bait their ground ;\nand there is the fragrance of no flowers to conceal\nthe loathsome smell. They hear not the murmur\nof the stream, nor the song of birds ; they see not\nthe forest in the fulness of summer leaf, nor the\njneadow pranked with summer flowers. Confined,\nin pairs, in a punt or boat, or singly to a strip of\nground some thirty feet long, the extent of their\nrod and hne, they sit or stand for hours, the picture\nof despondency\u2014their eyes never raised from their\nfloat, unless when roused by the coarse salute of a\nsailor or bargeman, or by the sarcastic query of\n\" What success ?\" from the passer-by. Such persons, if married men, are generally those who seek\nI\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n15\nrelief from domestic annoyances, and who in the\nwords of one of their poets,\n\"bend their way\nTo streams, wbere far from care and strife,\nFrom smoky house and scolding wife,\nThey snare the finny race.\"\nPoor men ! they only resort to this melancholy\npastime in order to put their patience to the proof,\nand fit them for severer trials; for if the fire be\nnot out and the wife not dead, on their return home,\ndesperate indeed must be their condition. Gentle\nangler, l*ugh not at those persons who are thus\ndriven to the water-side, to seek so desperate a.\nremedy for their woes : thou knowest not what\nmay hereafter be thy own fate. Pray that the\nconstruction of their chimneys, and the temper of\ntheir helpmates, may be amended; but if, after a\ntwelvemonth's absence, thou again mark an unhappy man on the same spot, for pity's sake put\nthe sufferer out of pain. Taking him by the collar\nof his coat and the waistband of his small-clothes,\ngently cast him into the water\u2014he will have neither\nstrength nor inclination to resist\u2014hold him down\nwith the butt of his rod for the space of twenty\nminutes, and then leave him to his^beloved gudgeons. Though thou canst not thus exjpect to gain\nthe medal of the Humane Society, thou wilt have\nthe pleasing consciousness of having relieved a\nfellow-man,\u2014I almost said a brother angler, but,\nwith such, brother Bob is the word,\u2014of his cares.\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nand of having prevented him from committing\nsuicide.\nElderly anglers, who feel weak in the legs after\na mile or two's walk, and who seat themselves on\nthe bare ground when fishing, ought to be made\nacquainted with the danger which they incur in\nthus incautiously resting themselves ; for \" how-\nover dry it may seem,\" says an-experienced bottom-\nfisher, \" many, from so doing, have experienced\nviolent cholics, inflammations in the bowels, etc.\"\nTo guard against such disorders, it appears, from\nthe authority above quoted, that \"careful anglers\nprovide themselves with a piece of cork or board,\n(which some cover with a piece of carpet). . . ,\nThe cork or board provided for a seat is usually\nabout eighteen inches long and twelve broad, which\nmay be kept and carried in a basket, with other\narticles used by anglers.\" This contrivance, which\nwas good enough in its day\u2014about ten years since\n\u2014has, in consequence of the late rapid strides of\nscience, as applied to the useful arts, been almost\nwholly superseded by Macintosh's patent Caoutchouc Air-cushions, which, when not inflated, may\nbe conveniently stowed in the hat-crown, and,\nwhen wanted, can in two minutes be blown out to\nthe size of a goodly pillow. But as it is desirable\nthat the angler should carry with him as few things\nas possible beyond his necessary tackle, a further\nsimplification of this \"life preserver\" for the\nsedentary angler, is here suggested ; being also\nWSm'\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwaterproof, it has all the general advantages of the\ncushion, with, it is presumed, some Httle comforts\nin*addition :\u2014to be warm as well as dry, in the\npart most exposed to cold and damp, is a great\ndesideratum with the angler who wishes to enjoy\n\" pleasure and ease\nTogether mixed,\u2014sweet recreation.\"\nThe proposed improvement has also the advantage over the cushion in these points,\u2014it is always\nready for use, and is much less liable to be lost. It\nis rather surprising that an invention at once so\nsimple and obvious should have occurred to no\nbottom-fisher before. It consists merely in seating\nthe inexpressibles of the sedentary angler with\ncaoutchouc, and lining them, according to size,\nwith two, three, or four bosom friends\u2014prepared\nrabbit-skins, so called,\u2014which can be obtained at\nany glover or hosier's shop.\n. Though Sir Humphrey Davy, in his \" Salmonia,\"\nspeaks lightly of the angling of \" cockney fishermen, who fish for roach and dace in the Thames,\"\nyet we strongly suspect that in this school he was\nfirst initiated into the mysteries of the rod and line,\nand that his love of fly-fishing for trout and salmon was rather a late one. He was President of\nthe Royal Society, and he was ambitions\u2014sero sed\nserio, late though earnestly\u2014of ranking among the\nfirst of fly-fishers. Vain hope ! No man who drives\nout to Denham, \"in a light carriage and pair of\nhorses,\" to enjoy trout-fishing in a preserved stream;\nB\n.*\u00bb\/\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nor who is carried into a boat on a Highlandman's\nback, to fish for salmon on Loch Maree, need aspire\nto such a distinction. Of fly-fishing, he may talk,\nin season and out of season,\n\" About it. Goddess, and about it,\"\nwith German Professors and French Members of\nthe Institute\u2014but a genuine angler he never can be.\nThe advice to anglers respecting the state of their\nbowels, the danger of palsy or apoplexy to be apprehended from wading, and the excess of drinking\na pint of wine, savour much of the precautions and\n-\/forebodings of a prudent bottom-fisher. Though\nthere are several passages of great beauty and\nfeeling in the \" Salmonia,\" and many obervations\non natural history which are highly deserving of\nattention, yet, notwithstanding that it has had an\nextensive sale, it is not a,popular book. Many have\nread it who would not otherwise have looked into such\na book from curiosity to see what the President of the\nr Royal Society, claiming to be one of the first scien-\n; tific bodies in Europe, could say upon such a subject; and others, who are desirous of reading such\n\u25a0^works, be the author who he may, have perused it\nwith greater avidity in consequence of the previous\nreputation of the author. It is of little use as an\nangling guide; and though the author appears to\nhave angled in the Scottish Highlands and in Stiria,\nhe scarcely appears to have seen any of the people\nof these countries, for there is nothing like a characteristic sketch of popular manners in the book.\n\u00ab\u2022\n THE ANGLER'S SOUVENIR.\n'9\nThe notice of the \" stout Highlander with a powerful tail, or, as we should call it in England, suite,\"\nis a poor affair ; and Mr. Ornither was right in not\nsaying a word about the Celt being \" a pot-fisher, and\nsomewhat hungry,\" until his tail was turned, lest\nhe should have soused him in the pool. The sneer\nfrom the Cockney (he could be nothing else), one\nof a party who of the dear English\nlakes; \" and though, with your own tackle, you\nmay angle in Crummock-water, \"with amorous\nditties all a summer's day,\" and never get a rise ;\n'tis never so in the lochs of Scotland. \" But all\nliving creatures,\" he-thus \u2022 continues, \"are in a\nconstant state of hunger in this favoured country ;\nso bait your hook with anything edible\u2014it matters\nnot what\u2014snail, spider, fly\u2014and angle for what\nyou may, you are sure to catch it\u2014almost as\ncertainly as the accent or the itch.\" In addition\nto this express testimony of' one so well qualified to\ngive an opinion on this subject, we shall just quote\nan account of the Ettrick Shepherd's success, in\nlittle more than a mere en-passant \" whup\" at a\ncouple of streams, the Meggat and the Fruid, when\njourneying, on a pleasant April day, from his own\n 3\u00b0\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nhome on Yarrow to visit a few friends who had\npitched their tent, on'a gipsying excursion, in the\nFairy's Cleugh, on the south-eastern borders of\nLanarkshire. We shall not attempt to injure, by\ntranslating, the Shepherd's delightful Doric, but\nquote his own words. \" I couldna ken how ye micht\nbe fennin' in the Tent for fish, so I thocht I might\nas weel tak a whup at the Meggat. How they lap !\nI filled ma creel afore the dew-melt; and as it's out o'\nthe poor o' ony man wi' a heart to gie owre fishin'\nin the Meggat durin' a tak, I kent by the sun it was\nnine-hours ; and by that time I had filled a' ma\npouches, the braid o' the tail o' some o' them wrap-\npin' again ma elbows.\" Having overridden his\nhorse, to make up for lost time, the poet is obliged\nto wait till he gets second wind: and not to be idle,\nin the meantime, he tries another stream. \" I just\nthocht I wad try the Fruid wi' the flee, and put en\na professor. The Fruid's fu' o' sma' troots, and I\nsune had a string. I could na hae had about me,\nat this time, ae way and ither, in ma several repositories, string and a', less than thretty dizzen o'\ntroots.\" Now this is angling indeed, and enough to\ntempt an elderly Benedict, who manages to kill two\nbrace and a half in a week's constant angling in the\nColne, to desert hause and home for a month's\nangling in the Meggat and the Fruid.\nThe effect produced on the mind of the angling\npublic by such papers, in Blackwood, as \" Christopher at the Lakes,\" \"Christopher in his Sporting\ni\nis\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nWk\nJacket, Loch Awe,\" and many others, imbued with\na similar spirit, and bearing the impress of the same\nmaster hand, is extremely questionable, so far as\nthe general interests of society are regarded. They r jpg;\nhave unsettled the minds of many. By a kind of J^^K\nfascination, they have allured the elderly gentleman \\. ^fc^\nwhose annual summer trip never extended beyond 3rs\\f\nMargate, to venture on a long journey to attend v ^\nthe Windermere Regatta, trace the course of the ^f^~i\nDuddon, or ascend Skiddaw, instead of viewing l^p^\nDoggett's coat and badge rowed for on the Thames, ^ ^\nwandering by the Regent's Canal, Or climbing p\nPrimrose Hill, to see Mr. Sadler's balloon go up ; %\\ -\nand even lawyers may now be seen, during the long JvW?\nvacation, angling for trout on Loch Awe, who for- 'ljlfl)?\nmerly confined themselves to trolling for pike\u2014 >W^\nfresh-water attorneys\u2014in the river Lea. From !\u00bb%jr\nMidsummer to Michaelmas the lakes are perfectly ^^#^|\nswarming'with visitors, while trout have, in the v.-^!^\nsame ratio, become scarce ; and beds are scarcely ^^$Pl|\nto be had for love or money. It is in vain that the W%^f\n\" contemplative man\" endeavours to enjoy his ^sllll\nmeditations alone. If he ascend Skiddaw, he over- |l\u00a3|f?it\ntakes and passes a slow-paced, short-winded com- Ifllf\npany toiling up the steep ; he meets a second Wwts\ncoming down, who have a match against time, and mmU \u25a0\nintend completing a tour of the lakes in four days;\nand the first sight that greets him when he reaches\nthe top is a family party of thirteen, engaged in\nating a family dinner\u2014legs of mutton and trim-\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nmings\u2014which boots and the hostler have carried\nup in a clothes-basket. Thinking to find something\nlike solitude in the desert, he takes the lonely road\nto Buttermere up Borrowdale ; but still he cannot\nescape the lakers, who cross him at every turn of\nthe dale. Three boats have just discharged their\nliving freight at the head of the lake as he passes\nLowdore; under the lee of the Bowder stone sits a\nCambridge youth, who is studying for honours,\nwith his tutor at his side, cramming him with\nchoice morsels from Vince and Wood's\u2014alas ! how\nunlike Kay's, of the Albion\u2014dry and insipid,\nthough solid course. On the top, on a three-legged\nportable stool, is seated an artist sketching * and\nat the base is a member of the Geological \"Society,\nhammer in hand, chipping off specimens, which his\nlady carefully gathers up and deposits in her reticule\u2014the future foundations of another new theory\nr of the earth. At Rosthwaite greater annoyance\nawaits him ; for there does he behold, in that heretofore quiet and secluded spot, a party of young\ns men and maidens quadrilling it to the melancholy\n\u00a3_wailings of a pale-faced young gentleman's flute ;\nand on arriving at Buttermere, tired, and out of\nhumour with himself, the lakes, and their visitors,\nhe finds that he can only be lodged in a double-\nbedded room, where he is entertained all night with\na trombone solo, from the nose of a stout gentleman who occupies the other bed, and whose double-\nbass quaver\u2014which is a repeat, con strepito, every\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n33\nhalf-hour\u2014he vainly hopes is the effect of strangulation. Finding no delightful solitude out of doors,\nnor rest in his bed, he returns to town by the 1st\nof September ; and finds, in the deserted walks\nand drives of Hyde Park, that freedom from intrusion which he in vain sought among the hills.\nThe evil of those papers is not confined to tempting sober, quiet people, who,\n\" Along the cool sequestered vale of life\nHave kept the noiseless tenor of their way,\"\n\u2014have walked in cork soles by the shady side of the\nStrand or Fleet Street all their lives\u2014to set out on\na wild-goose chase after the picturesque, the sublime, and the beautiful, among hills and lakes, and\nthen leaving them, as a Will o' the Wisp does his\nfollowers, beguiled and laughed at. It extends to\nothers, recalling scenes which they can never again\nvisit, and exciting longings which can never be\ngratified. The native of Cumberland or Westmoreland, the man of pleasant Teviotdale, or the child\nof the mist from the Highlands,\n\" Absent long and distant far,1'\nkf^\nfrom the hills and streams which in boyhood he\nloved, who has been immured for years in a Babel\nof brick and mortar, is seized, on reading those\npapers, with a species of calenture. Recollections\nof the happy days of his boyhood come over his\n5 where, in\n \u00bb34\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthe faithful picture is portrayed. The memory of\ndear, departed days is recalled, and a full tide of\npleasure bursts upon his heart, to be succeeded,\nwhen the enchanting vision has passed, by a corresponding depression, when he reflects how small\nis the chance of his ever visiting his native place\nagain; but that,\n<{ Getting and spending,\"\nhe is doomed to wear out his life in a round which\naffords little pleasure from reflection or from hope :\n \"^k:\nAN EVENING AT THE RYE HOUSE.\nif\/ \/\/\n] \/ Having occasion to be in London, with a view\nto forwarding the publication of the \" Angler's\nSouvenir,\" we went out to the Lea, about the 1st\nof October last, to have a day's fishing, in company\n\"\" | ^\/ with two friends\u2014Mr. William Simpson, of the firm\nof Simpson and Co., a native of, and resident in,\nthe great city; and Mr. Alexander Tweddell, a far-\n\\ j* away cousin of our own, who happened to be in\ni\u2014~\\l London on a visit from the north. After a tolerable\n: ^ \\ day's sport, we spent the evening at the Rye House, ^|lw?\nwhen the conversation, as might be supposed, was J\n^N I j chiefly about angling. As none of the party ex-\n^iS< \\ pected that the evening discourse would be made\nfrV\\ I public, each was unprepared to make a display;\nl^s\/ta but just followed the ball of conversation as it was\nbandied about, without detaining it until he had\ndelivered himself of a long-set speech, which possibly might have been in preparation for a month,\nand found, on being held forth, to be both stale\nand dry. A gentleman of the press, who, like our- $HJ| \\\nselves, had come out to have a day's fishing, at this |Imi\ndull time of the year, when Parliament is not sitting, mffi\/\nand nothing interesting hatched either at home or wm{ |iP\nabroad, happened to occupy the small parlour\u2014 f|y||r\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwhich was only separated from that in which we\nwere seated by a wooden j>artition,\u2014and heard the\nwhole of our conversation, which, as he had no\ncompany, he carefully took down in shorthand, in\nthe regular way of business, intending to interweave\na few of his own graces, and show up the party in a\nnewspaper or magazine, just as he might feel himself in the humour to cut down or extend the article.\nHe left betimes in the morning, to save the seven\no'clock coach at Hoddesdon, after giving to the\nwaiter the following note, with orders to deliver it\nat breakfast-time, addressed,\n.7^,1\/\n\" To the Piscatory Trio, Bye House.\n\" Gentlemen,\n\" Happening last night to occupy the small\nparlour adjoining that in which you held your\npiscatory session, I was an auditor, woalgre ~moi,\nof the whole of your conversation; of which, as I\nwas alone and had nothing better to do, I took\nample notes, in a professional way, with a view of\nfurnishing either a quizzical report for the \t\nNewspaper, or a sprightly article for the \t\nMagazine, as fancy might suggest on re-examination\nof my materials.\n\"I do not, however, wish to act towards you\nwith incivility, more especially as the young Scotchman, when I met him at the water-side yesterday,\nwas so kind as to offer me a cigar from his box,\nwhen, seeing that he had steel and tinder with him,\nM\n#\nw\nm\nw\nmm\n J HE ANGLERS SOUVENIR..\nI only asked for a light\u2014an instance of liberality\nwhich, unless I had witnessed it myself, I should\nscarcely have believed one of his nation would have\nafforded. I therefore beg to make you the first\noffer of a fair transcript of my notes for the sum\nof five pounds, which is much less than I could\nobtain for them after a few heightening touches of\nmy own\u2014placing a cap and bells on each of your\nheads, or putting a few good puns into your mouths\n\u2014and serving your conversation up to the public\nthrough either of the channels aforesaid.\n\"Should I not hear from you by to-morrow\nafternoon, I shall conclude that my offer is declined. \" I am, etc., etc.,\n\" , Reporter.\n\" No. \u2014 Staples Inn.\"\ni\nfi\\\nAs we chanced at this time to be in want of a\n\"night,\" whose shades might give relief to the day\nof the \"Angler's Souvenir,\" we determined, with\nthe free consent of our friends Simpson and\nTweddell, to accede to this modest proposal, with\na view to its insertion in our work then groaning\nu under the press. On our return to town, we dispatched a note, the same evening, to Staples Inn,\n|\\^ stating that Mr. 's offer was accepted; and\nr* desiring that the MS. might be sent, as soon as\n^ convenient, to Mr. Tilt, Fleet Street, where the\nsum agreed on would be duly paid. In two days\nthe subjoined report of our sitting was sent as\nX\u00ab\n i r\u2014f\n33\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ndirected; and is here given without addition or\nabridgment. The only corrections necessary were\nin the names of the parties, in which the reporter\nhad committed a few venial errors : for instance,\ndesignating Tweddell as \"Mr. Saunders,\" from\nhaving heard us once or twice familiarly address\nhim as \"Sandy;\" calling Simpson \"Mr. Simons,\"\nand waggishly locating him as a slopseller, in\nHoundsditch; and writing ourselves \" The Old\nFisher,\" in consequence of mistaking our surname\nfor a mere agnomen, or professional designation.\nThe songs, which were a good deal mangled, are\nrestored, under the revision of Mr. Tweddell.\nReport of the Evening Sitting of a Piscatory\nTrio, at the King's Arms, Rye House.\nThe speakers\u2014Simpson, Tweddell, and Fisher\u2014\ndined at four; and at five business commenced by\nSimpson proposing a toast: \"To the pious and\nimmortal memory of Izaak Walton.\"\n(Bumpers\u2014pints\u2014of old Staffordshire ale, drank\nin solemn silence.)\nFisher (after a deep sigh, to recover his breath).\n\u2014A toast worth drinking\u2014in the \"language of the\ncabaret,\" as a great man called Shakspeare's phrase\n\u2014\" pottle deep.\" A noble subject! and better ale\nI scarcely ever drank,\u2014colour of a beautiful amber,\nclear as sherry, and fragrant as a handful of new-\npicked hops\u2014a perfect nosegay. Observe that\n. wasp, whose wings are rather stiff with rheumatic\n pains\u2014caught by being out late these chill October\nevenings\u2014how he is enjoying himself at the bottom\nof my glass. There, the ale has warmed his heart,\nand away he flies, brisk as a bee that keeps humming soft nonsense to the flowers in July. I will\nthank you to give the toast again, Simpson.\nSimpson.\u2014I have no objection; but I beg to\ndecline drinking it again in ale.\nTweddell.\u2014And so do I. I have'no objection\nto drink it again in a tumbler of toddy, if there\nbe any good whisky to be had here.\nSimpson.\u2014Though you may praise this ale, Mr.\nFisher, I confess that I think it rather too old..\nFor the rest of this evening,\n\" I abandon all ale\nAnd beer that is stale,\"\nand if no whisky is to be had, I shall be glad to\njoin you, Mr. Tweddell, in a bottle of black-strap.\nLight dinner wines,\u2014abominable compounds of\nperry and eighteen-penny Cape\u2014are my aversion.\nI wonder how any person who drinks of them\nescapes the cholera.\nTweddell.\u2014I am willing.\nSimpson.\u2014Waiter, a bottle of your best port.\nYou know where to find it. Of the same that I\nhad last Thursday. A bottle of sherry at the\nsame time : I like a glass of sherry to a cigar.\nLet me have one of your Havannahs, Tweddell.\nFisher.\u2014I was only in jest when I proposed the\nvc%\n fl\n40\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR\nother pint, as I knew that you would both shy at\nit. Good ale is now scarcely to be had, the more\nis the pity; for most beneficial in former times\nwere its effects on the genius and morals of the\nnation, as we learn from the old song :\n\" Give a scholar of Oxford a pot of sixteen,\nAnd put him to prove that an ape has no tail,\nAnd sixteen times better his wit will be seen\nM you fetch him from Botley a pot of good ale.\nThus it helps speech and wit, and hurts not a whit,\nBut rather doth further'the virtues morale ;\nThen think it not much if a little I touch\nThe good moral parts of a pot of good ale.\nTo the church and religion it is a good friend, ;\nOr else our forefathers in wisdom did fail,\nWho at every mile, next to the church stile,\nSet a consecrate house to a pot of good ale.\"\nSimpson.\u2014Go on.\nFisher.\u2014I cannot. The ale is out, and, as always\nhappens in such a case, my recollection gone. But\ndrink what you please,\u2014toddy, brandy and water,\nor black-strap,\u2014I am willing to join you. Any of\nthe usual potations in this part of the country I\ncan bear, except gin. The real cream of the valley,\nat threepence a quartern, should only be drank in\n\"the valley below.\"\nEnter waiter, with a couple of decanters of wine.\nSimpson.\u2014Now fill, and I will again give you\u2014\n\" The Memory of the I Sage benign.'\"\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n1&3\nfpR\nW\nFisher.\u2014Again, I drink it with pleasure. Deservedly does the honest angler call him \" father,\"\nand happy are his sons who walk in the path of\ntheir worthy parent. A spirit of cheerful piety\npervades his whole book; and, as he instructs us\nhow to angle, he interweaves his precepts with\ndescriptions and reflections which teach us how to\nlive happily and die well. His book is like one of\nthe delightful scenes which he describes with so\nthorough a feeling of their quiet beauties. A\npleasant meadow, with a stream running past it,\nbounded by low woody hills ; field-flowers blooming among the grass and perfuming the air ; with\nboys and girls cropping cowslips, culkerkeyes, and\nlilies, to make garlands to welcome in the merry\nmonth of May. I could almost wish that I had\nlived in those days, to have gone a-fishing with the\ngood old man, whose humour was '' to be free and\npleasant, and civilly merry ;\" to have listened to\nhis reminiscences of learned and pious Dr. Nowell,\ncheerful Sir Henry Wotton, holy Master George\nHerbert, witty Dr. Donne, or reverend Bishop\nSanderson; to have eaten a piece of powdered\nbeef and a radish with him, to breakfast under a\nsycamore tree; drank a cup of ale, and borne a\npart in a catch with him in the evening at the\nhouse of a cleanly, handsome, and civil hostess,\nin\" company with a downright witty companion,\nwho had come out purposely to be pleasant, and\neat a trout; and then, after bidding \" Good night\n r\n42\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nto everybody,\" to have retired to bed, where the\nsnow-white sheets, of the landlady's own spinning',\nsmelt of lavender.\u2014But,\n\" A change comes o'er the spirit of my dream.\"\nThe low woody hills have become mountains, and\nthe boys and girls are changed into a flock of black-\nfaced sheep, with a sun-freckled, red-haired lad, in\na blue bonnet, herding them; the broad meadow is\nreduced to a narrow glen, through which a noisy\nstream is careering like an untamed Highland\npony; and I fancy that I hear a voice addressing\nthe lark, which is hovering in full song above her\nnest on the mountain side,\u2014\n\" Bird of the wilderness, blithsome and cumberless,\n0, to abide in the desert\u00bbwith thee ! \"\nI wish that I were home again.\nSimpson.\u2014You are disposed, I think, to \"pas-\ntoralize a little.\" However highly you may admire\nWalton's book, it is not in much repute among the\nanglers who fish in the Lea. It is not considered a\npractical work; and I have known some who, in\nconsequence of hearing it much praised, have bought\na copy, and, after trying to read it through, have\nthrown it aside with expressions of surprise that\nany person\u2014except a priest or a church-going old\nmaid\u2014could admire it.\nFisher.\u2014What can be expected from men who\n'blow brains\" and fish on a Sunday? Walton's\nAngler used to be a very scarce book in the north.\nk.\n*\\\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n43\nIndeed until Major published his beautiful edition\nin 1823, I never had been able to call a copy my\nown. The Society for promoting Christian Knowledge ought to print an edition of this book, in\norder that copies might be given\u2014together with\nthe Book of Common Prayer and the Whole Duty\nof Man, as at present\u2014to promising lads who have\na taste for anghng, on their leaving school. Should What you say proves that in streams\nwhere trouts are so plentiful not much skill is required to take them. May we not, then, conclude\nthat the best fly-fishers are to be found in London,\nas they are confined to angle in waters where the\nfish are scarce, and so shy as only to be caught with,\nthe finest tackle skilfully managed ?\nTweddell.\u2014You may conclude so : and, upon\nthe same grounds, you may also infer that cockney\nsportsmen, who range the fields within ten or fifteen\nmiles of London, where partridges are scarce and\nshy, are the best shots.\nFisher.\u2014I know that there are excellent fly-\nfishers in London; but the best, I am inclined to\nthink, did not acquire their craft in the Colne or the\nWandle, though they may now and then occasionally basket a few heavy trout from those streams.\nChantrey can throw a long line cleverly, either for\ntrout or salmon ; but he was a proficient in the art,\nhaving killed many a trout in Dovedale, before he\ncame to London, and I doubt if he be improved\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n4$\nTO\nmuch since he became an R.A. Sir Walter Scott\nhas mentioned, but where I forget, Chantrey's partiality to salmon-fishing; and, as I have the words\ndown in my pocket-book, I will read them. \" We\nhave ourselves seen the first sculptor in Europe\nwhen he had taken two salmon on the same morning, and can well believe that his 'sense of self-\nimportance exceeded twenty-fold that which he felt\non the production of any of the masterpieces which\nhave immortalized him.\"\nTweddell.\u2014I think I have heard you say that\nyou did not acquire your own knowledge of flyfishing in London, Mr. Simpson ?\n. Simpson.\u2014True. When a boy, I was at school\nnear Cotherstone, in Yorkshire, and it was there, in\nthe Tees, and in a small stream which ran close to\nour master's house, that I first commenced angler.\nI did not commence fly-fisher at once, but regularly\nadvanced through a course of minnow-fishing, with\na line of packthread and a farthing hook; and I\nwell recollect my first trial for perch, with a new\nrod and a fine hair line, when I caught fifteen, and\nthought myself a first-rate angler; and certainly\nfelt myself one of the happiest of human beings.\nAfter this successful commencement, with something like a regular angler's tackle, all my leisure\nlours and holidays, when the weather allowed,\nwere spent in fishing ; and as I managed to take a\ngood many eels, perch, dace, and brandling trouts,\nI.became a favourite with the master's wife, who\nVf\nmU\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n49\n1\nwas a great economist, and regularly served up\nmy evening's take for dinner the next day, and I\nfrequently obtained, through her intercession, a\nholiday, to go a-fishing. My lessons in fly-fishing\nwere taken under our drawing-master, as great a\nproficient in the art as ever I met with, and in his\ncompany I have fished in the Wear, in the neighbourhood of Stanhope and Wolsingham; in the\nGreta ; in the Swale, near Catterick ; and at Richmond ; as well as in the Tees, from Piersbridge to\nthe Wheel or Weel, above Middleton. Trouts were\nnot plentiful in the Wear then, twenty-eight years\nago ; and I understand that they have since become\nmore scarce, nay almost extinct in the upper part\nof the stream, in consequence of the water from the\nlead mines. The Tees used to afford tolerably\ngood sport from Cotherstone upwards, though it\nused to be sometimes netted by the miners about\nMiddleton. The \"Weel,\" about ten miles above\nMiddleton, is a deep pool above two miles lono-\nand containing excellent trout. The country is\nthe most wild and desolate that I ever beheld,\u2014\nand I have been at the head of Borrowdale, and\ncrossed Dartmoor,\u2014but the Cauldron Snout, where\nthe stream dashes from the Weel over a succession\nof falls, and the High Force, five miles above\nMiddleton, where the stream leaps, at one bound,\nfrom a ledge of rocks sixty feet high, are well deserving of the attention of the tourist who happens\nto be within twenty miles of the place. Once,\n 5\u00b0\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nduring a vacation, when I did not return home,\nI spent a week with our drawing-master, who was\nresiding with his friends at Richmond. We went\nout together one day to an excellent trout-stream,\nnear Burton Constable, about seven miles to the\nsouthward, and were following our sport io our\ngreat satisfaction, for the trouts were large and\nrose well, when a countryman came up, and attempted to take my companion's rod from him as\na trespasser who was fishing without leave. This,\nof course, was resisted, and a struggle ensued, in\nwhich the artist,\u2014who was but weakly, while his\nantagonist was a big, powerful fellow,\u2014was likely to\ncome off only second-best, when I, a stout lad of\nsixteen, joined as thirdsman in the fray, and turned\nthe scale. We soon got the countryman\u2014a great\nhen-hearted fellow\u2014down, and without any regard\nto what is called fair play, pummelled him well\nwhen we had him down; but that was not long,\nfor he soon recovered his legs, and ran off; while\nwe, who were swifter of foot, gave chase, and belaboured \"him with the butt-end of our rods right\nacross the field, till he escaped by dashing headforemost through a regular bullfinch hedge, like an\nox stung by hornets. We afterwards learnt that\nthe fellow had no right to interfere with us, and\nhad only wished to get a good rod at a cheap rate.\nBut for once the Yorkshireman was bit.\nFisher.\u2014Youth is certainly the p3riod when a\nlove of the fine arts, including angling, is most\n^^^A^^^#g^2^E^.f^\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nw\neasily and most naturally inspired, and a practical\nknowledge of them most readily attained. The\npliant fingers of youth,, from ten to sixteen, are\npeculiarly adapted to tying delicate knots, whipping\non hooks, and dressing flies ; and he who first\nbegins to learn those minor branches of an angler's\nart after his. hand is \" set,\" seldom performs his\nwork with neatness, and -never with ease. And\nthen to see a gentleman who has arrived at years\nof discretion taking lessons in managing the rod\nand throwing gracefully a long line, is about as\ngood as a peep at Mr. Deputy Hopkins, who never\nlearned to dance till after he was married, practising,\na quadrille, for the Mansion House ball, with his\ncoat and wig off. Most of our practical books on\nangling are written, not for the \"instruction and\nimprovement of youth,\" but for the edification of\nelderly gentlemen who are presumed never to have\nhad a rod in their hands before; and the dry-nurse\nof a teacher \" begins at the beginning \" accordingly. -\nI think it would be worth any professor's while to\nopen an Angling Academy at Peerless Pool, City\nRoad, when it is no longer used for bathing, to\nteach grown gentlemen the use of the long rod,\u2014\naPplymg a birch one, solito loco, when needful, to\ndull or refractory pupils,\u2014with examples of the art\nof whipping without cracking off the fly. How did\nyou succeed in your trolling to-day, Tweddell ?\nTweddell.\u2014Very badly. I only caught one\njack after a two hours' trial; and when I thought\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nto change my gorge hook for a snap, I was nearly\nanother hour before I could fix my bait as the book\ndirected, and then the best part of the day was\ngone. I do not wonder at my not catching a\nsecond one, for I must confess that, after I had\nsucceeded in fixing my hooks and sewing up the\ngudgeon's mouth, it presented anything but a\ntempting appearance. I had handled the bait\nrather too roughly, and when all was ready for\na cast, it was not unlike a bruised sprat, bristling\nwith hooks, and more likely to deter than to allure.\nNo pike, however hungry, I felt assured, could\n\u2022behold it without aversion, if not terror, so I took\nit off again. An old gentleman who came up, and\nperceived that I was a novice at jack-fishing, invited\nme to take a seat in his boat, which was then lying\njust below the Tumbling Bay ; and with one of his\nrods I caught two dozen of roach, whilst we smoked\nour cigars, and talked of the comparative excellence\nof Silvas and Woodvilles, of fishing and shooting in\nthe Highlands, and things in general. Next to flyfishing, I should prefer trolling for jack, but I have\nnever practised the latter branch of angling, and I\ncould scarcely expect much Sport in my first attempt.\nI did not choose to follow in the wake of either of\nyou, and receive your instructions at the moderate\ncharge of being laughed at. But what success have\nyou two had ?\nSimpson.\u2014I caught three brace and a half of\njack, and Fisher three brace, all by trolling; and\nHi\n rrflr\n54\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nHip\nTweddell.\u2014Very little. The streams are too\nrapid there to afford much harbour for pike, or ged,\nas they are frequently called in Dumfriesshire.\nThey are, however, caught in several streams in the\nlower part of the county about Dumfries; and I\nhave known them frequently taken in lochs with\nnight-lines; but trolling is not much practised in\nScotland. I think I shall be tempted to try it in\nthe Lochar, as I return home. It contains plenty\nof fine pike, but anglers there seldom try to catch\nthem except with night-lines.\nFisher.\u2014We will now \"basket the pikes, it you\nplease. Mr. Simpson, you are a regular bottle-\nstopper \u2014 a perfect cork, \u2014 pass the wine ; and,\nTweddell, wet your whistle, and give us a song.\nI wish I had brought my pipes to London with me.\nHow the fish would have-^pricked up their ears, I\nwas going to say\u2014\"vagged their little tails\" to\na merry lilt on the union pipes, played from a\n>unt on the Thames or the Lea; while the per-\normer had a cigar in his mouth, his eye on the\n[oat, and his foot on his rod. Why, this would\nlmost equal the performance of the travelling\nlusician who plays on six intruments at once, or\naat of the notable servant-girl who could\n\" Whistle and knit,\nAnd carrv +*a v;+\n; I hear, by your hum, that you are in voice and\n'- Come, lay your cigar down, and off at score.\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n1\nt\nT\nt\nm\njcfe\nTweddell.\u2014Have a minute's patience, till I can\nrecollect the words, and I will give you a \" Fisher's\nCall.\" I am not sure that I can go through it\nwithout breaking down, for 1 have never yet sung\nit in company, though I have now and then crooned\nover a few lines to myself. You know the writer\nwell, an old angling crony of yours ; but you cannot\nhave heard the song before, as mine is the only\ncopy that he has given to any one.\nTHE ANGLER'S EEVEILLE.\nOld Winter is gone, and young Spring now comes tripping ;\nSweet flowers are springing wherever she treads ;\nWhile the bee, hovering o'er them, keeps humming and\nsipping,\nAnd birds sing her welcome in woodlands and meads.\nThe snow-wreath no more on the hillside is lying ;\nThe leaf-buds are bursting, bright green, on each tree '\nHo, anglers, arouse ye ! the streams are worth trying,\nFit your rods, and away to the fishing with me !\nHaste away ! haste away ! for the south wind is blowing,\nAnd rippling so gently the face of the stream, .\nWhich neither too full nor too fine yet is flowing,\nNow clouded, now bright with a sunshiny gleam.\nAt the foot of the fall, where the bright trouts are leaping,\nIn the stream where the current is rapid and strong,\nOr just by the bank where the skeggers seem sleeping,\nThere throw your fly light, and you cannot throw wrong.\nThere's joy in the chase, over hedge and ditch flying ;\n'Tis pleasant to bring down the grouse on the fell;\nThe partridge to bag, through the low stubble trying ;\nThe pheasant to shoot as he flies through the dell.\np\n 56\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nBat what are such joys to the pleasure of straying\nBy the side of a stream, a long line throwing free,\nThe salmon and trout with a neat fly betraying ?\u2014\nFit your rods, and away to the fishing with me I\nTo awaken the milkmaid, the cock is yet crowing,\nShe was out late last night, with young Hodge, at the\nfair;\u2014\nTo be milked yet the cows in the loaning are lowing ; -\nWe'll be at our sport ere young Nelly be there.\nThe weather is prime, and the stream in good order ;\nArouse ye, then, anglers, wherever you be,\u2014\nIn Scotland, in Ireland, in Wales, on the Border,\u2014\nFit your rods, and away to the fishing with me !\nFisher.\u2014Good!\n\" In Scotland, in Ireland, in Wales, on the Border,\u2014\nFit your rods, and away to the fishing with me ! *'\nSome one has been conjuring with your song,\nTweddell, for three spirits have already appeared at\nthe invocation\u2014an anonymous angler in Ireland,\nHansard in Wales, and Stephen Oliver on the\nBorder. But the spell has not been sufficiently\npowerful to rouse that master-spirit in Scotland, to\nwhom every stream and loch is known in that\n\" Land of the mountain and the flood ;\"\nwho at one time may be seen throwing his light\nfly in the Tweed, by the \"lovely levels of holy\nAshiestiel,\"\u2014consecrated as having been formerly\nthe residence of Sir Walter Scott,\n in\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n57\n\\ *\u00ab\n\" For the lore\nOf mighty minds doth hallow in the core\nOf human hearts, the ruin of a wall\nWhere dwelt the wise and wondrous ;\"\nat another time wiling the bold trout, Salmo Ferox,\nfrom the depths of Loch Awe; and anon, waking \"\nthe echoes with a lofty strain, as he hails the morn,\namidst the wilds of Morven.\nSimpson.\u2014Four have answered the summons\u2014\nyou forget Captain Medwin's \"Angler in Wales.\"\nFisher.\u2014He is a spirit of another class, who has\napproached the circle unbidden. The \"Angler in\nWales \" ! why I see not the least trace of the angler\nI throughout the two volumes. He might as well\nL have \"unbuckled his mail\"\u2014stuffed with frag-\nb ments of \" travellers' tales \" and scraps from the\nL feast of languages\u2014at Calcutta, and called his book\n\u2022j the \"Angler in Hindostan.\" Independent of the\n3 misnomer, it is not written in the spirit of an\nangler. How could it % when the doer, whoever\nhe may be, probably never handled a rod, or felt\nthe inspiration of the art, in his life. The calm\nand cheerfuh spirit, which the love and practice of\nI angling inspire, is not to be found in the book.\nFrom his \" scattering his water\" on Byron's ashes,\nit is not difficult to read his riddle. The noble\nbard should have dedicated one of his poems to\nhis friend\u2014Heaven save us from such friends !\u2014\nand appointed him one of his executors. Then,\nperhaps, Rogers, Moore, and Hobhouse might have\nmi\n 5\u00bb\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n-f\n0\\\nbeen saved from the blunt, clumsy sabre of his\nsatire, which only mangles, but does not cut; and\nByron himself not have been shown up by his\nfriend as a petulant coxcomb and a flash blackguard. I cannot for a moment believe that Byron,\nwith all his faults, was the despicable Character that\nMedwin, soi-disant Byron's friend, and Angler in\nWales, represent him.\nSimpson.\u2014Take a cigar, Fisher, or you will lose\nyour temper; and tell us calmly what scandal about\nLord Byron it is that moves your bile.\nJ% Fisher.\u2014I might then tell you nearly all that is\nsaid about him in the book. He is represented, on the\nday that the author of the ' f Pleasures of Memory \"\nand of \"Italy\", was expected to call on him, ordering his bulldog and his monkey into the .billiard-\nroom, where he intended to receive his visitor, for\nthe purpose of annoying him. When Mr. Rogers\nentered, it is said the dog rushed furiously at him,\nand was encouraged by Byron, while, without noticing his visitor, he pretended to call the brute off.\nAt length he thought good to discover the cause of\nthe affray, to kick Tiger off, and press his \" dear\nfriend\" in his arms,\u2014to the great entertainment,\nI conclude, if the story be true, of the toadeaters\npresent, who flattered and encouraged the noble\npoet in his wayward follies as the price of their\nadmission to his society; and who, when he was\nin his grave, for the sake of dishonourable 'gain,\nexposed and exaggerated his follies and his vices,\nMM\nVl\\, vyp\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n59\nand held him up to the contempt of the world. If\nthis story were true, Byron and his bulldog should\nhave been served in the same manner that Lieutenant\nBowling served Roderick Random's brutal cousin\nand his quadruped auxiliaries. Tiger should have\nbeen silenced with a blow from a shillelagh, and his\nmaster floored by a right-handed hit between the\neyes, and afterwards kicked as he lay, ad putorem\nusque, as a reward for his unmanly conduct. 1\nthink I know one living poet who would have\ndone it, had he been served so, and have made\nthe jackals grin on the wrong side of the face had\nhe observed them encouraging the fun by their\nsardonic smiles, ad examplar regis, after the fashion\nof the lion, upon whom they then fawned, when\nliving, but preyed, like unclean animals as they\nwere, upon his carcase when dead. It is no joke\nto have a bulldog within a couple of yards of you,\nwatching an opportunity to rush in and seize you\nby the throat. I know what the feeling is, and\ntherefore am disposed to think very indifferently of\nthe man who would wantonly place another in such\na situation. I was once passing over a lonely moor\nin the north of England, when I came suddenly\nupon a gipsy's encampment, and before I perceived\n. any of the party, a long-backed, bow-legged, brindled\nbulldog made towards me, showing his formidable\nteeth, ahd eyes glaring with rage. I stood still the\nmoment I saw him, and he was just crouching preparatory to a spring, when his master, who had\n8*s\u00abj5!S5\u00bbb^S^'\n m\n60\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nobserved him rush from under the cart, called him\noff. \" He is a savage-looking animal,\" said.I to the\nman, as the dog skulked slowly to his resting-place.\n\" He is a savage,\" replied the man, \" and we never\nlet him lowse but in places where we dinna expect\nto meet strangers. It's weel for ye that I saw him\nspring up, or he wad hae had your thropple out\nafore ye could cry 'Jack Robison.'\" I felt the\ntruth of this at the moment most forcibly, as I was\nwalking, in consequence of the heat of the day,\nwith no handkerchief on and my neck bare. I\nafterwards learnt that the savage disposition of\nthis dog was purposely encouraged by his owner,\u2014\nwho occasionally smuggled a Httle whisky from the\nScottish side into England,\u2014for the purpose of\nkeeping excisemen at a distance.\nSimpson.\u2014I am not so sceptical as you are. I\ncan believe this of Byron.\nFisher.\u2014Can you ? Then you entertain more\nuncharitable feelings towards his memory than I\ndo, for what can you think of the man who could\nbe guilty of such an act of wanton cruelty and insult\nto a friend, or acquaintance, if you please, who was\nneither young nor strong ? To have placed a pailful\nof water over the door, and thus practically have\ngiven him a cool reception as he entered, would\nhave been a better joke, and more excusable.\nSimpson.\u2014I think it the act of a man whose.\nbetter feelings had been brutalized by having little\nor no social intercourse with those whose conduct,\ni\nm\nft\n =3 V\ndH\n^\nVK\u00bb\nTO\u00a3 ANGLERS SOUVENIR\nor manly reproof, might repress or correct those\ndisgraceful freaks which a man of unsettled mind\nand capricious temper is liable to indulge in, when\nsurrounded only by those who are far beneath him,\nor whose only passport to his company is their\nperfect compliance with, and applause of, everything that he says or does. I have more than once\nseen a man of really good heart, in a moment when\nhe forgot himself, give pain to a long-tried, worthy\nfriend, to gratify a small knot of ephemeral acquaintances by whom he happened to be surrounded.\u2014\nWere you never caught yourself, scarcely compos,\nby a grave old friend, leading the revels among a\ngraceless crew, whom, in your sober senses and in\n\" daylight, you would be ashamed to be seen with ?\nand, as he left the room, more in sorrow than in\nanger, have you not joined in the laugh which the\nprofessed wit of the party raised at his expense 1\nFisher.\u2014I am still sceptical. But even should\na person, not thoroughly insensible to every better\nfeeling, find himself in the last predicament, would\nhe not, on reflection, be ashamed of his conduct,\nendeavour to make reparation to his friend, and\nshun the company of the flatterers who corrupt\nhim'?\nSimpson.\u2014In such manner I believe Byron would\nact.\nFisher.\u2014Byron's living with another man's wife,\nthe Countess Guicciola, is as well known as his\nfeat of swimming across the Hellespont. She had\n 62\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nabandoned for him husband, home, and good name\n\u2014if there be such a thing as female reputation in\nItaly;\u2014and yet he is represented as speaking of\nher in a most unfeeling manner to one of his ,\ns \" friends,\" just after she had passed them on a\nride : \"I loved her for three weeks,\u2014what a red-\nS> f headed thing it is 1\" This \" red-headed thing,\" at\n~ : the same time, living with him as a wife ! Believe\n\u00a7- -*^-' thi* \u00b0f Byron who likes, not I. It is more likely\n^ that the reporter \"lies\u2014under a mistake,\" as Byron\n.\"-.', himself writes, than that the author of \"Childe\nHarold \" was so heartless a being.\nA Simpson.\u2014I am inclined to think that these\nsA vgk anecdotes, which give so unfavourable an account\nBaP .\nI^E of Byron, have prejudiced you against the general\n|||} ,. merits of the book as a work on angling.\nfs&i'V' Fisher.\u2014Work on angling !\u2014though you say\n5\u00a7||\u00a3 \/ you have looked it through, you cannot have read\ntl!*^ **\u00bb or y\u00b0u wou^ never allude to it as a work on\ni^KyT angling. Why, there is nothing in it but what\n\u2022JjjJO Rammohun Roy, who never caught a trout in his\n^$Jjf life, might have written with the aid of a sixpenny\n\"Art of Anghng.\" So far from entertaining any\nt1 prejudice against the book, I read on past the--\nscandalous anecdotes about Byron, till I was fairly\nII^Si-I brought up by a \"Poem\" at the end, about Julian\n^lIliK I:n<^ Grizele, the Pindarries, ZaKm, Spahees, Beils\n\/^|g|||^\\ Ghebres, Goorkhas, Bringarries, etc., etc. I then\n* fairly saw land. The \"thing\" had been \"done\"\nt expressly for the circulating libraries, with the\n$0%\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n\\\n:{M\nchance of hooking an angler from the title. There\nis a capital blunder in his first volume, where he\ngives a quotation from Nemesian, as illustrative of\nthe instinct of a bitch. He must have picked the\npassage up somewhere, ready cut and dry, for it is\nevident he cannot have read the context. The\npoet means that a bitch, when her whelps are surrounded by a circle of fire, will rescue the best first,\nfrom an instinctive knowledge of its excellence.\nThe original passage,\u2014\n\" rapit rictu primum, portatque cubili,\nMox alium, mox deinde alium. Sic conscia mater\nSegfegat egregiam sobolem virtutis amore,\"\u2014\nhe ignorantly renders :\n\" with opening jaws, first one,\nAnd then another, to her hutch she bears ;\nThe mother, conscious of their danger, thus\nWith an instinctive fondness saves her young.\"\nConscious of their danger! What a wonderful\ninstance of instinct in the bitch, and of sagacity in\nthe plumeless biped\u2014or unplumed rather, for he\nappears to have been feathered once\u2014who discovered such a meaning in the lines ! Send the\nbottle round. Sandy, why are you looking so glum 1\nAngler in Wales, whoever thou art, Yaleas !\nTweddell.\u2014I am not looking glum, I am only\ngetting weary of your lengthy criticism on the\n\" Angler in Wales.\" I have read some very clever\nextracts from it, and I think every author has a\nright to prefix what title he pleases to his book.\nw\nm\n 64\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nFisher.\u2014Do you 1 Then if \" Angling,\" \" Angling\"\nRecollections,\" and so forth, prove taking titles, we\nshall soon have Anglers in Italy, France, Holland,\nGermany, Egypt, America, Africa, and New South\nWales;\u2014that there are several pocket-anglers in the\nlatter colony, on public service, is well known; and\neven ladies who keep a journal of their travels, and\nproduce twins\u2014handsome foolscap octavos\u2014every\ntwelvemonth, will be tempted to usher in the \"hot-\npressed darlings\" as the production of an \" Angler,\"\nan appellation which may, in another sense, be\ncorrect, as the word is Epicosne, should the fair\nauthoress bs a spinster.\nSimpson.\u2014Have you seen Hansard's \" Trout and\nSalmon Fishing in Wales\" ?\nFisher.\u2014Why need you ask, when you know\nthat I buy every new book on angling that appears ?\nIt is a perfect gazetteer of every lake and stream in\nthe Principality, at once so ample and so accurate\nthat I suspect the author must have been several\nyears engaged in the*Ordnance Survey. I see that\nhe has resumed in his book a considerable portion |\nof the article \" Angling,\" which he must have furnished to Brewster's Edinburgh Encyclopsedia^.-^o7\nengler should go into Wales without taking Mr.\nHansard's book in his .pocket* The \"Angler in\nIreland\" appears to have had excellent sport; but I\nreally do not perceive the consistency of his making\nso many half-apologies for saying so much about\nangling, when, from the title of his book, we are\nMz> M\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n1\nI\nV\nf\nw\nm\nm.\nled to expect that anghng would form his principal\nsubject. One might suppose that his book was first\nwritten as an account of a tour generally, and that\nthe portions which treat more expressly of angling\nwere afterwards dovetailed in. He, however,\nwrites like one who could make a long and clever\ncast, and who has a heart to feel all the beauties\nwhich he exposed to the honest cultivator of the\ngentle art. His book will bear reading a second\ntime, even by one who may think him too partial\nto the \"orange-fly,\" and a leetle too ostentatious\nof chronicling his punctual observance of the\n\"Sabbath.\" Were it not for his stating that he\ngoes to church, I should be sometimes inclined to\nsuspect him to be a hired distributor of tracts\nto some sectarian \" Society for Converting the\nHeathen.\" Stephen Oliver, too, the Yorkshireman,\nwho makes the Border counties\u2014Northumberland,\nCumberland, and Westmoreland\u2014the scene of his\nangling recollections, now and then gives us a touch\nof the mock sublime, and writes as if he had just\nbeen refreshing' his memory from Harvey's \" Meditations in a Flower Garden.\" But fill up a bumper\n\u2014here's to them all, and success attend them : The\nAngler in Ireland, Hansard, and Oliver,\u2014light\nhearts and well-filled creels, with a good account of\ntheir next piscatory campaigns !\nSimpson.\u2014There is a clever little book, \"Maxims\nand Hints for an Angler,\" with illustrations by\nSeymour, which you have not mentioned.\n Ill\n66\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nFisher.\u2014It is a clever little book, but not of\nthis year's brood ; and the hints and maxims of the\nauthor, who modestly styles himself a \" bungler,\" I\nshould think would do credit to any of the adepts\nof the Houghton Club. I see, from the illustrations,\nthat the members are cased up to the fork in enormous boots, and that a smockfrocked or liveried\nattendant, with a landing-net, is always in waiting\nto do the honours in introducing the trout to a new\nelement. Where gentlemen \"whip\"\u2014I wish the\nauthor would discard the cockneyism next edition\n\u2014with kid gloves on, Jack I am inclined to think\nwill often be as good as his master in securing the\nfish, and entitled to share the honours of the capture. The angling characters introduced in the\nillustrations are portraits, 1 understand, of members\nof the club. That of the stout gentleman slipping\noff the bridge on a windy day, is said to be the\nportrait of an eminent sculptor, and I have heard\nthat he furnished Seymour with the sketch from\nwhich the design was made.\nSimpson.\u2014Have you ever seen any American\nbooks on angling, Fisher ?\nFisher.\u2014No. I do not think there are any\npublished. Brother Jonathan is not yet sufficiently\ncivilized to produce anything original on the gentle\nart. There is good trout-fishing in America, and\nthe streams, which are all free, are much less fished\nthan in our island, \" from the small number of\ngentlemen,\" as an American writer says, \"who are\nHip\n m\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nat leisure to give their time' to it.\" We are further\nassured, by the same authority, that ladies do ncjfc\nso often partake of this amusement in the States as\nin England.\nSimpson.\u2014Lady anglers\u2014at least for fish\u2014are far\nfrom numerous in England, so far as my observation extends. I have not seen one for these last\nthree years, though I heard of one the other day\ntumbling out of a punt, as she was angling for\ngudgeons with her father in the Lea, near Bow.\nShe was soon fished up; and after being treated,\nsecundum artem,\u2014according to the directions of\nthe Humane Society,\u2014came to herself, and was\nconveyed home in a cab, as she had lost one of\nher shoes.\nFisher.\u2014There is one mentioned in the \"Angler\nin Wales,\" who is in the habit of regularly fishing\nfly, attended by her abigail. This lady appears,\nfrom what is said of her, to be as well acquainted\nwith the turf as the stream ; and Chiffney or Scott\nmight take lessons from her in the art of training\nand managing the race-horse. She is musical, too.\nHow delightful to hear the syren, familiar with th*e\nbeauties of Rossini, after her return from giving\nher hunter a breathing,\n\"Whistle sweet a diuretic strain!\"\nI do not like to see ladies either angling or playing on the fiddle. These are not ladylike accomplishments, any more than smoothing the chins of\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbristle-bearded coalheavers is a feminine employment. I cannot bear a female barber or a male\n\"chamber-maid.\" Do many ladies angle in Scotland, Tweddell 1\nTweddell.\u2014Not to my knowledge. I have\nknown a lady once or twice try a few casts with a\ngentleman's rod, and hook a trout too, but I cannot\nsay that I ever knew one who was a professional\nfly-fisher. I, however, once saw a woman kill two\nsalmon, with a fly, in the Tweed, about a mile\nabove Kelso, in March 1832. She fished from a\nboat, which was also managed by a female companion. I was out with a friend the same day, and\nthough we had several rises, we both failed in killing a single salmon.\nFisher.\u2014Gedant braccae stolae,\u2014\" Fie, Sandy,\nyield the breeks to Meg!\"\u2014What kind of sport\nhave you had in trout-fishing in your part of the\ncountry this season 1\nTweddell.\u2014Not very good, except in the early\npart. In such a dry summer as this has been there\nis not much sport after sheep-washing begins, unless\nthere be a good spate shortly after to purify the\nstreams. During sheep-washing, and for a fortnight or three weeks afterwards, trout are very shy\nof rising, more especially if the water be low. I\nhaVe often spoken with old anglers about the cause\nof this, and have heard different reasons assigned\nfor this shyness of the trout. One says that they\nare sick, in consequence of the water being im- -\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n69\nm\npregnated with the tar and grease which is washed\nfrom the fleeces of the sheep ; another, that it is as\nmuch owing to the dung from their hind-quarters,\nas the greasy tar is not incorporated with the water,\nbut floats, like a rainbow-coloured film, on the\nsurface ; and a third says they are gorged with\nthe ticks and vermin which are dislodged from tho\nfleece in the washing. To this last opinion I am\ninclined to give very Httle credit ; but I think the\ntrout may be disordered by the joint effects of the\ngreasy tar and dung, and alarmed by the disturbance in different parts of the stream. I have\nseen the scum of the tar by the side of the stream,\nin considerable quantity, ten days after the sheep-\nwashing was over. A good spate, however, seldom\nfails to cure the trout and restore their appetite.\nI saw an instance of sick trout this year, but not ,\nin consequence of sheep-washing. It was in a\nstream which was much swollen from a heavy rain\nthe day before, and the water was very much discoloured and thick, as if a newly-ploughed field\nhad been overflowed and the soil washed away, or\nas if a bank of earth had fallen in. The water was\nby no means so high as I have frequently seen it,\nbut in mid-channel it was almost black; and shoals\nof small trout crowded to the sides, so weak and\nhelpless,\u2014wabbling about as if they were fuddled,\n\u2014that you might take them out with your hands.\nSimpson.\u2014I do not think that this has been a\nvery good season for fly-fishing anywhere. A friend\n r\n70\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nof mine in Herefordshire informs me that there\nhas been a deficiency of sport in that part of the\ncountry, and he complains much of the rivers being\nnetted by poachers.\nFisher.\u2014The same may be said of some of the\nbest trout streams in Yorkshire and Westmoreland. The Eure, the Ribble, the Lune, the Low-\nther, the Esk, and the Eamont, have not afforded-\naverage sport this season, as I can testify, both\nfrom my own experience and that of others. Some\nof them have been completely dragged with nets\nfor miles ; and I have seen the waters of more than\none of them of a chalky colour for several days,\nand fish lying dead by their sides, from the more\ndestructive practice of liming. Should these practices be continued, fly-fishers will have no option\n. but to emigrate, and leave the fair but troutless\nstreams of England for the rivers and lochs of\nConnemara, or for the virgin waters of the middle\nand northern States of America, where never yet\ntrout were deluded by the gay deceivers of\nO'Shaughnessey, Chevalier, or Widow Phun. Ungrateful country ! thou wilt mourn the loss of thy\nkindest children too late, when thou hearest of\nthem extending civilization, and \\ introducing a\nknowledge of the gentle art among the wild men of\nGal way, or the red man that dwell by Lake Huron,\nwhen no longer the trout leaps in thy streams, and\nwhen no more the angler's reel is heard sounding\non their banks. The gigantic trout of Lake Huron,\nW\nm\na*\n*tM\nmm\n *^\u00a7n\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n(Salmo Amethystinus,) weighing one hundred and\nforty pounds, has never yet been captured by a\nnative angler,\u2014red man, or Yankee ;\u2014and if ever\nhe be captured, it is a native of the British\nskilled in all the mysteries of the art\u2014who* can\nneatly spin a minnow or troll, as well as lightly\nthrow a fly\u2014who will achieve the glorious deed.\nSimpson.\u2014You are romancing now, when you\ntalk of a trout weighing one hundred and forty\npounds.\nFisher.\u2014I am not A gigantic species of trout,\nsaid to attain that weight, from Lake Huron, is\nactually described by Dr. Mitchell, a distinguished\nAmerican naturalist; and the specific name, Amethystinus, has been applied to it from the purplish\ntinge of its teeth. For my own part, I have no\ndoubt of the fact; and should have no objection\nto make one of a party to proceed to Lake Huron,\nfor the purpose of endeavouring to capture one of\nthose Leviathans ;\u2014that is, provided the expenses\nwere defrayed by Government or by public subscription. And even should the expedition fail in\nits object,\u2014Captain Parry did not reach the North\nPole, nor Captain Ross discover the North-West\nPassage,\u2014yet would the public derive immense\ngratification from a circumstantial report of our\nsayings and doings ; for\n\" Quarter-day would see us back,\nWith each a volume in his pack.\"\nThere are also trouts weighing from twenty to sixty\n ir\n72\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\npounds in Lake.Michigan ; and some of the weight\nof ninety pounds are said to have been taken\nin the straits of Michilimackinack\u2014a name well\nworthy of a ninety pounder\u2014which connect Lake\nHuron with Lake Michigan.\nSimpson. \u2014A gentleman of the name of \"Vigne, a\nmember of Lincoln's Inn, took a trip to America,\nabout three years ago, during the long vacation,\nand enjoyed a few days' fly-fishing in Pennsylvania.\nHe had some fair sport in the Juniata, one of the\ntributaries- of the Susquehannah. The trout were\nfrom half a pound to three pounds in weight; and\nin little more than two hours' fishing he caught\nabout six dozen. He mentions the red-hackle as\nthe best fly that an angler can throw in Spring\nCreek.\nFisher.\u2014The red-hackle is deadly on all waters,\nthough not at all times. It is one of my three\ntypes for the colour of flies. The red, black, and\ngrouse hackle, are with me standards, and all the\ntrout-flies which I dress are only varieties of these,\nwith the addition of wings, and a difference of \u00bb\nshade in the dubbing. Those,which I range under\nthe red type comprehend the various shades from\n\u25a0 scarlet to lemon colour. The second extends from\npositive black, through the various shades of the\nmartin's wing and leaden-coloured hackles, to the\nbluish-grey feather of the tern. With the grouse\nhackle are classed the various shades of brown,\nfrom the chesnut of the pheasant to the grey-\nM>^m.\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ni\nbrown of the partridge. With the last I also place\nmy flies with speckled wings, from the May-fly to\nthe grey drake and feathers of the Guinea-fowl.\nIn conformity with this arrangement, my fly-book\nconsists of three principal divisions, each of which\nagain consists of two compartments, one for hackles\nproper, and the other for winged flies; and I can\nturn to the colour and suit myself with a hook of\nthe size wanted with the greatest facility.\nTweddell.\u2014I have known some gentlemen who\nwere seldom successful in taking many trout, though\ntheir assortment of flies was most extensive. They\nhave wanted perseverance, and have wasted their\ntime and lost their patience in fiddle-faddling\nand changing their flies, when they should have\njiept fishing on. I seldom change my flies after\nbeginning to fish, in a stream which I am well\nacquainted with, though I may sometimes keep\nwalking and throwing for two or three hours, and\nscarcely catching so many fish. I have, notwithstanding, continued using the same flies\u2014because\nI was satisfied I could put on none more likely\u2014\ntill I found the fish in a humour to feed; and have\nfilled my creel, when others less persevering, but\nwho had perhaps tried a dozen different flies, walked\nhome with their creels toom. I do not think it a\ngood plan for an angler always to be adding flies\nto a stock which he is not likely to use up for years.\nIn looking over a large book of flies, belonging to a\ngentleman who prided himself on their number and\nif\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nvariety, I have found many moth-eaten and not fit\nfor use. An excellent fly-fisher of my acquaintance\ngenerally carries his whole stock in the two pockets\nof an old Scots' Almanack, with two or three links\nof salmon-flies between the leaves. There is one\nof the salmon-flies which he shows as a trophy. It\nis rather a plain-looking one, with a yellowish-\nbrown coloured body, brown wings of a bittern's\nfeather, with a blood-red hackle for legs, and the\nlink of a pepper and salt mixture, formed of five\nblack and five white horse-hairs. With this fly he\nkilled, in one day, five salmon, the last of which\nweighed twenty-five pounds, the largest that he\nhad ever taken with the fly. He landed this last\nsalmon after a severe contest of upwards of an\nhour, during the whole of which the fish never\nsulked, but kept continually dashing about the\npool where he was hooked, which was not more\nthan eighty yards long, and was too shallow at its\nhead to allow of his pushing up the stream; and\nthe angler managed to keep his station towards\nthe foot, to prevent his escape downwards. There\nis nothing like keeping a fish in constant exercise\nfor speedily killing mrm I have seen many a good\nfish lost by being trifled with\u2014holding him lightly\nor allowing him more line than you can manage\u2014\nwhen he contrives either to break the link or\nentangle the line, and escape. I never allow a\nsalmon a slack line, and thus give him the benefit\nof a run, when he is almost certain to carry all\nle^ii\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\naway. Every good salmon-fisher has a tolerably\ncorrect notion what strain his tackle will bear, and\nholds his fish with a firm, though, when required,\nnot unyielding hand, and keeps him constantly\nmoving. The combined effect of fear and violent\nexertion produces, I am inclined to think, a sort of\napoplexy, or fit of stupor, in the fish ; and whenever\nhe is suspected to be in such a state he ought to\nbe landed as soon as possible, before he recovers. I\nhave seen a large trout quite stupid and exhausted\nwhen brought towards the shore, but, in consequence of not being quickly landed, recover his\nstrength, and break away. The moment that an\nangler brings his fish towards the shore, he ought\nto be prepared to land him.\nr Fisher.\u2014I quite agree with you that both\nsalmon and trout are seized, in consequence of\ntheir struggles and their fright, with something\nlike a fit, which, for a t^me, renders them powerless. Perhaps when they are so hooked that the\nmouth cannot be regularly closed when the line is\nheld tight, their free breathing may be interrupted,\nand similar effects produced in a fish as in a human\nsubject when his cravat is tightly twisted in the\nmurderous gripe of a cowardly antagonist. Whenever you have brought a fish, in such a state, to the\nshore, net him or gaff him directly. Have the\n\"click\" into him wherever you best can, and do\nnot tickle him to his senses again by two or three\nmisdirected attempts at his gills, for fear of ripping\n 76\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nhis side. One fish gaffed by the side is better than\na dozen missed by trying for his gills. Get him by\nthe gills, if you can, but get him however. Down\non your knees as you draw him to the bank, and\n, quickly, quietly, and firmly fix the hook of the gaff\nin him, and out with him, as a fisherman from\nRobin Hood's Bay hauls a cod from the hold of\na five-man boat. Kill him directly with a few\nsmart blows on the head, with a life-preserver, if\nyou have one in your pocket; if not, with any stick\nor cobble-stone heavy enough; slip through his\ngills a cord, one end of which you \"will fasten to\na bank-runner, or the stump of a tree, and throw\nhim into the water till you want him. He will eat\nas firm again as he would do had you left him to\ndie on the shore by inches,\u2014a dreadfully protracted\ndeath to a salmon three feet long, or a human\nbeing upwards of six feet high.\nSimpson.\u2014I never caught a salmon in my life,\nthough I have killed some trout which for size\nmight be considered such. I should, however, like\nmuch to catch a few \"brace\" of salmon before I\nhang up my rod as a votive offering to the water\nnymphs. But it seems you cannot depend on\ncatching salmon with the rod, however skilful,\nthough you should fish for a month, unless you\ngo to the west of Ireland, or the extreme north\nof Scotland. Sir Humphrey Davy has said\n\"fuit\" of salmon-fishing in the southern counties\nof Scotland; and the \"Angler in Ireland\" declares\n \u25a0GM\nI\n(ML\nlife\n7WS ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthat no good salmon-fishing is to be expected in\nWales.\nFisher.\u2014Then off with you next spring, either\nto Connemara or Inverness-shire. \"Hope deferred\nmaketh the heart sick;\" so if you have conceived\nan affection for salmon-fishing, let not your long-\ndeferred wishes steal away the roses from your\ncheek,\u2014you have now a colour like a peony,\nSimpson,\u2014and present you with wrinkled crow-\ntoes in exchange. As soon as the green leaves\nbegin to appear on the quickset hedge of your\ngarden, start by the first steamer for Aberdeen,\nand thence find your way as you best can to the\nSpey, the Ness, the Beauly, the Shinn, the Oykell,\nthe Ainag, the Cassly, or the Carron; and if you\nhave not sport to your satisfaction, between 10th\nApril and 10th May, cross the country to Port-\npatrick, take the steamer to Donaghadee, and then\nset off for Connemara as fast as you can hie, and\nyou will be there time enough to have a month's\ngood fishing in the Costello, the Spiddle, or\n\" The sweet flowing river of Ballinahinch.\"\nI should like extremely to visit Connemara myself,\n\" the next parish to America,\" as the Angler in\nIreland says,\u2014\n\" Sed fugit interea, fugit irreparabile tempos,\nSingula dum capti circumvectamur amore.\"\n\" With angling enraptured, at ease sitting here,\nWhile we talk of the scenes of our fishing next year,\n mr\n78\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nHow tha salmon we'll tempt with a neatly dressed fly\nThe time that will never return hastens by.\"\nWhether fishing or talking about it,\u2014recounting\npast pleasures, or anticipating future,\u2014pulling out\ntrouts as fast as we can throw in, or thinking time\nslow when wearying for a rise,\u2014in joy or in sorrow,\nia sickness or in health, getting or spending,\u2014Old\nTime, however we may fancy him moving, fast or\nslow, still holds equably on his silent, stealthy pace;\nand,\n\" Let the day be ever so long,\nAt length it ringeth to evensong.\"\nThese candles, however, contrary to the usual\nprogress of things, are growing gradually shorter.\nTweddell, I wish you would give us another song,\nbefore they reach the vanishing point. You never\nsing now, I believe, Simpson,\u2014the more's the\npity,\u2014either at kirk or merry meeting.\nSimpson.\u2014That is because you never avail yourself of an opportunity of hearing me. I am rather\n\\\\ out of song\u2014not of voice\u2014at this time, remember-\nI x ing nothing but a few old ones, which were standards\nJutVj in the days of Incledon, but are now quite out of\nIJffiO.Y fashion, or I would give you a treat directly.\nsaV Fisher.\u2014I can excuse you, for I have some in\nOK distinct recollection of once hearing you bawling\n5|rv out in the \" Storm,\" and, in conjunction, though\nNjKY not in concert, with another amateur, completely\nW\\\/Tj reversing \"Alls WelL\" But come, Sandy, do\n\\BwQ favour us, if you please, and, for to-night, this shall\n\/it\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n79\npositively be \" the last time of asking.\" Something\nfishy, if you have such a thing in the cupboard of\nyour memory.\nTweddell.\u2014I have just been rummaging, and\nI think I have hit upon the very thing; but I\nexpect that you will sing after me.\nFisher.\u2014So I will, but not to-night. I will\nchant matins, in the morning, in a style that will\nenrapture you. If there be a lark within hearing,\nhe will make himself hoarse till May in feeble\nemulation. Silence ! have done making that noise\nwith the stopper on the table, Simpson. You are\ntrying to recollect some of your old \"composers,\"\nI perceive. Get the start of him, Tweddell.\nTweddell.\u2014Well then, since such is your wish,\nyou shall have another stave.\n[raft*\nm\nTHE ANGLER'S EVEN-SONG.\nm\nMm\nSober, eve is approaching, the sun is now set,\nThough his beams on the hill-top are lingering yet;\nThe west wind is still, and more clearly is heard\nIn meadow and forest the note of each bird:\nThe crows to their roost are now winging their way:\nIt is time to give over my fishing to-day.\nI arose in the morn, ere the sun could prevail\nTo disperse the grey mist that hung low in the vale.\nTo the linn I went straight, distant ten miles or more,\nWhere the stream rushes down with a bound and a roar\nIn the black pool below I had scarce thrown my '.\nEre a trout seized the fly, and directly was mi\nfj\n fff\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n\\ -\nHow they rose, and I hooked them, 'twere needless to tell.\nI fished down the stream to the lone cradle-well,\nWhere I sat myself down on a stone that was nigh,\n(For the sun now was bright, and the trouts getting shy;)\nA flask of good whisky I had not failed to bring,\nAnd I chasten'd its strength With a dash from the spring.\nRefreshed then I rose, and ascended the hill,\nTo gaze on the landscape so lonely and still;\nWhere I met an old shepherd, and near him lay down,\nAt the back of a cairn, where the heather was brown ;\nAnd we talked of old times, and he sang an old strain,\nTill 'twas time to be gone to my fishing again.\nThough my creel be so large, to the lid closely filled,\nIt will not hold the trouts which since morning I've killed;\nI must string on a withy three dozen or more,\u2014\nI ne'er in a day caught so many before,\u2014\nBut though heavy my creel, yet my heart is so light\nThat I'll sing a song of my fishing at night.\nm\nSimpson.\u2014Now, a toast to conclude with\nTweddell.\nTweddell.\u2014\" The gentle art of Angling !\"\nFisher.\u2014A charming toast; no ballroom belle .so\ndeserving of a bumper. \" Her ways are the ways\nof pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.\"\nSimpson.\u2014The best thing you have said to-night,\nFisher; and most cordially do I say, Ditto.\n[Exeunt omnes.\n ffll\n ANGLE-LAND.\nNotwithstanding what learned antiquaries and\nhistorians have said about the name of England,\nor Angle-land, being derived from the Angles, an\nobscure tribe from Jutland\u2014which, by the way, is\nnever mentioned by our most ancient annalists as\nforming a considerable body of the Saxon invaders\nof Britain\u2014it is not unlikely that they may all\nhave been hunting on a false scent. The most\nobvious derivation' is from Anghng, the mystery of\ncatching fish with rod and line ; an elegant branch\nof the fine arts, in which the people of this country\nexcel all other nations, and.the instinctive love of\nwhich, becoming more intense in each succeeding\ngeneration, they probably derive, from an illustrious race of angling ancestors, who flourished the\nlong rod during the Heptarchy; and from whom\nthe seven kingdoms, when united under one crown,\nwere called Aengle-land ; a name in which all would\ncordially agree as peculiarly appropriate, since, from\nSt. Michael's Mount to the Frith of Forth\u2014which\nwe believe was the extent of \" Old\" England\u2014they\nwere anglers all. Hence, natio Anglia est; and till\nthe end of time may the love of her children towards\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthe gentle art, and their skill in its exercise, continue to render the name appropriate ;\u2014for so all\n^piscatory authors, booksellers, publishers, and\ntackle-makers are in duty bound to pray. The\nconjecture that the name Anglia, or Aengle-land,\nis derived from \"angling,\" will be considerably\nstrengthened when we consider that the more - ||\nancient name, Britannia, is most probably derived c^^\nfrom Britthyl, a trout, meaning the country abound- \u00abt|\u00a7\u00a7|\ning in trouts ; a much more feasible etymology jffSjfc\nthan that of Humphrey Lhuyd, who derives it from s|||\nBryd and Cam, fertile and fair: a far-fetched ^1\netymology, for which Buchanan\u2014a savage with the ^jfS\nrod, as the royal breech of James YI. could testify\n\u2014scourges him soundly. The change of name,\nfrom Land of Trouts to Land of Anglers, is at once\nsimple and natural, and exactly what a philosophical\netymologist would be most likely to infer. Let any\nperson look at the map of England, including in\nhis survey Scotland, Ireland, and the Principality,\n\u2014that is, if he have not personally visited each\ncountry, which every gentleman, at least, ought to P\ndo before making the tour of Europe,\u2014and from\nthe brooks, becks, and bums which he will see\nrising in all directions, and winding through the\ncountry, at last forming a noble river\u2014capable of\nbnaring on. its bosom the native oak which erst\nshaded its banks,but now formed to bear Britannia's\nthunders, and \"to quell the depths below,\"\u2014and\nhe will directly perceive, from the very physical\niH\n\"^^^^^^^^^^M.\n J\n rnr\nwi\nm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n\u00a3*\nconstitution of the country, that England is peculiarly adapted to form a race of anglers. The very\nclimate, which certain foreigners decry as being\ndull and cloudy, is decidedly in favour of the\nangler; for, notwithstanding the number and excellence of our streams, had we the clear atmosphere\nand cloudless skies of Italy, the fly-fisher's occupation would, in a great measure, be gone. Above\nall other classes of Englishmen, the fly-fisher has\nmost reason to be satisfied with the climate of his\nown country; and were a course of anghng to form\n\u2014as it ought\u2014a branch of liberal education, we\nshould not have so many absentees misspending\ntheir money and their time, and losing the freshness of honest English feeling in the enervating\nclimate and degraded society of Italy.\n\" 0 native Britain ! 0 my mother Isle !\nHow shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and\nholy\nTo me, who from thy lak*es and mountain hills,\nThy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks, and seas,\nHave drunk in all my intellectual life,\nAll sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,\nAll adoration of the God in nature,\nAll lovely and all honourable things,\nWhatever makes this mortal spirit feel\nThe joy and greatness of its future being !\" *\nUnder the term \"Angling,\" Professor Rennie\nincludes all kinds of fishing with a hook, in salt\nwater as well as in fresh; and it must be admitted\n* Coleridge, \"Eears in Solitude.\"\n 84\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n-^-though the fact militates against our derivation\nof Anglia from \"Angling\"\u2014that the people of\nSussex, about 678, were so ignorant of the \"gentle\nart,\" that the only fish that they knew how to\ncatch were eels, which they probably managed to\ncapture after the primitive fashion of \"bobbing\"\nwith a pottle of hay. St. Wilfrid, however, taught\nthem the art of fishing with nets, and with hooks\nand lines; and thus enabled them, at a period of\nfamine, to procure a supply of food from their own\nrivers and bays. \" This Bishop,\" says the Venerable\nBede, who records the event, i' gained the affections\nof the people of Sussex to a wonderful degree by\nteaching them this useful art; and they listened\nthe more willingly to his preaching from whom\nthey had received so great a benefit.\" St. Wilfrid\nprobably acquired his knowledge of sea-fishing at\nLindisfarn or Holy Island, where he was educated ;\nanl as angling was allowed to ecclesiastics as a\nrecreation, it is not unlikely that the Saint may\nhave fished fly for salmon in the Tyne, when he\nwas Bishop of Hexham.\nSea-fishing, with hook and line, though comprehended by Professor Rennie under the general term\nI Anghng,\" does not come within the scope of our\n\" Souvenir,\" otherwise we might here insert certain\n\" Recollections of Cod-fishing,\" which, perchance,\nmight prove more lengthy than interesting. We\nwill, however, do better; we will embellish this\nportion of the volume with a few illustrations of\n J\n \\\nnrniiip\n;W.\n I\n tTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n&\\\nw.\n4\njfc\n\\v\nfet\nc'A\n|\\>\\\n^\nm\n\"~iH\n&\n\u25a0trr-\n^te\ntf\n^w\ncoast scenery, which can scarcely fail of exciting\nmost pleasing seaside reminiscences. Behold the\njoint effect of Topham's pencil and Beckwith's\nburin, and read the description of Crabbe :\n\" Turn to the watery world !\u2014but who to thee \u2022\n(A wonder yet unviewed) shall paint\u2014the Sea ?\nVarious and vast, sublime in all its forms,\nWhen lolled by zephyrs, or when roused by storms,\nIts colours changing, when from clouds and sun\nShades after shades upon' the surface run ;\nEmbrowned and horrid now, and now serene,\nIn limpid blue and evanescent green ;\nAnd oft the foggy banks on ocean lie,\nLift the far sail, and cheat th5 experienced eye\nBe it the summer noon; a sandy space\nThe ebbing tide has left upon its place ;\nThen just the hot and stony beach above\nLight twinkhng streams in bright confusion move;\n(Eor heated thus, the warmer ah ascends\nAnd with the cooler in its fall contends.)\nThen the broad bosom of the ocean keeps\nAn equal motion; swelling as it sleeps,\nThen slowly sinking, curling to the strand,\nJFaint lazy waves o'er creep the ridgy sand,\nOr tap the tarry boat with gentle blow,\nAnd back return in silence, smooth and slow.\nShips in the calm seem anchored; for they glide\nOn the still sea, urged solely by the tide.\"\nW\n THE SALMON.\nThe salmon, above all other fish, both from its\nvalue and the sport afforded in its capture, is the\nmost worthy of the angler's attention ; and to hook\nand kill a fine fresh-run lively fish of this species,\nweighing from seven to seventeen pounds, requires\nthe exertion of all his patience and skill. Owing\nto the scarcity of this fish in the south of England,\nanghng for salmon, either with fly, worm, or minnow, is seldom practised south of the Tees. In the\nnorthern counties, where they are more plentiful\u2014\nthe Tyne, in Northumberland, and the Eden and\nthe Derwent, in Cumberland, are the rivers which\nafford the best chance of success to the salmon\nfisher. A good many salmon are caught with the\nrod in the Tweed, during the season, between\nBerwick and Peebles ; but he who wishes to enjoy\nthe sport in its greatest perfection must go farther\nafield, and locate himself for a month beyond the\nTay, or in the wilds of Connemara. With respect\nto sahnon-fishing. in Wales, two recent authors,\nwho both profess to speak from experience, disagree ; the one telling the angler that he must\nexpect no good salmon-fishing in the Principality,\n 'ujraL\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwhile the other represents it as excellent in' more\nstreams than any angler\u2014who commences salmon-\nfishing when he comes of age, and hangs up his\nrod when about seventy, devoting three months\nin each year to the sport, and fishing each stream\nthoroughly\u2014can hope to get through in his lifetime.\n\" 'Tis really painful here to see\nExperienced doctors disagree.\"\nFresh-run salmon\u2014that is, clean fish from the\nsea\u2014begin, in small numbers, to enter most rivers\nin the north of England and in the south of Scotland, about January, if the season be mild; their\nnumbers increasing during the spring months. In\nsevere winters, and when the streams are full from\nthe melting of the snow, their appearance is proportionately delayed, as the salmon has an aversion\nto snow broth. In some rivers their appearance is\nfrom a month to six weeks later than in others;\nand there are streams which they never enter till\nApril, though they ascend others which discharge\nthemselves into, the same estuary in January.\nThe advance-guard of the main body of salmon\nbegin to asceria above the tideway about March\nin early rivers, and enter the fresh water; and\nduring this and the three succeeding months of\nApril, May, and June is the best time for angling\nfor salmon within ten or twelve miles of the\nhighest point-of the river to which the tide flows.\nAbout July they begin to push up towards the\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nhigher part3 of the river, and now enter its smaller\nsubsidiary streams, gradually ascending towards\ntheir sources, during the months of August, September, and October, as floods afford them opportunity of passing the falls, weirs, and shallows.\nShould the weather be frosty, the early fish commonly begin spawning in November, though the\ngreater number spawn in December and January.\nGrilse, the young of the salmon,\u2014which descend\nas smouts or salmon-fry from the spawning ground\nto the sea in April and May,\u2014return to the rivers\nabout the middle of June ; and again descend to\nthe sea in September. Grilse, which on their first\nappearance weigh from two to four pounds, and\nincrease during their abode in fresh water to six\nor seven, take a smaller kind of salmon-fly, dressed\non a hook, No. 4, 5, or 6, according to the state of\nthe water. They may also be angled for with lobworms, a minnow, or a par's tail.\nSalmon, in ascending a river, mostly keep in the\nmiddle of the stream, avoiding the shore, and\nseldom making any stay in pools or weils which\nare much shaded either with steep rocky banks\nor trees. They are most likely to be found a\nlittle below weirs and falls, and towards the'head\nof large pools. As salmon never, or at least very\nrarely, rise at the fly when the water is clear and\nunruffled, the angler need not be apprehensive of\ndisturbing them by wading; for when the water\nis in such a state as to afford him the greatest\n%$sM\nfegfe\n\u25a0s%&^iggfi%^$^mm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nchance of success, they will not be very likely to\nnotice him at the distance of twenty yards. When\nthe angler knows that salmon are in a pool, he\nmust not be content with making two or three\ncasts, as directed by mere book-makers, who probably may never have seen a salmon caught, but\nfish the pool diligently again and again, making\nhis casts frequent; and should he not succeed\nwith one fly, try another of a different shade.\nIn dull weather, when uniformly dark hazy clouds\nare impending, and the barometer points steadily\nto rain, both salmon and trout generally decline\ntaking any kind of bait or flies, whatever may be\nthe state of the water. On such days, the angler\nmay save himself the trouble of going to the waterside\u2014except for the sake of exercise\u2014as he may\nmuch more profitably employ himself at his inn,\nif he be merely a temporary sojourner, in dressing\na few flies, looking over his tackle or his linen, or\nwriting to his male and female friends, cramming\nthe former with accounts of the loads of salmon\nand trout which he has caught\u2014in his dreams ; and\nsoothing the ladies\u2014maids, wives, and widows, who\nare disconsolately singing, from morning to night,\n\"Oh for him back again,\"\u2014with a touch of the\nsentimental, either in verse or prose, accordingly\nas he may be \"i' the vein.\"\nWith a twenty-feet salmon rod\u2014a twig which\nrequires two hands, and cannot be flourished about\nas a gentleman switches h:s cane\u2014an expert angler\n 9o\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR\n^m\nwill find no difficulty in casting twenty-five yards\nof hne, if the banks of the river be clear of wood ;\nand if the wind be direct in his favour, he will be\nable to cast five yards more. It is generally the.\nsafest way to strike as soon as the salmon descends\naftar having seized the fly; for when he has once\ntaken it in his mouth and made a downward plunge\nthere is nothing to be gained by giving him time,\nwhich only affords him an opportunity of blowing\nit out again should he not have hooked himself.\nIn the \"Encyclopaedia Metropolitana,\" article \"Angling,\"\u2014which must have been written by a downright ignoramus, wholly unacquainted with the art\nof which he pretends to treat, and, from the shameful literary errors which have been permitted to\npass uncorrected, revised by a careless editor\u2014is\nthe following direction : \"When you imagine that\nthe salmon has been struck, be cautious in giving\nhim time sufficient to enable him to pouch his bait,\nthat is, swallow it fairly or securely; after this\nfix the hook in him by a gentle twitch.\" A passage\nbetraying greater ignorance of the art of angling\nwas never penned. The doer must have read that\npike, when trolled for with the dead gorge, are to\nbe allowed time to pouch the bait; and he sagely\ndirects that after the salmon has been \"struck,\"\nhe is to be allowed time to take the hook out of\nhis jaw, then swallow it fairly and securely\u2014no\nmumbling it like an old crust allowed ;\u2014and when\nthe hook is thus comfortably lodged in his stomach,\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nV\nw\nm\n\"%\nw\n& \\\nv\nand the process of digestion is commenced, it is to\nbe fixed, for the second and last time, by a \"gentle\ntwitch.'\nThe steadiness and self-possession required to\nmanage a salmon after he is hooked ; the. peculiar\ntact with which the angler now yields to the rush\nof the fish, now holds hard when he appears to be\ngrowing weak, are only to be acquired by practice,\nas they can no more be taught by mere precept\nthan the art of dancing on the tight-rope. To tell\na novice to be steady-when he has hooked a salmon\nfor the first time\u2014now to give him hne, now to\nhold him in\u2014is like telling a young ensign, who\nhas never smelt powder but on field-days, to\ncool and collected in his first battle ; or a cockney\nnot to be frightened when first a covey of partridges starts up before him,.within ten yards of\nhis nose. Favour us, gentle reader, with your\npatience for five minutes, while we attempt to\ngive a sketch of salmon-fishing which will embody\nall the practical information on the subject of\ncatching a salmon which we can convey; and to\nsecure your attention the better, you shall be the\nhero of the tale.\nYou are staying at an inn, or at a friend's house,\non the banks of some river\u2014say the Tweed, the\nTyne, the Spey, or the Costello\u2014for the sake of\nsalmon-fishing. There has been a soaking rain of\neight hours' duration on the Tuesday, which has\nbrought the salmon up, and at six o'clock on\n^%KS8\nM\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nThursday morning\u2014with a pleasant breeze from\nthe south-west, as much blue in the sky as will\nmake trousers for every man in the Royal Navy,\nand a cloud occasionally shading the sun's face\n\u2014your fly is making his first circuit across the\nberry-brown water of a pool in which you know\nthere are at least twenty salmon. For upwards of\nan hour you flog that half mile of water till your\narms ache, but without success, the fish not yet\nbeing disposed to take breakfast. As an excuse for\nresting yourself, you sit down for twenty minutes,\nand change your fly, putting on our No. 1, hare's\nlug aiid bittern's wing. You return to the water\nagain, and ere the new fly has gone the circuit\nthrice, he is served with a special retainer, in the\nshape of a salmon, which, judging from his pull,\nyou estimate at thirty pounds, the largest and\nstrongest, as you verily believe, that you ever\nhooked. With that headlong plunge, as if he\nmeant to bury his head in the gravelly bottom,\nhe has hooked himself. Your hook, which will\nhold thirty pounds dead-weight, is buried in his\njaws to the bend, and now that he feels the barb,\nhe shoots up the stream with the swiftness of an\narrow, and fifty yards of your line are run off\nbefore you dare venture to check him. Now his\nspeed is somewhat diminished, hold on a little,\nand, as the river-side is clear of trees, follow up\nafter him, for it is bad policy to let out Hne to an\nunmanageable length, when you can follow your\n K -\nI\n7yZ\u00a3 ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nfish. There are some awkward rocks towards the\nhead of the pool which may cut your line; turn\nhim, therefore, as soon as you can. Now is the\ntime to show your tact, in putting your tackle to\nthe test without having it snapt by a sudden\nspring. Hold gently\u2014ease off a little\u2014now hold\nagain\u2014how beautifully the rod bends, true from top\nto butt in one uniform curve !\u2014He has a mouth,\nthough bitted for the first time. Bravo ! his nose\nis down the water ! Lead him along.\u2014Gently; he\ngrows restive, and is about again. Though his\ncourse is still up the stream, he seems inclined to\ntack. Now he shoots from bank to bank, like a\nBerwick smack turning up Sea Reach in a gale of\nwind. Watch him well in stays, lest he shoot\nsuddenly ahead, and carry all away. He is near-\ning the rocks\u2014give him the butt and turn him\nagain. He comes round\u2014he cannot bear that\nsteady pull\u2014what excellent tackle; lead him downwards ; he follows reluctantly, but he is beginning\nto fag. Keep winding up your line as you lead\nhim along. He is inchned to take a rest at the\nbottom, but, as you hope to land him, do not grant\nhim a moment. Throw in a large stone at him,\nbut have both your eyes open\u2014one on your rod\nand the other on the place where the fish lies\u2014lest\nhe make a rush when you are stooping for a stone,\nand break loose. Great, at this moment, is the\nadvantage of the angler who has a \" cast\" in his eye!\nThat stone has startled the fish\u2014no rest for salmo\n rrf\n9*\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n\u2014and now he darts to the surface. \"Up wi taily,\" .\nwhat a leap ! it is well you humoured him by\ndipping the top of your rod, or he would have gone\nfree. Again, and again ! These are the last efforts\nof despair, and they have exhausted him. He is\nseized with stupor, like a stout gentleman who has\nsuddenly exerted himself after dinner, or a boxer\nwho has just received a swinging blow on the\njugular. Draw him towards the shore,\u2014he can\nscarcely move a fin. Quick the gaff is in his gills,\nand now you have him out; and as he lies stretched\non the pebbles, with his silver sides glancing in\nthe sun, you think you never caught a handsomer\nfi3h in your life, though you perceive that you\nhave been wrong in you estimate of his weight\n\u2014thirty pounds\u2014for it is evident that he does not\nweigh more than thirteen. It was exactly half-past\nseven when you hooked him, and when you look at\nyour watch after landing him, you perceive that it\nwants a quarter to nine, so that he has kept you in\nexercise exactly an hour and a quarter.\n\" Along the silver streams of Tweed\n'Tis blythe the mimic fly to lead,\nWhen to the hook the salmon springs,\nAnd the line whistles through the rings\nThe boiling eddy see him try,\nThen dashing from the current high,\nTill watchful eye and cautious hand\nHave led his wasted strength to land.\"\nIn anghng for salmon with a minnow\u2014a small\n ed him. He\n 1\n4\nte\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ntrout or brandling may be used for the same purpose\u2014it is necessary to use a long-shanked hook,\nwhich is to be passed in at the mouth and brought\nout between the vent and the tail; and, to prevent\nthe bait slipping down this hook, a small hook,\nwhipped on a piece of, fine gut about three inches\nlong, is to be attached to the link and passed\nthrough the minnow's lips. To facilitate the spinning of the minnow, it is usual to employ two\nswivels, one at the junction of your first and second\nlength of gut, and the other at the junction of the\nsecond and third, with a shot, greater or smaller\naccording to the strength of the current, placed on\nthe gut, immediately above each swivel, to keep\nthe minnow down in the water. In spinning a\nminnow, the foot-length, of gut, is generally about\nthree yards long. Some anglers use a conical piece\nof lead, with a hole at the apex, for the gut to pass\nthrough, which they slide down over the minnow's\nnose ; but this method has not any advantage over\nthe simpler one of placing shot above the swivels.\nThe manner of using this bait is to cast it across\nthe stream, and, as you draw it towards you, to\nkeep it playing by a slight motion of the rod.\nIn fishing for salmon with lob-worms, two or\nthree, according to their size, ought to be placed\nupon the hook, which ought to be cast up the\nstream and worked gently down with the current,\naccording to the strength of which the line is to be\nshotted. When spinning a minnow, or fishing with\n 9b\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthe worm for salmon, it is customary to use a\nstiffer top-piece than in fishing fly. When a salmon\nis hooked by either'of the former methods, he is to\nbe managed in the same manner as in fly-fishing.\nThere is no rod or tackle that we have ever seen\nwhich will enable an angler to throw a salmon of\ntwenty pounds weight over his head, as he would\nwhisk out a trout when shade-fishing. The best\ntime of the day for salmon-fishing is from six in\nthe morning till eleven in the forenoon, and from\nfour in the afternoon till dusk ; but when the water\n1 and weather are favourable, they may be angled\nfor at any hour between sunrise and sunset. The\nangler who in one day has the skill and good fortune to land four salmon, each upwards of seven\npounds, though he may have toiled for them from\ndawn till evening,, has no just cause to grumble,\nand to represent the water as not worth fishing.\nAn amateur angler, who has thrice in the course of\nten years taken eight salmon in one day, is entitled\nto give a minute detail of each day's proceedings,\nand catch his salmon over again, in all companies,\nsocial, philosophical, or literary. Before taking\nleaye of the salmon, we beg to correct an error of'\nthe press in the second series of Mr. Jesse's interesting \"Gleanings,\" of which, compared with the\n\" harvesting\" of some others, it may be said that\n1 \\ the gleanings of the grapes of Ephraim are better\nthan the vintage of Abiezer.\" It is there stated,\npage 305, that \"the ovarium of a salmon will pro-\n\\fc\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nduce 20,000,000 ova.\" This requires correction, by\ncutting off the three last ciphers, and making the\nnumber 20,000 instead of 20,000,000. Twenty\nmillions of the ova of a salmon ready to spawn\nwould weigh about four hundred pounds. The\nnumber of ova in salmon is, according to the size\nof the fish, from fifteen to twenty-five thousand.\n\\\nlip\nw\nC:\ntf\n^\ns^\u00bb>\\s^3**&\n An angler who wishes to obtain a dish of trouts\nwill not wait till they are inclined to take the\nartificial fly, provided he can fairly hook them by\navaUmghimself of other means. In days when the\nwater is clear and smooth\u2014not a breeze stirring to\ncurl its surface\u2014and when there is not the slightest\nchance of success with the artificial fly, the shade-\nfisher will not unfrequently bring home a dozen or\ntwo of good trouts. In shade-fishing, the angler\nought to use a stiff rod and a line strong enough to\nlift out a trout the moment he is struck; and for\nbait we know nothing better than gentles.^ The\nbest situations for practising this method of anghng'\nare the banks of streams shaded by trees and bushes\nthat conceal the angler from the sight of the trouts\nwhich are taking their ease in the pool below,\nleisurely opening their mouths and plying their\ngills as if between sleeping and waking. Having\nput a couple of gentles on his hook, let the angler\nwarily make his way through the bushes, and project his rod as imperceptibly as the motion of the\nshadow on the dial; and drop his hook as gently\nas a caterpillar lowers himself from the branch of a\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n99\n\u20acmm\nlime-tree to the ground. A fine portly-looking trout,\nwho would not spring at the most tempting fly, as\nrequiring too much exertion, skulls himself, with\ntwo or three gentle strokes of his tail, towards the\ndainty morsel, which he tips over as you, gentle\nreader, would an oyster; and, just as he is descending, he feels a slight tickling in his throat ;\nand before he can ascertain the cause, he finds\nhimself in another element, flying like a bird\nthrough the alders that shade his native stream.\nIn clear water it is sometimes advantageous,\nwhen there is a light breeze, to use two natural\nflies, with a fine line, putting a small hook through\nthem, under the wings, so that they may lie with\ntheir heads in opposite directions, and allowing\nthem to be lightly blown across the stream, or\ncarried down with the current. When using the\nblowing hne, it is necessary to employ a reel.\nWorms, either lob or brandling, are an excellent\nbait for trout when the water is rather discoloured;\nand even when it is clear trout will frequently take\nthe worm in streamy parts of a river or a burn,\nwhen they will not take the fly. When worms are\nused, the bait is to be thrown up the stream, and\nworked gradually downwards to the extent of the\nangler's hne.\nIn swift-running streams, the fresh-water or burn\ntrout seldom attains to the weight of five pounds;\nand in such streams, hi the north of England and\nin Scotland, by far the greater number of trouts\nm\n\u00a3w\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ncaught weigh less than half a pound each. In the\nThames, between Teddington and Windsor, very\nlarge fresh-water trouts are sometimes caught.\nWithin the last twelve months three have been\ncaught, two with the net, and one with the rod\nand fly, each of which weighed upwards of twelve\npounds. The beautiful engraving of a large trout,\ngiven herein, from a painting by A. Cooper, R.A.f\nis a \" portrait\" of a well-fed five-pounder, which\nwas caught by the artist himself, in the Wandle,\nin May, 1834.\n -W\nTHE MILL.\nIt is May-day, and the earth is dressed in a fair\nnew garment of green ; the copious showers of the\nday before yesterday, followed by yesterday's\nbrilliant sunshine and warm south wind, have\nmade the leaves rush forth with a sudden bound\nfrom buds which hitherto have been so jealously\nclosed. To-day the bright sunshine pours out of\na cloudless sky upon a green world, which m its\nvividness of colour seems to be gifted with the\nlustrous transparency of the sky itself.\nOn such a day it were a shame to stay indoors\nand see nothing bluer than foolscap\u2014nothing\ngreener than writing fluid ; besides, this morning\nour rod fell from its bracket when no one was near.\nThe housemaid said it was a strong breeze through\nthe open window which dislodged it, but that is all\nnonsense. It was the spirit of the spring which\nmoved it to protest against inaction on such a day.\nWe are not superstitious, but we dare not disregard\n' such a warning; therefore let us take our trusty\nrod in our hand, and wander forth to revel in the\nsight of the blue sky and the green woods, so\ndelightful after the discomforts of a long and cruel\nwinter.\n^S^Sii^gW|gg(|ggS^^\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nWhither shall we go? What need to ask?\u2014there\nis but one stream in the verdant valley, and\nwherever we strike it our steps are sure to be\nirresistibly led, upwards or downwards as the\ncase may be, to the mill, which for a century\nhas nestled among the great trees in the heart of\nthe valley, and has been so frequented by angling\nvisitors that it has earned the name of the Angler's\nParadise.\nOur way lies over meadows yellow with the low-\nflowered celandine, the taller and more kingly\nbuttercups, and scattered clumps of nodding cowslips. It is a field of cloth of gold, the whole of\nthis low ground; but in lieu of gaudily bedecked\nknights and horses, there are only our sober selves\nclad in homely grey, and red and white satin-\nflanked cows, to view its loveliness.\nThe hedges look like the spray of a waterfall\nturned into emeralds, and set with pearly foam of\nthe blossoming thorns. On the uppermost branch\nof a tall hazel clump a thrush is singing with all\nhis heart, his fawn-coloured throat throbbing with\nthe music of his voice ; while not far off, his mate\nis sitting on her blue eggs, and listening proudly to\nhis epithaiamium.\nIn the pauses of his song you can hear another\nand a merrier one, dropping faintly down from\nthat speck in the dazzling blue, which you know to .\ni lark.\nfirst swallow skimming\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n103\nm\n0^\nover that still pool, on which the white ranunculus\nflowers lie in such perfect purity; and hark ! was\nthat a cuckoo? or was it but a dove, whose voice\nis so tremulous with the happiness of his recent\nwedding that his coo-o is broken into two syllables?\nHow welcome is each sight and sound that indicates the advancing spring ; how impossible it is to\nbe sad on such a day !\nThere is the brook sparkling over gravelly fords,\nand circling slowly in quiet pools, its foam-bells\nsparkling in the sunshine. It has cleared so rapidly\nafter the rain that only in the deeps is it a pale amber\ncolour; elsewhere the water is bluej or golden, or\nbrown,, or black, as the shadows fall. The gravel\nshines, and the blue sky is reflected; but everywhere there is white and sparkling foam in lines\nand splashes.\nRigging up our rod and flies, we wade knee-deep\namong the broad-leaved butterburs, and with a\nwave of the rod the glistening line is despatched on\nits deadly mission, and at the very first cast a trout\nis hooked, and in another moment is breathing its\nlast among the daisies and silver seed-globes of the\nyellow-flowered dandelions. Its struggles ere it is\nseized shake out hundreds of the shuttlecock seeds,\nand they float away on the south wind over the\nmeadows.\nSo on we go up the brook, pulling up a trout\nfrom this pool where the water swirls under the\noverhanging roots of an oak, and a troutlet from\nWMM\nSsm^Sz\n ymm\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthat merrily rippling shallow. Although the water\nis just the right colour, the sun is too bright for\nvery good sport, but we like the bright sunshine,\nand the additional pleasure it gives to our waterside\nramble more than atones for a lighter basket.\nNow we enter a wood, where the oaks and the\nalders crowd too thickly over the stream for us to\nfish it. We stroll quietly along the mossy glades,\nand mark the lady-fern unfolding its curled fronds\namong the pale, sweet-smelling primrose clumps;\nand the delicate white, purple-veined bell flowers\nof the wood sorrel drooping over its triple, heart-\nshaped leaves, Between the tree stems a white\nbutterfly flits ; squirrels frisk among the branches\noverhead, and peer inquisitively at us; from clumps\nof bracken\u2014the tawny russet of the last year's\ngrowth, and the tender green of this\u2014a tiny rabbit,\nwho has come out of his mother's burrow for a first\ntour of inspection, sits up on his haunches and\nstares solemnly at us ; while the atmosphere of the\nwood is thrilling and quivering with music, the\nmelodies of a hundred birds, and the hum of a\nmillion insects, toned down into a sweet and all-\npervading harmony.\nThere is the mill, separated from the wood by a\nmeadow's breadth, and such a meadow !\u2014a perfect\nblaze of spring flowers; that part of it which maxgms\nthe brook white with nodding cardamines. The\nstream itself is broad and shallow, and its quiet\ncurrent slides over trailing masses of weed that\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n105\n4j\nm\n\u00a5\nA\n\\f\nwave in the water like a maiden's tresses in a\nsummer breeze.\n' The mill is a large, grey, irregular building\u2014a\nfarmhouse as well as a milL Its massive walls are\nstained with age, and the ivy clothes them here and\nthere with a mantle of glossy green. The huge,\nblack, moss-stained wheel creaks slowly around.\nIt is an overshot wheel, and the water pours down\nupon it from the sluice above in an iron-grey\ncolumn, broken and changed into silver as it\nsplashes and drips from the floats of the wheel.\nTo the left is a broad sloping weir of great height,\ndown which the water dashes with a thousand\nsparkles, and boils and bubbles in the great pool\nbeneath, whence it is glad to slip quietly away over\nthe sleepily waving weeds.\nFrom beneath the wheel, the water, having done\nits work for the present, hurries away deep and\nblack along a narrow channel, overhung with water\ndocks and grasses, knotted rushes, and \" water\nscorpions \" (which, when the blue flowers smile at\nus we call forget-me-nots), until it rejoins its parent\nstream a httle lower down. Here, experience has\ntaught us, there will be a great trout lurking, and\nwe take two of our flies off our cast, leaving only\none, that they may not catch in the rushes\nand spoil our sport. Then creeping on hands\nand knees through the cool meadow grasses, we\ncautiously cast our fly upon the narrow torrent.\nAt the third cast there is a quiet circle in the\n io6\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwater\u2014big trouts rise leisurely\u2014and an electric\ntug as we strike announces to us the pleasant fact\nthat we have hooked a nice fish. There is not\nmuch room for him to fight, and in a few minutes\nwe have led him into' the shallow brook below, and\nthere at last he lies upon the yellow gravel, a silver-\nbellied, red-spotted beauty of quite two pounds in.\nweight.\n\" Ah, you rascal ! \" cries a voice from an upper\nwindow of the mill; \"you have caught my best\ntrout. Now just take a cast over the pool below\nthe weir, and then come in and have some dinner.\nIt will be ready in ten minutes. Now, no excuses\n\u2014you must be hungry after catching such a fish.\"\nThat is the miller\u2014a Tennysonian miller.\n\" I see the wealthy miller yet,\nHis double chin, his portly size,\nAnd who that knew him could forget\nThe busy wrinkles round his eyes ?\nThe slow, wise smile that round about\nHis dusty forehead drily curled,\nSeemed half within, and half without,\nAnd full of dealings with the world.\"\nA heavy dinner in the middle of the day does\nnot agree with us, but the miller would not be\npleased if we declined his invitation, and we are\nhungry; so after landing another trout\u2014a small\none this~time\u2014we prop up our rod against the\nporch, and enter the mill.\nWe have a pleasant family dinner in the low-\n 7*P\n106\nwat \u2022\ntug\ntin\n;he middle of the\n x\\\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n9\nceUinged, oak-wainscoted dining-room, through\nthe open windows of which a pleasant fragrance\ncomes in from a large, old-fashioned flower garden.\nAt one end of the table the miller presides, jovial.\nin appearance and talk. At the other end the\nmiller's wife is his exact prototype. We are a\ngreat favourite of hers, for because the labour of\nthe brain gives us a somewhat pale and preoccupied\nlook, she imagines we are delicate, and what woman\ncan resist the pleasure of doctoring somebody?\nTherefore, she supplies us with fresh eggs, beautiful\nmilk, almost solid cream, and such other country\ndainties which she imagines, and rightly so, we\ncannot get in perfection in the town. She gives\nus also dandelion tea, and tea made of some other\nherbs, notwithstanding our protestations that in\ntown we could get something equally nasty. But\nin her eyes no good thing\u2014always excepting\nbonnets and dresses\u2014can come out of the town;\nand rarely do we pay her a visit but she insists\non our taking\u2014in her presence, mark you, for she\nwill not accept our promise\u2014a wineglassful of some\nintensely bitter decoction. Bless her heart, though !\nshe is a dear old lady.\nThen, there is the miller's eldest son, and his\nwife, with three or four little ones, who have\nalready made a successful raid upon our pockets.\nThere is no maiden \"miller's daughter\" here, but\nthe youngest daughter, who was married a year\nago, has now come home with her babe to \" make\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nher boast\" to her delighted grandpapa and grandmamma. All at the table are jolly and merry and\nhappy, save one, the only one we have not yet\nmentioned. He is the miller's youngest brother,\nbut to look at him he seems much older than the\nmiller. He was an artist, whose pictures were\nbeginning to sell. Then he met with a love disappointment, which upset his unstable nature. He\nwent utterly and irredeemably to the bad; and now,\nhalf imbecile, and wearily waiting for the end, he\nhas accepted the shelter of his brother's home.\nMiserable as he is, however, his artistic perceptions\nhave not altogether left him; and now he looks\nmore animated and happy, because he has been\nsitting in the shadow-flecked orchard, between the\nmasses of white and sunlit blossoms, and has been\nwatching the play and dance of the water as it\nsweeps over the weir; the thrush singing in the\napple tree, the lark in the blue sky, and the gay-\ncoloured chaffinch building its lichened nest in a\nfork of the splendidly blooming cherry tree. The\ngladness of the spring has permeated even him,\nand to-day his presence is less like a cloud in the\nsunshine of their home happiness.\nCountry people themselves seem to wake to a\nnew life and cheeriness with the spring, and their\ncheeriness is infectious. We pity the man who has\nno friends in the country whom he may~visit, and\nfrom whom experience such a hearty welcome that\nit makes him better pleased with himself. He\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n109\nthinks he must have some merit in himself to\nevoke such heartiness from others.\nDinner is over, but the miller has some capital\nport, which it would be a shame to leave untasted,\nand he likes a chat with a guest from the town.\nThen cigars, or, more fitted to the time and place,\nlong churchwardens, are produced; and the somnolent effect of the soothing weed disinclines us to\nexertion. Hence it is that the afternoon slips\nrapidly away, and we are in no hurry to resume\nour fishing. At last, however, the spell is broken.\nFrom one of the windows the long stretch of dead\nwater above the weir is visible. It is a famous\nplace for trout. On hot days you can see great\nfellows of three and four pounds weight, lazily\nfloating about in the clear water. No angler leaves\nthe mill without trying to catch one, but most\nanglers leave it without having caught one. The\nbanks are steep and thickly wooded, and fly-fishing\nis impossible. The miller will not allow worms to\nbe used there. These big fish are his pets, and he\nchuckles at the ineffectual attempts of anglers to\nthrow a fly over the spotted beauties, or, having\nsucceeded in throwing a fly, to induce them to\ntake it.\nNow, about fifty yards above the weir, just\nunder an alder bush, a big fish has been rising at\nintervals of a few minutes for the last hour. An\nangler's patience can stand such a sight no longer,\nand we knock the ashes out of our pipe, mark it in\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\npencil with our initials that it may be kept for our\nuse on a future occasion, lay it down reverently,\nand sally forth to seize our rod, the miller following\nwith a sly smile on his ruddy face, ready to break\ninto a ponderous laugh at our approaching defeat.\nBut during the winter we have been plotting dark\ndeeds. We know full well that these huge trout\nwill not look at an ordinary fly, so we have constructed the image of a large green caterpillar,\ncurled up in the most natural manner. As we\nattach it to our line the miller's face grows solemn,\nand he shakes his head, but says nothing. We\ntwist the rod until the hne is rolled around the\ntop like thread on a reel; then creep cautiously\nalong the bank to just above the alder bush. Our\nposition is perilous. The bank is steep and slippery;\nour foothold is scant\u2014we are, alas ! obliged to crush\na tuft of primroses with our boot; and the water\nbelow us is deep.\nThere is the trout. His weight can surely not\nbe less than four pounds and a half. He does\nnot see us. We quietly insert the point of the rod\nthrough the bushes, and unroll the line so that the\ncaterpillar descends towards the water in exactly\nthe same manner that a real caterpillar does,\nsuspended by his silken thread. When it is about\nsis^flaches from the water, we pause, and hold it so\nfor a few seconds, while the big trout is watching\nit. Then we let it fall suddenly on the water. The\ntrout rises at once, and with a quick chop of his\nm&\u00a3\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbig jaws, he has the bait, and\u2014hurrah! he is\nhooked. The miller's sympathies are now with the\nangler who has performed so redoubtable a deed.\nHe shouts, \" Hold him tight! don't let him have ,\nhis head.\" Very good advice this, but impossible\nto follow, for the trout has got his head, and darts\noff up-stream at a racing pace, leaving diverging\nwaves of water behind him. The line is rapidly\nwhisked off the reel. Our heavily-bending rod\ntells us how futile would be the effort to check him\nin his mad career. The situation is critical. Our\nline is nearly run out. We cannot follow along\nthe bank ; the last inch is now off the reel.\n\"Throw your rod in after him.\" The advice\ncomes too late. There is a sharp struggle forty\nyards up the stream; the gut gives way, and the\nline flies back among the bushes in sticky folds.\nOh, horror!\nH What to us remains of good ? \"\nDespair! Tare and 'ouns! Frantic gesticulations\nand lamentations ! To hook him so cleverly, and\nthen to lose him ! Hath earth any sorrow like\n. this ? The miller consoles us to the best of his\nI ability, and offers us a pipe. His wife says a cup\nI of tea\u2014not dandelion\u2014will do us good. We doubt\nF it \u2014 our feelings are too severely lacerated\u2014but\nwe will try. Bless these people, how they do eat\nBreakfast at half-past seven; lunch at half-past\nten ; dinner at one ; tea at half-past four ; and\n FfflfT\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nsupper at half-past eight. Why, at home, we only\nhave two meals in the course of the day\u2014breakfast\nand dinner, for a biscuit in the mid.dle of the day\ncannot be called a meal.\nTea does console us; a pipe does also console us;\nand after a romp with the children in the orchard,\nwe feel happy again, though still regretting the loss\nof so fine a fish.\nThe busy murmur of the mill ceases. The\ndappled cows come wading through the brook to\nbe milked; we catch a few more small trout; the\nsun goes down in a sea of amber, crimson splashed\nand spotted ; the white mists wreath around the\ncoppices of oak and fir ; the bats wheel and scream\nin the still air, and\u2014we go in to supper. Then\nthere comes a rubber or two of whist, a farewell\npipe, and a glass of grog ; and with a fair basketful\nof trout, a bottle of dandelion tea in one pocket of\nour coat, a spring chicken in another, and laden\nwith a posy of cowslips and primroses gathered\nby the children for the dear partner of our joys\nand purse, we shake hands with the miller and\nhis wife, and bid good-night to the dear old mill\nand its inhabitants.\n lib\ni\nm\nAN OCTOBER MORNING.\nThe white mists of an October morning rise quietly\nand sluggishly, like a sleeper just awakened, from\nthe damp meadows, the green hue of which is.\nstrewn and dashed with the yellow and grey of the\nlong, dead bents and the faded summer grasses.\nThe soft mysterious mist rolls slowly away, flowing\ndown with glacial motion from the hollows of the\nwood, where the dead leaves lie in wet masses of\ntawny brown, and orange, and purply black. Down\na narrow path between the tall, though broken and\ndying, bracken which hangs in drippin\/\nover the soft path, we step with loitering tread,\narmed with our rod and creel. For what fish we\non such a cool, still morn? For pike or lordly\nsalmon? trout or dashing perch? No, the still\nquietude of this windless autumn morn has seemed\nto us to present a favourable opportunity for the\ncapture of some of the silver-sided roach that run\nin the calmer reaches of the river, winding through\nthe valley below us; the valley that only a few\nminutes ago was invisible from the higher ground\nupon which we then stood, so enveloped was it in\nits shroud of mist. The valley now presents a\npatchwork appearance, for while the natural tints\n the Anglers souvenir.\nof green and yellow are visible in in ray a place,\nand the river shines with the dull gleam of frosted\nsilver between rows of 'shadowy willows, yet in\nevery dip and hollow the mist clings as loath to\npart from its bride of the night.\nWe rest for a few minutes on the crooked and\nlichened stile at the edge of the wood to gaze at the\nscene below us. It is half repellent and half attractive, yet wholly beautiful with a chaste, cold\nbeauty. The vagueness and. uncertainty imparted\nto the breadth of meadow by the changing mists ; k^\nthe indistinct outlines ; the strange weird mystery\nof the still, white river with its curving reaches,\nupon which the yellow leaves of the willows float\nin increasing numbers, are sad and uncanny; and\nthe low bushes with their brown branches gleaming\nwet with the mist, and hung with myriad water-\ndrops, look cold and cheerless. We hesitate to\nleave the warmer shelter of the wood, and we look\nback at it with the air of one who leaves a friend\nfor a long journey. There may be water-kelpies\nand elves lurking in the river valley, among the\nsedges and under the mantle of mist, while here in\nthe wood there is nothing but the faint, shy rustle\nof the curled-up leaves as they crack from their\nparent branches and flutter downward into the\nbrake and brambles, to form a thickening carpet\nthrough which the red-coated squirrel bounds with\na quick patter, and the conies dash with a great\nflurry and disturbance of matter.\noXm*\nm>\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nTo the eastward, beyond the wood and through\nits sombre glades, the sky is of a pale and perfect\ngreen, but low down against the crest of the hill\nwhich shows dark and serrated upon it, it is\nbrightening with a white light. Presently there\n13 the d.iZ3le of the sun above the horizon, and\nwibh a sullan attack its rays shoot through the\nwoods, at first with a steely radiance, but quickly\nbrightening and strengthening until the brown of\nthe wood is turned into crimson, the yellow into\nburning gold, and the green of the mosses and the\nhardier ferns into a brilliant emerald. The wood\nis now a mass of gorgeous colours.\nAs wine makes glad the heart of man, and drives\naway for the time the pressing weight of care and\nsorrow, so the magic wine of the sunlight gives the\nradiance of health and life and beauty to the damp\nand decay and sadness of this autumn wood.\nAnd now a wren begins to sing shrilly in the\nunderwood; a robin on yonder gate flicks his tail\nand expands his red breast, and with a derisive\ncock of his eye at the sober-coated little wren in\nthe bramble bush below him, bursts into a clearer\nand fuller song, and then stops, quite expecting that\nhe has overpowered and silenced mistress wren.\nBut Kitty is well satisfied with herself. She cares\nnot for any robin, though he is God's cock and she\nis God's hen. She is an advocate of woman's rights,\nand so she goes on with her contented and thankful .\ntwitter\u2014very sweet it is if one listens properly\u2014\n m\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nM\nand flits about with a keen eye for things eatable,\nand heedless of the showers of wet she shakes upon\nher little brown back from the purple-streaked\nblackberry leaves.\nAnd now we turn again towards the river, and,\nlo ! the mists are fleeing hither and thither in dire\nconfusion, and melting away before the brightness\nof the sun. The dewdrops look no longer cold and\ncheerless, but are sparkling diamond-like under the\nfairy wand of a sunbeam.\nNow, let us delay no longer, but to our fishing !\nso, with well-waterproofed boots on our feet, we\nstride heedlessly through the soaked grass and\nstrike the river at a favourite spot. And while we\nrig up our tackle\u2014leisurely, for it is yet full early\nto begin\u2014let us discourse some little of the fish we\nare to catch, in the manner of our honoured master\nthe rambler by the Lea, and, we hope, to the edification of his younger disciples.\nFirst, let us give our quarry the honour of his\nproper name, for in this eastern county, where the\nrustics' wits are as slow as their rivers, the roach\nsuffers the indignity of being classed with the bream,\nand called by the family name of \" white fish.\"\nCyprinus rutilus, then, is its scientific name, but\nwe wonder how that fine fat fellow which has just\nrisen to the surface and smelt at a tiny leaflet to\nsee if it were digestible, would feel if he knew that\nhe bore such a grand name\u2014ah, Mr. C. Rutilus,\nwe will show you such a dainty morsel by-and-by.\nJfjti\nIn\n IE\/\nill\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nWalton says that the roach \"is a fish of no great\nreputation for his dainty taste, and his spawn is\naccounted much better than any other part of him;\nand you may take notice that, as the carp is\naccounted, the water-fox for his cunning, so the\nroach is accounted the water-sheep for his simplicity\nor foolishness.\" This charge of \"simplicity or\nfoolishness,\" however, is only partially true of the\nroach. In waters where small ones abound, they\nare greedy and silly enough, and the veriest tyro\nmay catch them. Also in semi-tidal waters where\nthe stream runs somewhat brackish and the mud\nat the bottom is foul, such as the lower reaches of\nthe Yare, the big roach may be taken in great\nnumbers by any one who can hold a rod over the\nside of the boat. Such fishing requires but little\nskill (and what is anything without the exercise of\nskill ?) and such roach-fishers rank a very long way\nbelow the trout-fisher. But where the roach is at\nhis best\u2014such places as this river on whose banks\nwe stand, whose deep, clear water slips gently over,\ntrailing weed, and rounds from the foot of a golden\nand green-striped shallow into a slowly eddying\nand blackly deep pool\u2014it is fine work fishing for\nhim. With a pole one could leap over the river in\nany place, yet that hole, a little lower down is fully\nfourteen feet deep. It holds many an ancient roach\nof portentous size, whose size protects it from the\nack which also inhabit it.\nIn fresh, clear water like this, the roach are shy-\nfa\n n8\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbiting creatures, and it needs considerable skill to\ncatch them. We have seen an angler who could\nkill a fair basketful of trout on the brightest day at\nCoquetside, fail to maintain his reputation when\nroach-fishing in this stream. One's tackle must be\nof the finest. Many anglers,. especially London\nones, who are great roach-anglers, use footlinks_a\nsingle horsehair thick ; but we are inclined to think\nthis a refinement of luxury, for gut is now drawn\nso fine as to be practically invisible in the clearest\nwater, and it is stronger than hair. The rod should\nbe long and light, and the baits, if natural ones or\npaste, should be perfectly clean and fresh. Yet all\nthese things avail nothing if the angler's eye be not\nquick, his attention unflagging, and his wrist supple\nand dexterous in striking.\nA clear river roach, his stomach and his strength\nbeing unimpaired by gross feeding, fights well for\nsome time; and supposing he is over half a pound\nin weight, and you are using fine tackle, a landing-\nnet will be found extremely useful. On the present\noccasion we have one slung at our back, and it can\nbe unhooked in a moment when required for use.\nThere are many ways of fishing for this handsome\nfish\u2014for handsome he is, with his silver scales, his\nred fins, and his yellow eyes. You may fish for\nhim in muddy water with worms. You may use\nwasp grubs, or gentles, or pastes of various mixture.\nOn hot days you may dib for him with a natural\nfly under the bushes which overhang the still deeps,\nJIIIE.\n 41\nmi\nft\nr\ni\nft\nVA*\n777\u00a3 ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwhen you may catch some large ones. Or, better\nstill, you may fly-fish for him wherever he is, with\na \"black gnat\" on your casting-line, and the hook\ntipped with a tiny bit of white kid glove. This is\na very lolling way when the fish are playing about\non the feed on summer evenings, but it needs a\nquick eye to see and a quick hand to strike as soon\nas a tiny circle is made upon the limpid stream.\nBest of all, however\u2014because the roach is then at\nhis best and strongest, and the big ones are more\ninclined to take the angler's bait\u2014it is to fish as we\nare doing now, in chill October.\nOn a mild, still day, and (if the water is much\nfished) soon after sunrise, when the fish have had\na night's rest to make them less suspicious, a good\nbasket ought to be made in fairly stocked waters.\nAnd now let us delay no longer. The sun has\nbeen long enough on the water to rouse the fish to\na knowledge that it must be breakfast-time.\nOur float, you see, is a light porcupine quill, and\nour hook is small and fine; six inches above it is\none tiny shot. Our bait is a piece of paste, the size\nof a green pea, made of new white bread, carefully\nkneaded with clean hands until it is tough and\nsticky. Where we commence the water is about\nfive feet deep, and at the bottom long masses of\nweed are swaying over smooth yellow gravel.\nPeering downward, at first we see nothing but the\ndark-green weeds; but as our eyes become accustomed to the deeper shade, we see, a foot above the\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ngravel, in the clear runs between the weeds, a dozen\nor more fine roach, their heads up the stream, and\nwith gently swaying tails. They look dull-brown\nobjects as they now swim, but every now and then\nthere is a sudden gleam in the water as one of thei\ndarts aside to seize some speck of food, and shows\nhis shining flank. We approach the sedgy margin\nsilently and carefully, and, crouching down on one\nknee, we throw our line lightly up-stream, and\nwatch the white bit of paste as it sinks slowly down,\nuntil, supported by the float, it glides along, at the\nright depth, towards the noses of the eagerly gazing\nroach. The first one, who i& nearly two pounds in\nweight, sails up to it, and then drops backward\ndown-stream, keeping his mouth just an inch below\nthe bait, and examining it suspiciously. It is a\nmoment of anxious suspense. Will he, or will he\nnot, take it ? No 1 he is too cautious. He does\nnot feel quite sure about it, and so he turns aside\nand lets it pass. Then it floats right on to the nose\nof a pounder, and he just sucks it nonchalantly in.\nWe strike, and he is hooked, and gamely struggling\nto reach the weeds, but his fate is sealed, and we\nlead him into our landing-net, when\u00abe he is transferred into our basket.\nWhen we next cast in, the big roach again goes\nup to it, but this time he turns tail in great alarm,\nand darts down-stream and into a bed of weeds.\nBut a half-pound fish lower down rushes in\nwhere the wise roach feared to tread, and is duly\nml-\nI\njam\n9fj\n\u2022eM&^SSs**--\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nMm\nbasketed. Then, for three or four swims, we get\nno bites, for in such clear.water the fish are soon\nalarmed, but after awhile we catch two more small\nones.\n\" Now we will leave this clear reach, and try that\ndeep pool below, where a few tiny circlets on the\nsurface show that some big roach are feeding\u2014for\nthe bigger a roach is the more delicately does he\npoke his nose out of his own element. We cannot\nsee the fish, for the water is too deep and black, so,\npushing ourselves into a bed of tall and crackling\nreeds, we drop our line into the water at the head\nof the pool, and watch the float slowly circling\nround in the eddy. Presently it gives a sharp jerk\nor two; that is the bite of a small one, and, on\nstriking, we find that our bait has disappeared. At\nthe next swim, just as our float reaches the tail of\nthe pool, it stops, and slowly sinks. The hook has\neither caught in the bottom, or it is the bite of a\nbig fish. We strike, and find that we are fast in a\ngood one. It gives two or three vigorous dashes,\njust like a trout, and then submits to be turned\nshorewards. At the sight of the landing-net, however, it makes a further and prolonged effort,\nwhich causes our slender rod to bend and spring\nwith great vivacity. With our fine tackle, and\nhampered as we are by the reeds, the slightest\nflurry might cause us to lose it, but we are cool\nand patient, so in another minute the fish is safe\nwithin the circle of the net. His weight is within\nw\n FHE ANGLER'S S0UVEN1\nof two pounds, therefore we may call hi\nIn the course of the next half-hour we catch\niree or four more, and all good ones. Then, as\ne pull out a small one about six indies long, we\n>e a shadow dart out from under the bank, and\nf | of them half a pound\nThat was a jack \u00ab\nimd evidently on m If\n3i our tackle, w\nig tackle. Casting it\nlose to the bank. In A\ns ha I 1 1 ^ '\nws of Esox Lucius close\ntug, our thin gut line\na the air in glistening\nto his den\u2014oh ! with\n! repair our tackle and i |l\nveiing tresses of 1\ncombed by the\ns<\\\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n123\nI!\nover a pound each. Then they cease biting, and\nafter trying in vain for some time, we look round\nto ascertain the cause. The eastern sky has grown\npale and cold, and there is a thin hne of dark,\nhard-edged cloud resting athwart it. We also\nbecome sensible of a keenness in the air, and we\nfind that the wind has gone round to the east.\nThe ripples already shimmering on the water tell\nus that a strong easterly wind is springing up, and\nso goodbye to our fishing.\nWe wander downward, just throwing in now and\nthen for form's sake, and note the few things the\nautumn winds and rains have left us. Here is a\nlate tuft of the yellow loosestrife; there the green\nblossoms of the ivy, which wreaths round that\nslanting pollard. Yonder a bed of tall nettles,\ncovered with the fading yellow of the parasitic\ndodder, and here the greenish spikes of the mercury\ngoose-foot,.or Good King Henry. On this marsh\nthe tall bulrushes bend their rich' brown heads to\nthe easterly air, and in this small, rush-fringed\nlagoon the floating duckweed\" is scattered by the\nrising of a mallard.\nOn this mud-bank is the seal of an otter, and the\ntrack of his broad foot, together with the tail part\nof an eel off which he has breakfasted. Across the\nriver a water-rat swims under the water, its compressed fur gleaming with silvery air-bubbles, and\nthe ubiquitous water-hen flutters from the sedges.\nAll around are the glowing reds, and browns,\n 124\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nK-\/\n\u2022and yellows of the sad, sweet autumn time.\nLeaves, fragrant in decay, flutter against us;\nstarlings chatter in the reeds, and rise in a whirling cloud; and the rooks wheel and tumble in the\ngrey sky above us.\nIn our hearts there is a restful peace, tinged with\na pleasant melancholy; and so we walk on in full\ncontent, and come to a tiny, straw-thatched and\nmoss-covered cottage, set in its little garden, close\nby the water's edge. Here live an old couple, all\nby themselves, cheered only by the occasional visit\nof a child or grandchild. Old Morris was a farm\nlabourer; then, as he grew old, a stone-breaker;\nand now he is too old and too rheumatic for that.\nIt is a wonder how the old couple live. They have\na plot of garden in which they grow a few potatoes,\nbut their crop has been bad this year; and we know\nfrom one who sometimes befriends them that times\nare hard with them, and that they have lived for a\nweek together on the fish caught by the old man,\nwho was a deft angler in his youth. There he is\nnow sitting on a stool by the waterside, and\npatiently waiting for a bite, with greater interest,\nwe cannot but know, than we ever did; for his\ndinner depends upon the anxiety of the fish to take\ntheirs. He is shivering with the cold, and looks\nanything but comfortable. On the grass behind\nhim lies one small fish, and he is not likely now to\ncatch any more. He does not see us, and he is as\ndeaf as a post, so we turn out the contents of our\nJU ft\n%\"'\nMm\nwi I\n I\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbasket to add to his one fish\u2014reserving, however,\na brace of the best for ourselves.\nWhen old Morris discovers the addition to his\nstore, will he think, we wonder, that the miracle of\nthe loaves and fishes has been repeated ? and with\nwhat additional fervour will his good wife thank\nthe Lord when she finds half-a-crown in the belly\nof the biggest roach !\nw\n THE LINN.\nVery bright and pleasant are the pictures which\ncross the mental view of the Angler in his hours\nof rest. The hard-worked lawyer, politician, or\nmerchant may throw himself back in his easy-chair\nafter dinner, and escape from the cares of his\nbusiness to wander in green fields and by flowing\nstreams. To him there appear pictures so vivid\nthat he smiles to himself as he thinks of the deep\nimpression made upon his mind by the beauty he\nsaw in those bygone days of sport, and free, wild\nwanderings. One picture may arise a hundred,\ntimes, but it is none the less vivid for that, and\nnone the less welcome. He can live over again\nthat gloomy, windy day by the mountain tarn,\nset amid the rugged rocks, when the trout rose\nso freely, and the weight of his creel was almost\nmore than he could bear on his homeward journey.\nAgain he rambles through the feathery meadowsweet and luxuriant grass, full of daisies and\nbuttercups, by the side of a southern trout stream,\nand sends the May-fly to yon eddy where the big\ntrout lies. Once more he sees the salmon surging\nup-stream at the end of seventy yards of lino'\n'0$m\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n127\nand his frantic bound out of the brown water.\nOnce again he lies in dreamy contentment by the\nside of a lilied pool, and watches his float slide\naway with the bite of a carp, or duck briskly with\nthe dash of a perch.\nAnd his helpmate, if she be spirit of his spirit,\nas well as bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh,\nwill rejoice to see the wrinkles on his forehead\ngrow smoother, the lines about his mouth relax\nfrom their sternness, and quiver with the play\nof a smile; and as his eyes close she will know\nthat he has fallen asleep on a mossy bank in a\nwoodland glade, and that the murmur of family\ntalk is to him the pleasant sound of a rippling\nstream by which he has been wandering, and the\nglare of the gas is transformed into the flicker\nof the sunshine through the fluttering oak leaves,\nor the ghtter and reflex from the intermingling\nwavelets.\nShe is glad to see this, and she is not jealous\nof his love\u2014that to him is second nature\u2014for\nthe angler's life and the angler's joys. She knows,\ntoo, cunning woman, that when he wakes from\nthat refreshing dream and fancy, he will be\namiably disposed to grant her her heart's desire,\nwhether it be a new bonnet, or to take the children\nto the pantomime. Those for whom we chiefly\n.write will know this is no fancy picture, and they.\nwill know also that such reveries are refreshing\nalike to the mind and the body\n\u00a5\n-m\nWI\n 128\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n. Too often, alas ! the power of indulging in such\nreveries is wanting. The nerves are so keenly\nstrung from the high pressure to which they have\nbeen subjected, that they cannot relax and rest\neven for a moment, and the brain has been so\nbusy that it cannot throw off the habit of work.\nIn such a case, involuntary reverie and thought\nsuch as we have described are impossible ;- and\nthen, we who write, and many like us, we are\nglad to say, step in to the rescue, and present\nwith friendly force to the rebellious brain the\nsoothing medicine of a picture in words. This is\nour mission, to bring, back to jaded hearts the\ntime when\n\" The glad spring green grows luminous\nWith coming summer's golden glow,\nAnd merry birds sing as they sang to us\nIn far-off seasons long ago.\"\nThen away to the Linn with us, and hey for a\nmerry day ! and a breath of the freshest air, and\na ramble by the bonniest burnside in the North\nCountry.\nThere is the Linn, and at first sight there is\nnot much to see. A steep hillside, thickly covered\nwith heather, stretching up to the wild moorland\nabove, and broken into rocky ridges, is cleft by\na deep ravine, which appears to be filled to overflowing with trees and shrubs. From the foot of\nthe ravine and out of the dense underwood, a\nstream steals rapidly away like a fox from a covert\nkr>\nf\n4V\n 'Ilifw\n I\ni\nw\nWK\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwhen the hounds enter. This is the Linn. You\nhad better put your rod together outside, for there\nis not overmuch space inside, and it is often a\n' difficult matter to put it together where the trees\ngrow close, and the top joint will caftch in the\nbranches.\nIt may seem a strange kind of day fh&t We\nhave selected for an anghng 'ramble. There ;aS*e\nmany fishers who would laugh us to scorn for\nsallying out with a rod this day, for it is a oriflianl;,\nblazing summer's day, and the water in the lb-urn\nIs as clear as crystal. '\"No trout Would look at\na fly on such a day.\" ^o, friend, but they will\nlook at a clean red worm if it be handled as we\nmean t\u00ae handle it. We intend to catch a fair\nquantity of trout, clear >as the water is smd cloudless the sky. Therefore, if you would learn a\nwrinkle, look at our tackle. Our rod is short\nand rather stiff, not made for throwing a fly, but\nexcellently adapted for pitching .a worm into a\nfar-away eddy between rocks and roots, and the\nvery thing for holding a fish by the head without\ngiving him an inch of line, in places\u2014and there\nare many such in the Linn\u2014where to give a fish\nHne would be to lose him. At the end of our hne\nare six feet of fine gut, the last few links of gut\nso fine that it is no thicker than horsehair. The\nhook is of extremely fine and beautiful steel, and\nsharper than any needle. Were the water a little\ndarker, we should use the Stewart tackle, which,\nllStei\u00ae?\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwm\nm\n\\mfe\nm\nas an \"all round\" worm tackle, is better than\nany pther.* It is made of three small hooks, tied\non the gut at interval of half an inch, and facing\nopposite ways. To bait this, each hook is passed\nright through the worm laterally, so that it hangs\nin loops between them. The worm hangs in such\na tempting way that the trout takes no notice\nwhatever of the hooks, and with this tackle he\nis hooked at once, and there is no delusive\nnibbling. In all streams we consider this to be\nthe best worm tackle, except when the waiter is\nso supernaturally bright and clear as it is to-day.\nNow, our single hook of excessive fineness is the\nbest. Our worms are small, and of a clear red,\nbetokening that they have been well scoured in\nmoss.\nNow we enter the Linn, and ere we have gone a\n* In a review on the Academy, Mr. T. T. Stoddart took\nobjection to this recommendation of the Stewart tackle,\nand says : \" I have been a practical angler for more than\nhalf a century, and lived on the most eligible portion of\nTweedside for forty years. During that long period,\nworm-fishing in clear water, in the months of June and\nJuly, has been my study and delight; and the conclusion\nI have arrived at is in favour out and out of the single-\nhook tackle. By it, in clear, still stretches of a river,\nor from a lake, on the brightest of days, large trout may\nbe taken ; whereas the three-hooked tackle, recommended\nby the late Mr. Stewart, will be found quite inefficacious.\nIn streamy water, also, under corresponding circumstances,\nthe single hook, with the shank bent back a little, I have\nfound to be more trustworthy than the other.\"\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n131\nm\nWP\nhundred yards its exceeding beauty grows upon us.\nTo say that it is indescribable would imply that it\nis a folly to attempt to describe it; but as the very\nobject of our article is to describe the Linn, that\n\"the old place may bring the old time back,\" we\nwill not say that it is indescribable, and we will\nselect a pen made of the quill of a wild goose, shot\nin its upper portion, to aid us in our task.\nWe have said that the Linn was a deep ravine,\nthrough which there flowed a brawling burn. At\nits entrance we passed into a larch wood, where the\nair was laden with a sweet resinous odour, and the\nlight was mellowed by the \"tender living light,\"\nthe pure and perfect green, the delicate shining\nemerald of the fresh larch foliage. In the early\nspring every one of these larches hangs out a braver\nshow of buds of the palest, lightest green, just like\nthe spray of a fountain, so ethereal do they look,\nquivering in the sunlight; but now the green is\nfuller and deeper, but yet none the less bright and\nfresh. Under foot there is httle vegetation, but\nthe foot sinks deep in a brown coating of firneedles. Down on the left the brook brawls and\nsparkles, sending quivering shafts of light up to us\nfrom its myriad reflecting surfaces. A green woodpecker stiffens its tail against the bark of a tree,\nand taps violently and resoundingly against the\nwood ; and then we can see the long narrow tongue\nshooting out and in, picking off the insects disturbed by his \" tapping at the door.\"\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nOut of the larch wood we reach the wilder part\nof the ravine. A rude path leads by the stream,\nand crosses* it every now and then by means of\na rude and picturesque wooden bridge. On the\nother side the rocks rise in craggy ledges, cracked\nand seamed and furrowed, as if nature had done\nher utmost to rive the hill asunder in some fierce\nthroe of agony. Dwarf oaks grow wherever there\nis a crevice large enough to hold their roots ; the\nrowan trees strew their foliage of airiest lightness ;\nand here and there the. \"lady of the forest,\" the\n1 silver birk,\" rears its graceful form\u2014its white\nand shining stem a fair Contrast to the rugged\nrocks, and its drooping tresses to the sturdy\noaks. The underwood is thick and luxuriant.\nTall brackens rise boldly up through interlacing\nbrambles, and between the path and the burn is\na fringe of hazelsi, into which a squirrel has unwisely retreated, and in his haste to escape from\nus executes wonderful feats among the too pliant\nbranches. The bed \nrV\np^j\n\" Of deep shadows on the grass,\nOf meadows where we saw the cattle graze ;\nWhere, as the breezes pass,\nThe gleaming rushes bend a thousand ways ;\nOf leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass ,\nOr whiten in the wind ; of waters blue\nThat from the distance sparkle through\nBorne woodland gap ; and of a sky above,\nWhere one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.\"\nYonder the silver sheet of the mere\u2014well remembered and much loved\u2014shone Hke another sun\nmidst the bowery woods, and there was a quiet\ngHding stream where many a grayling has fallen\nvictim to our skill. And there was the station\nwhere we were to alight, and the waggonette in\nwaiting. In the centre of the platform was the\nPater waiting for us : his tall, sturdy form stemming the hurrying crowd of passengers as carelessly\nand easily as a boulder in a stream. Bless hinV!\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nhis welcome of his \"boy\" is a keen one. We will\nsketch his portrait by-and-by.\nWe drove through the country lanes towards\nRosesbower as the rain-clouds Hfted, and the sun,\npeeping saucily from behind his mask, drew out\nthe fragrance of a thousand flowers. In front of\nus were three taU poplars, bowing lazily and\nwhitening creamily in the wind that had sprung\nup to play with the sun and chase^ the rain. These\npoplars were the landmark which showed the position of our home, but the lanes wound in and out\nso much that they were now this side and now that,\nand often behind us. One lane was deep and\nhigh-hedged, so that we drove along through a\nleafy tunnel, and here the honeysuckle lingered\nyet in wonderful profusion, covering the hedges\nwith masses of white and yellow, blush-pink and\ncrimson, giving forth the sweetest and most grateful\nincense. We drew full breaths again and again\nwith huge and childish delight, and great gratitude\nto the Giver of Good. There came into our minds\na passage from a book which we always take with\nus into the country, \" The Flowering Plants of m\\\\'\\\nGreat Britain,\" by Anne Pratt, which is so appreciative of the honeysuckle that we quote it:\u2014\n\"When the honeysuckle first puts forth its leaves\nthe landscape is looking dreary. The thorns, with\nbronzed stems, hang dripping with rain-drops ; the\ndark leaves of the dark-leaved privet glisten near\nthe red twigs of the cornel; while perchance some\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbough of the yellow osier seems like a golden rod,\nor some catkin of willow or hazel gives a little\nbrightness to the scene. Brown leaves, with an\noccasional yellow spray, hang on the youngling\noaks, and the rich crimson leaf or stem of the\nbramble winds among them. But the honeysuckle\nleaf has about it the hopes and associations of\nspring-time. It is the herald of thousands of\ngreen leaves which shall quiver on the stem and\nresound to the pattering rain-drops of April, and\nbe brightened by April rainbows. Its spray is to\nthe foHage Hke the daisy to the flowers and the\nrobin to the birds\u2014the first, and therefore the\nfairest of its clan.\"\nNot less welcome than its leaves in the spring\nare the full ripe blossoms of its luxuriant summer\ndress.\nThen we entered upon a heavily-timbered lawn,\nwhere the sleek red cattle stood rejoicing in the\ndamp coolness, scarce troubling themselves to move\noff the gravel path out of our way.\nAs the trees opened out, we came in sight of\nRosesbower, and weU it deserved its name. Originally it had been an old farmhouse, and it had\nbeen added to here and there by buildings of\n. various styles of architecture, until it had assumed\na delightfully quaint and rambling look. Along\nthe two principal sides of the house ran a verandah\n1 supported by wooden pillars, and along the top of\nthe verandah and these pillars roses red, roses\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwhite, and roses yellow grew in the greatest profusion, and with the happiest effect of colour.\nNear one part of the house a large wild cherry-\ntree grew on the shaven lawn, the red fruit trembhng\nmultitudinous among the leaves. On the left part\nof the house a lime-tree flung its sheltering branches\nover one end of the croquet-lawn, and to the right\nstretched the flower-gardens, resplendent in colour,\nand behind all were dark firs that hid the outbuildings beyond. It was a fair scene, but its\ngreatest beauty was that it was home.\nThe home of one's childhood has a sacred charm\nabout it that is never wholly efiaoed, even by the\ncomforts of the new home a man forms when he\nmarries and settles down. Happy are they who\nhave thus two homes, and both of them pleasant\nones ; and pleasant is the time when the offshoot\ncan spare its tenants for a visit to the older home.\nThere in the doorway stood the mother, her\nhands quivering with the tenderness of the welcome\nshe had ready for her first-born, who to her was a\nboy still, notwithstanding he had married a wife\nand had a household of his own. Father,- mother,\nbrothers, sisters, well it is when nothing occurs\nduring the many months of absence, and through\nthe hurry of the selfish turmoil of increasing cares,\nto mar your loving welcome, or dim your fond and\nadmiring glances with aught but the mist of glad\ntearlets. W ell may a man strive his utmost to deserve\nthe pride you feel in him and his achievements.\n f\n#St4\nI\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nWell, we were at home, and maternal solicitude\nsuggested something to eat, and a most prolonged\nand charming lunch it was, with much gossip and\nlaughter, while the rain-drops fell from the eaves\non to the carpet of rose-petals, which the showers\nhad scattered on the lawn, and the scent of Gloir\nde Dijon and Marshal Niel tickled our nostrils\ngratefuUy.\nThen we wandered out and about, despite of the\nwet under foot, visiting and -making friends with\nthe cattle, the horses, and the dogs, and pacing\nthe garden walks, duly admiring the gardener's\nchefs-d'oeuvre, startling the cushat from the ivied\ntree at the end of the kitchen-garden; getting\nwet through with the sudden showers ; changing\ntwice, and getting a mighty appetite for dinner;\nand afterwards enjoying a cosy chat in the Pater's\nsanctum, a room that opened with glass doors on\nto the verandah. So we looked out westward over\nthe undulating meadows and copses to the blue\nborder hiUs that now stood out sharp and clear,\nand then receded and were blurred with a yellow\ncurtain of rain. The purple rain-clouds grew\nragged and golden at the edges, the gloaming crept\nup from the weather-gleam, and the night fell\npeaceful and soundless, save for the recurrent\ngrating cry of a corncrake in the 'long grass of\nthe hayfield, and the scream of the whirling\nswifts.\n N6\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nII.\u2014Up with the Lark.\nThe window of our bedroom was left open, and\nthe cool night air, fresh from the rain-wet woods,\nfiHed the chamber, so that our sleep was healthy, *>\u25a0*\u00a3,\nand therefore dreamless and light. At four o'clock C'^^VJ\nthe next morning we were broad awake,.and look- &Jkn A\ning out westward over the fair country. The fields fy\u2122 j\/,\nwere silver-grey with innumerable raindrops, but ffi^&m\nthe clouds had gone away to the northward, arid W\\#F\na grey-blue sky and hazy weather-gleam foretold\nthe coming of a hot day. The breeze came in\ngentle puffs, bringing to one's nostrils the fra--\ngrance of the roses, and the heavier and richer\nodour of the meadow-sweet, which, in the meadow\nyonder, shook its cream-white clusters over the\nripening hay. The sparrows twittered and chirruped with great industry on the eaves, and the\nstarlings preened themselves on the dovecote.\nAbout two hundred yards from the house was\na pool, smaU in size and shallow, but full of carp,\nwhich were at all times most difficult to catch.\nOne side of the pool was bounded by the lane,\nand on the other was a field containing a savage\nwhite bull, the terror of all trespassing anglers. \\ &tA\nAll day long the\" country urchins sat on the lane Jw\u00a7\u00a3 .\nside of the pool and fished for small carp of two Jkf',\\'\/\nor three inches in length, and their persistent\nefforts effectually frightened the bigger fish, so that\nnil\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nnone could be caught on ordinary occasions. The\nprevious evening a younger brother named Herbert,\na lad of seventeen, had arranged with us that we\nshould try for them early in the morning; and\nhence it was that we dressed hastily and \"anyhow\" (oh, the delight of being able to dress\n\"anyhow\"!), and left our room with the intention of waking Herbert. Our quarters were in a\nportion of the house separated from the rest of\nthe inmates by a distinct staircase and doors ;\nand when past these, we. had po clear idea where\nhis room lay, So we went prospecting, creeping\nstealthily with stockinged feet, lest we should\nrouse the house, and yet it seemed to us that\nevery oaken plank we stepped upon had a loud\nand distinctive creak. Listening at one door, we\nheard a dual sound of breathing '% at another, there\nwas no sound at aU. While standing uncertain,\na third door opened, and out came Master Herbert,\nready for the fray. Our first visit was to the\nlarder, for it is a golden rule never to, commence\nthe day upon an empty stomach,\nWe were soon at the pool, on the surface of\nwhich thin wisps and veils of mist still slumbered.\nA heron stood in the marginal weeds, and wa3 so\nincredulous of visitors so early, that he bHnked\nand bHnked his sleepy eyes at us in wonder, and\nonly arose when we were within ten yards of him.\nOur hooks were baited with red-worms, and our\nlines were dropped quietly into the water, sup-\n^^BR*\u2122\n 148\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n!5i\nported by the tiniest floats. While we waited and\nwatched for the first bite, we drew in huge draughts\nof the exhilarating morning air, with an additional\nzest, because we knew that the day would turn\nout scorching hot. All around was very quiet and\nstill, and we noticed what a different nature\ncharacterises the stillness of the morning and that\nof the night. In both, the silence is equally profound away from the houses; but while at night\nthe quiet is in accordance with the dying day\nand the darkness, in the morning it is in keen\ncontrast with the quivering brightness, the intoxicating freshness, and the vigour which impels to\naction.\nA float moves a little, then dips slightly, and\nthen Hes still, as if no fish had touched the bait.\nPatience ! he is at it still. Now it slides away\nwith quickening' pace, and then dips under water,\ntowards a tree-root. Strike, and hold him by the\nhead ! Give him the butt, for he is in dangerous\nproximity to the sunken branches. Now lead him\ninto the rushes. He is landed, a fine carp of two\npounds weight.\nSo we went on, now one and then the other\nhooking a fish, until ten fine carp lay on the bank.\nThe mists arose from the water, the pearls vanished\nfrom the meadow-grasses, the insect hum grew\nlouder, and the thrushes sang in the poplars, the\nsky brightened into its clearest blue\u2014and the fish\nceased biting. It was seven o'clock, and we had\nH\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nnot done badly, yet, like OHver, we asked for more\nand were admonished. The tiny sprats of carp\ncommenced biting vigorously, and the frequent\ndips of our floats inspired us with delusive hopes.\nWe had been fishing from the lane, but seeing\nthat the bull was feeding quietly in a far corner\nof the field, with his head turned away from us,\nwe chmbed over the gate and went on with our\nfishing. Presently we heard a tramp and a beUow,\nand lo ! there was the bull close upon us and\ncharging vaHantly. One of us scrambled headlong\nover the gate, just in time to dispense with the\nbull's assistance; and the other, whose line was\nfast in a root at this inopportune moment, jumped\nwaist-deep into the pool, wading out at the other\nside. Our fishing was at an end, and, laughing\nheartily, we gathered up our spoil and departed.\nThe Gipsy was still- sleeping the sleep of the\njust, and when she was awakened she was very\nincredulous of our early rising, seeing that in\nthe town we were always loath to, get up in the\n^\n\/A \u25a0\nytdr\nw\n%s\n(ill\nIH.\u2014 The Portrait of an Angler.\nUp and dqwn the avenue of laurels, and under\nthe shadow of the firs, where the blackbirds are\nchuckling, and the doves cooing, he walks. His\nhands are clasped behind him, and his head is\n\u25a0g\u00a3&&\n#>\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbent in meditation while he awaits the summons\nto breakfast. He is tall and broad-shouldered,\nand is gathering flesh, as becomes a man of his\nyears. His broad, high forehead bespeaks intellect ; his mouth and chin have the impress of\nfirmness, but in his eye there shine the kindness\nof heart and liberality of judgment which have\nmade him valued as a friend, and sought for as\na counsellor, through the country-side. As an\nangler he is one whom old Izaak would have loved,\nfor with him angling is an idylHc pastime, a contemplative man's recreation. He has no care for\nthe more exciting branches of the art. He cares\nbut little for the toils of salmon-fishing, or the\nexcitement of landing the savage pike. More to\nhis taste is the quiet ramble by the side of a trout-\nstream, the seat in a punt, gudgeon-fishing, or a\nstill, ealm evening by a pool-side, angling for\ntench. He himself would tell you that he is an\nangler because of the opportunities it affords for.\npleasant and profitable reverie.\nIt was very little matter whether he caught fish\nor not when he went a-fishing. '' Atte the leest\nhe hath his holsom walke, and merry at his ease,\na swete ayre of the swete savoure of the meede\nfloures that makyth him hungry; he heareth the\nmelodyous harmony of fowles ; he seeth the younge\nswaunes, heerons, ducks, cotes, and many other\nfowles and theyr brodes, whyche me seemyth\nbetter than all the noyse of hounds, the blaste\nmk\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n15T\n\u00abu\nof hornys, and the crye of fowlis that hunters,\nfawkeners, and fowlers can make. And if he take\nfysshe, surely there is then noe man merrier than\nhe is in his spyryte.\"\nSo the ramble in the country, its pleasant sights\nand sounds, the chance meeting with a friend of\nkindred tastes, and the conversations, rich and\nrare, into which those who know him well are\nirresistibly beguiled, make the days pass pleasantly\nand happily. There is a certain old-fashioned\nquaintness in his manner which he must have\ncaught from his favourite Spectator. His friends\ncall him Sir Roger de Coverley, and the name is\nan apt description. Piscator says that \" angling\nis ..somewhat like poetry\u2014men are to be born so;\nI mean with inclinations to it, though both may\nbe heightened by discourse and practice; but he\nthat hopes to be a good angler must not only bring\nan inquiring and observing wit, but he must bring\na large measure of hope and patience, and a love,\nand propensity to the art itself; but having once\ngot and practised it, then doubt not but anghng\nwill prove to be so pleasant that it wiU prove to\nbe, like virtue, a reward to itself.\"\nFrom what we have observed, we doubt that the\nangler whose portrait we are sketching was born\nto the art; we think he was rather led into its\nexercise by the deHght he takes in its accessories;\ntherefore he is, as a rule, not a successful angler.\nft!\nMr\nHis pursuit of the fish themselves is not keen\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nenough for that, and he is too often led aside by\nsome extraneous object. His float may be carried\ndown, and the fish may entangle his Hne in the\nweeds, the while he is unconsciously peering at the\npetals of a flower through a magnifying-glass ; his\nrod may lie on the bank of a stream while the\nminnows are nibbling the feather off his flies; and\nhe will~ be absorbed in the study of gravel sections\nor rock strata laid bare by the winter torrents.\nWhen he returns to angling consciousness, he will\nextricate his line from the weeds, or put fresh flies\nupon his Hne, with a quiet smile, and without the\nleast impatience.\nWhile, however, his fishing excursions bear but\n, little immediate fruit, the ultimate result of them\nand his quiet meditations are many steps in the\nworld of science, and clear, intelligent articles in\nthe Quarterlies, written in the study in which there\nis such a collection of somewhat old-fashioned\nfishing-tackle.\nThe laurel avenue is his favourite walk in leisure\nhours. At his heels sedately trots an old retriever;\nthe sparrows scarce trouble themselves to get out\nof his way ; and a white cat springs upon his broad\nshoulders from an overhanging bough, and sits\nthere in triumph as he continues his walk.\n\" God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling,\" and surely he never\nmade a better angler and man than he who now\nobeys the sound of the breakfast-bell.\n S\u00a3\n(Lsmm\nrey; the woodpecker and the\nwryneck, the sparrow-hawk, the kestrel, and the jay\naU nested in the old trees; and the keepers were\nindulgent to weU-behaved boys\u2014such as, of course,\nwe were. Hence our visits to the meres were very\nfrequent; and whether we floated on their stiUy\nbosoms on hot summer days, or skated around their\nmargins, watching the tracks of wild creatures on\nthe snow, we always came away having learnt something fresh and reaped some new enjoyment.\nHence a hoHday in their neighbourhood could\nnot be spent without again visiting them, for the\nsake of auld-lang-syne. We wished, too, to show\nthe Gipsy the pleasant haunts of our boyhood, of\n 172\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwhich she had so often heard us speak. So one\nday we drove her there. We halted on the top of\na hill called the Brow, to show her the fairest view\nshe yet had seen. We were on the highest corn-\ngrowing land in England, and it was a \"far view\"\nthat unfolded itseH to our gaze. The fair English\nplain ; the bold bluffs of the Wrekin, the Briedden,\nand the Caradocs ; the fringe of Welsh hiUs ; the\nsheets of water shining out of the hearts of the\nwoods, showed themselves to the best advantage on\nthat still summer day. Then we drove down a\nsteep descent, and entered the old-fashioned little\ntown, which looked as if neither it nor its inhabitants had hurried themselves for many a century.\nEncircled by woods, the lake lay calm and glassy,\nand the swans \"floated double, swan and shadow.\"\n\"There was not a quiver on the broad surface of the\nlake, save that caused by the prow of our boat, as\nwe rudely broke into the calm. The Gipsy was\nenchanted, and we were satisfied with the impressions our beloved Mere had produced.\nWe tried fishing, but, with the extraordinary ill-\nluck that always accompanies us whenever we take\nthe Gipsy to watch us fishing, we had no sport, a\"\nperch of six inches long being our only capture.\nThe carp we had caught a day or two before had\nnearly re-established our lost reputation as an\nangler; but the failure this time, lost us that which\nwe gained by the carp, and the Gipsy spoke most\ncontemptuously of our capabiHties. We said it\n^J\nm\nm\nm\nm\ni ji\n THE ANaLERS SOUVENIR.\n\u00a3\n\/\nwas too hot and still. She replied that we had last\ntold her, as an excuse, that the day had been too\ncold and rough. So we were silenced.\nAt our next visit we were more fortunate. Three\nof us went, all of the male sex, and for convenience\nwe will distinguish ourselves as Piscator, Yiator,\nand Herbert. A sailing-boat was placed at our\ndisposal, and as we embarked and proceeded to set\nthe canvas, we feared there would be no wind ; but\nsoon across the mere there shot a broad line of\nlight, and we knew that its surface was there gently\nrippled by a shaft of wind that came down between '\nthe gap in yonder wood. Then, as we cast adrift\nfrom the buoy, the surface of the water around us\nwas turned into curling ripples, as the first indications of the breeze caught the floating particles |\nand whisked them about, the. sails filled, and ere\nlong we were curtseying to a nice breeze, and the\nmere seemed to contract in size as it was covered\nwith dancing wavelets. Yiator steered, Herbert\nmanaged the sheets, and Piscator put his pike-\nrod together, and mounted one of those American\nkill-devils\u2014spoon-baits painted red one side, and\nwith a tuft of red wool dangling behind. Such\nbaits are quite as kiUing as the natural bait\non EUesmere, provided there is a good breeze.\nPiscator let some thirty yards of line run out,\nand then the bait trailed astern,\u2014Yiator letting\nthe wind slide out of the sails, to prevent our\ngoing too fast.\nm\\\nS^jggg^^yt'\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n\"I say,\" exclaimed Yiator, \"what are we to do\nif you hook a big pike ? \"\n\"Bring the boat up into the wind as soon as\nyou can,\" replied Piscator, raising his rod so that\nthe bait might spin close to the top as we were\npassing over the weeds.\nWe dodged in and out of the islands, admiring\nthe grand old church on its wooded hill, sailed\npast the Oatley woods, which resounded with the\nbusy tapping of a woodpecker, past the terraces of\nthe HaU gardens, by the park where the drinking\ndeer stared at us, large-eyed, and a stoat was busy\nhunting the rabbit burrows, and then we came to\na place where the weed\u2014that pest the anacharis\u2014\ncame to within a foot of the surface.\n\" Haul in your sheet !\" cried Piscator, \" and\ntake us quickly over this part.\" Yiator obeyed,\nand we skimmed quickly over the green tresses of\nweed that undulated beneath our keel. We could\nsee the spoon-bait spinning and guttering about\nsix inches below the surface, and every now and\nthen jumping out with a noisy skip. Just before\nwe came to where the boat-houses peep from the\nshelter of the giant trees, the boat passed over a\nclear space between the weeds, and immediately\nthere was such a rush and splash in the water\nas startled us considerably. We could see the\nmottled flank of a goodly pike as he seized the\nspoon in his jaws, and turned again into the weeds,\nwhich parted hastily before him.\nmg0\u00a70&;\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR\n**&&&:\n-\u25a0^P^:\nI\n\"Let her luff!\" shouted Piscator. We were\ngoing before the wind, and going at a good pace,\nbut Yiator put the helm hard over, and, hauhng\nin the sheet at the same time, he brought the\nboat into the eye of the wind with astonishing\nquickness, and at the very imminent risk of a\ncapsize. Then Piscator found himself in a\nqueer position. He was amidships, the pike\nwas well forward of the bows, and the line was\nrasping against the taut luff of the foresail. He\nrushed forward into the bows, and, holding\non by the jib as well as he could, he played his\nfish very skilfully, considering that he had two\nmotions to fight against\u2014that of the pike, which\npoked hither and thither among the weeds, masses\nof which hampered the line, and threatened to\nbreak either it or the rod ; and the motion of tho\nboat, which refused to \" He to,\" and was kept working about in a series of short, uneasy tacks, now\nheading over the Hne and then shooting away from\nit, so that Piscator was kept constantly reeling in\nor letting out Hne. It was important he should\nkeep a taut Hne, that it might cut through weeds,\nand not \"bag\" under them, in which latter case\nhe would infalHbly lose his fish. At last he was in\ndespair, and said, \" Hang it all, I will jump overboard ; it can't be more than shoulder deep, and\nI can then play him properly.\" Herbert sounded\nwith an oar, and found it was more than seven\nfeet deep, so that idea was abandoned. Just then\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthe pike came wallowing to the surface dead-beat,\nwith gaping jaws and glaring eyes. Yiator steered\nright up to him, and Herbert caught him by the\ngiUs and hauled him on board. It was a weU-fed\nfish of eight pounds in weight, which is a good\nweight for EUesmere.\nPiscator and Herbert insisted upon getting a\nsmaU boat, and rowing round the mere again and\nagain, hoping to catch more pike. Five times the\nrod bent with the sudden rush of a fish, but three\nonly were boated. The others broke away. Those\nthat were caught were three, four, and five pounds\nin weight respectively.\nYiator preferred sailing about alone, although\nthe boat was rather large for him to manage. He\ncoasted the beds of white and yeUow water-lilies,\nwhose large leaves heaved uneasily as the ripples\nraised by the breeze caught them at a disadvantage.\nPresently the wind dropped, and the pike left off\nrunning. Yiator was becalmed in the middle of the\nmere, as \" idle as a painted ship upon a painted\nocean.\" The others joined him, and then we aU\nbathed, diving in off the boat's side with great ease,\nbut clambering back again with infinite difficulty.\nThen came dinner at the \"Red Lion,\" and as the\nlandlord was accustomed to anglers' appetites, we\nwere not ashamed of ourselves.\nAfter dinner we went to a brewery and bought a\nbag of grains, and, taking our seats in a punt, we\nrowed to certain mooring-stakes which projected\ntin\n J'\u00a3\n .A\nii\ni\nsa\ni\n-am-\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nout of the water at the mouth of a quiet bay.\nEmptying our bag of grains into the water to act as\nground-bait, we baited one Hne with paste, another\nwith worms, and rigged up a third with a large\nfloat and Hve-bait tackle, upon which the first small\nroach caught was impaled. The grains attracted\nthe roach, and the roach attracted the perch and\npike. With our rods projecting over the side, and\nthe smoke curling up from the pipes of peace, we\nset ourselves to enjoy the quiet of the evening.\nBehind us was the calm circle of the bay, fringed\nwith reeds and rushes, and decked with the yellow\nflower of the flag and the white water-crowsfoot.\nThe water-HHes, white and yellow, the arrowheads,\nand the pink fleshy spikes of the persicaria, fiUed up\nthe whole of the bay ; and in the clear interspaces\nthe water-hens, coots, and dabchicks swam, nodded,\nand dived, with great disregard of our presence.\nBefore us lay the lake, placid and mirror-like, its\nsurface only disturbed by the water-fowl, or the\ncircles of the rising fish. A. little way off a shoal of\ntench had come to the surface, and were splashing\nand sucking with great clumsiness and much noise.\nThe swallows and martins wheeled and darted\na'bove us, or descended and dipped in the water\nwith delicate touch; and from the church-tower\nthe swifts darted with great rapidity, swept around\nus with piercing scream, and were far away. Ever\nand anon there came from the distance a sweU of\ndance-music that filled the listening air with sweet\n i78\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nsnatches of sound. We wondered whence it came,\nand enjoyed it the more for its mystery.\nHerbert was fishing with paste, and his float\nbegan to show symptoms of HveHness, dipping with\nthe quick bites oi small roach. As the evening\nadvanced the roach that he caught were bigger,\nand the perch came on the feed, so that Piscator\nsaw his float sink with their quick vigorous bite\nmore and more often, and wished that the Gipsy\nwere with him to see what fine sport he was enjoying. Yiator alone was dissatisfied. The pike-rod\nhad been assigned to him, and as yet he had had no\nruns. He began to grumble.\n\"It is all very well for you fellows to give me\nthis wretched rod. You knew that I should not\ncatch anything. It is just an instance of that selfishness which aU you fellows who caU yourselves\nanglers always show. It's my belief that my float\nfrightens the fish. Where is my float 1\"\nIt was about two feet under water, sailing away\ntowards the lilies, and 'the point of the rod was\ngiving ominous twitches.\n\" Strike, you duffer ! \" exclaimed Herbert.\nYiator took up the rod and gave such a tremendous strike, that if the line had not been free,\nand run off the reel, fish and fisher would have\nparted company. As it was he hooked him safe\nenough, and after a nice little tussle, during which\nYiator meekly received much good advice, and some\nvituperation, from Herbert and Piscator, the pike\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwas safely got on board. It was prime fun to see\nYiator. The man who professed to look down upon\nfishing and fishers with supreme contempt, was\nboyishly pleased with his capture. He turned it\nover, tried its weight, poked it with his finger,\nand stroked it again and again with great pride\nand affection, to the amusement of the other two.\nAfter that, too, he paid most assiduous attention\nto his float, but it did not disappear again in like\nfashion, and he had to be content with his one\nfish.\nThe embracing woods grew dusk about the mere,\nthe reedwrens sang sweetly in the reeds, and as\nthe sun grew crimson in the west, the fuU moon\nrose large and silvery over the eastern woods, and\noast a broad stream of light across the water. The\ngloaming began to gather fast, and we left the mere\nto seek the origin of the dance-music, which still\nwent on. Ascending the hill, on the summit of\nwhich is the \\ bowhng-green, and paying sixpence\neach for admission, we found that we had Hghted\nupon the annual festivity of the Ellesmere Ladies'\nClub. And a very grand affair it was. Yigorous\ndancing was going on upon the green, which was\nresplendent with ladies in fuH dress, with the\nsingle addition of hats or bonnets. The general\neffect was marred by the appearance of the young\nmen, who, as a rule, wore taH black hats, blue or\nred neckties, and frock-coats, the tails of which\nflapped ungracefully as the wearers danced.\n1\n'mm\n^m\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nThe three fishermen felt ashamed of their rough-\nand-ready costume\u2014 straw hats and boating flannels ; but conquering their natural modesty, Yiator\nand Herbert secured partners ; and Piscator, reflecting that the Gipsy could not see him, secured a\npretty girl, and was soon whirling about the smooth\nlawn as madly as any of them.\nYIII.\u2014COEDYRALLT.\nWe stood upon the summit of a cliff, and far\nbelow us the sacred river Dee flowed, with a\ncurrent that from this height seemed to be tranquil and smooth, but we knew that the occasional\nglitter and sparkle told of a rapid, and that the\npatches of snow-white foam were boiling cascades.\nImmediately below was the precipitous rock,\nseamed by many crevices, and broken by many\ncrags, between which the dark yew trees grew and\nthe ivy climbed. Below the rock was a steep\ndescent, thickly wooded with oak, intermingled\nwith larch; and there beneath its fringe of trees\nthe river ran\u2014the sacred Dee, by which all good\nCymri swear. From the mountain springs beyond\nLlyn Tegid, or Bala lake, the river takes its rise.\nIt flows through the lake from one end to the\nother, with a separate current they say, which\nis abundantly proved by the supposed fact that\nwhile salmon abound in the river, and gwyniad in\n%\nir'\/\nfa?\nW\nm\nn\nf\nm\nw\n4m\n Mm\n Mi\n,nd was sooi\nily as any oi\n--:.^\n J\n 1 t-\nmt\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthe lake, yet never are any salmon found in the\nlake out of the centre current, and never are the\ngwyniad found in the current of the river. From\nthe mountain-guarded lake the \"Deva, wizard-\nhaunted stream,\" hurries along, past Druid's stone\nand ancient abbey, towering hills and level meads,\nthrough the happy valley of which we shall speak\nhereafter; and here it is under the wooded cliffs of\nCoedyrallt, whence it shps away with broadening\ncurrent under the flying arches of the PontycysyUte\nAqueduct, past the old city of Chester, to the sea.\nA vertical sun poured down a flood of light that\nstreamed downwards below us over the warm, grey\nrocks, dashing from leaf to leaf of the glossy ivy, so\nthat the face of the cliff shone as if it were covered\nwith the silvery spray of a waterfall, and falHng\nupon the tree-tops that in rounded masses stood\nout from mysterious depths of shade, cool and\ngreen, on the slope to the river. On the other\nside of the stream, open meadows rose gradually to\nthe base of other hills; down the river vaUey to\nthe left, beyond the woods of Wynnstay, were the\ninner Welsh hiUs, rising one beyond another with\nfaint blue outlines, while in the foreground the\nsteep conical hiU of Dinas Bran rose ruin-crowned\nand boldly.\nThe sun was hot, and a south-west breeze scarcely\ncooled the air ; the faint scent of the larches rose\nup to us from the steaming wood ; the river\nmurmured with a sleepy murmur ; no white cloud\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nfloated in the sky, no sound was heard save the\nlowing of the cattle standing knee-deep in the\nshallows ; it was noon on a hot summer's day, and\nwe sat on the top of a chff viewing a fair scene\u2014\nwhat wonder then that one of us, feeling within\nhimself the poetry of the scene, and unable to\nexpress it in his own words, broke into the words\nof another? Seated with his back against a rock,\nand his eyes half closed, he repeated with soft-\nsyllabled voice, \"The Lotos Eaters,\" and part of\nit was very apt :\u2014\n\" All round the coast the languid air did swoon,\nBreathing like one that hath a weary dream ;\nPull-faced above the valley stood the moon,\nAnd like a downward smoke the slender stream\nAlong the cliff to fall, and pause, and fall did seem.\nA land of streams ! Some, like a downward smoke,\nSlow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go ;\nAnd some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,\nSoiling a slumberous sheet of foam below.\nThey saw the gleaming river seaward flow\nFrom the inner land : far off, three mountain-tops,\nThree silent pinnacles of aged snow,\n.Stood sunset-flush'd ; and dew'd with showery drops,\nUpclomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.\"\n\" Where is Herbert ? \" cried the Gipsy, who was\nof a more practical turn than any of us.\nYiator, who was spouting the poetry, looked disgusted at the interruption. Herbert's absence did\nnot warrant the spoiling of the display of his best\nrecitative powers, he thought. But the Gipsy had\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nsome reason for her question. The rustling of yew\nbranches and the shaking of ivy tendrils below us,\nindicated the whereabouts of Herbert. He had\nseen a stock-dove fly to a ledge below him, and from\nher movements suspected that there was a nest\nthere ; so down he went, to the imminent risk of\nhis neck, and presently came up again, chnging to\nthe ivy like a cat, and with two nearly fuU-grown\nstock-doves slung in his handkerchief.\n\" What are you going to do with those, you\nnaughty boy % \" quoth the Gipsy.\n\"Eat them,\" rephed he laconically ; \"I'll cook\nthem myself in the tool-house.\"\nWe sought a steep path that^ wound delicately\naround and under a crag, and by its means we\nreached the foot of the cliff, and plunged at once\ninto a bath of coolness and freshness.\n\" There were cool mosses deep,\nAnd through the moss the ivies crept;\"\nand as we went down and down, scrambling and\n.falling over stones and tree roots, passing through\na forest of the most luxuriant hartstongue ferns we\never saw. From every little crag and mossy bank\nthey waved their long, graceful fronds, and looked\nso green and damp and cool that it was a feast to\nthe eyes to dweU upon them. As we neared the\nriver, and the woods were more open, the glades\nwere covered with strawberries, and we picked and\nate them greedily.\nSJS&\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nThen we reached the river, and, as it was too hot\nand bright to fish, the men left the ladies in a cool,\nsequestered spot to rest themselves, and went down\nthe stream until they Came to a place where it was\npossible to bathe, and, after that most refreshing\noperation, they rejoined the ladies, and we ate our\nlunch. Afterwards, Yiator, who was no fisherman,\nelected to stay with the ladies and gather flowers\nand ferns, while the other two, Piscator and Herbert, went up-stream and fished the streams turn\nand turn about. Many clouds had now come over\nthe sky, and the fish were rising more freely. At\nthe first stream Herbert tried, he caught three\nnice trout, all on the tail-fly, which was one of his\nown make, and consisted merely of a dun-coloured\nhackle, ribbed with yellow silk.\nWe were much bothered by the samlets, which\ntook our flies greedily, and it was a nuisance\npulling them out only to throw them in again.\nThe river is the beau-ideal of a trout stream.\nRapid and stream alternate with deep and eddying pools, and there is every variety of lying and\nfeeding ground for the trout.\nAll the fish we caught were but of a medium\nsize, except one, and over the taking of that a misadventure occurred. While Herbert was wading\nin mid-stream, a man in a coracle\u2014those queer\ncanvas boats used by the Welsh fishermen\u2014came\nfloating down the stream, casting his line to right\nand left, and fishing every yard of the stream^\n4L\n\"H\nm\n\u25a0\u25a0 i\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nw\nmfp\nEm\nretarding his downward progress meanwhile by\nworking his paddle with one arm in a figure-of-\neight stroke, or resting it against the gravel.\nHerbert unceremoniously stopped him, and, after\na Httle palaver, the man consented to Herbert's\ntaking his place in the coracle, while he waded.\nNo sooner was Herbert instaUed in the coracle\nthan he went floating down-stream at a great rate,\nworking wildly and vainly with his left arm to\nretard his speed, and casting as wildly with his\nright, while Piscator followed him along the bank\nlaughing heartily. At last Herbert stopped himself\na little by resting the blade of the paddle against\nthe stony bed of the river, and was enabled to\ncast more scientifically. As his flies swept behind\na boulder, and over the surface of a small eddying\npool, there was a rise, and he found he had\nhooked a big trout, which rushed off up-stream\nat a great pace, Herbert lifted his left arm to clear\nhis line, which had fouled the reel. In doing so\nhe dropped the paddle- and released the coracle,\nwhich careered down-stream as fast as the trout\nwent up. The Hne was nearly off the reel;\nneither rod nor line could stand the double strain,\nso only one course suggested itself, and that was\nto step out of the coracle into the river, which\nwas there about knee-deep. Coracles, however,\nare dangerous things; This one shot from under\nhim as he arose from his seat, and he floundered\nheadlong into the water. Piscator, seeing that\nlIlBi\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nhe rose to his feet aU right, ran on to intercept\nthe coracle, which was half full of water ; and\nHerbert, looking about as handsome as a wet\ncat, played and landed his trout without much\ndifficulty.\nThe afternoon passed pleasantly away, like all\ntrout-fishing afternoons should do. There were all\nthe elements of enjoyment: a sunny sky crossed\nby soft clouds, a south-west wind that, blowing\ndown Bala lake, had raised the river to a fishable\nheight; the dipper flew from stone to stone, and\ndived in the quick current; more than one kingfisher flashed its brilHant hues along the stream;\nthe ring-dove cooed in the wood, and flew down to\nthe river marge to drink; the sand-martins wheeled\nin mazy evolutions over the pools ; the pert water-\nwagtails ran over the sandbanks, and were as proud\nof their tails as a peacock; and the river babbled\nover flashing shallows, and moaned in dark pools\nthat slowly eddied under overhanging branches.\nNo pen can describe the fresh beauty of the scene ;\nthe blue of the distant reaches of the river was as\nintense as that of the sky; the green of the shady\nhoUows of the wood was ethereal in its vividness;\nthe flowers were like fixed butterflies, and the\nbutterflies like winged flowers. No one can better\nknow the poverty of language than he who attempts\nto picture the exceeding beauty of a scene like that\nand a day Hke that. His labour becomes but a\nrepetition of vain words, which cease to have any\n\u25a0w\nJzsmi?]^\n\/m\nc\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n187\nw\n\"x\nJim\nmm\nmeaning when we compare them with the things\nthey are meant to describe. The sky is blue, the\nwoods are green, the earth is fair\u2014is all that he\ncan say; and although in each new scene, and each\ntime the old is viewed, there is a newness and\nfreshness which were never felt before, yet only\nthe same old words can be used, and the full heart\nwhich pants for utterance, that it may show its\nappreciation and gratitude for aU this loveliness,\nis baffled and beaten back by the weakness of\nwords.\nWe came unexpectedly upon the rest of the\nparty. The three ladies had perched themselves,\nlike fairies in a pantomime, in the crevices of a\nheavily-foHaged crag; and there, among the long,\ncreeping plants and ferns, they comfortably nestled\nat various altitudes, watching the efforts of Yiator\u201e\nwho stood on a sloping rock in the river beneath\nthem. He had cut himself a long hazel rod, and\nhad rigged up a Hne from the materials we had left\nin our baskets, which were in his charge. Procuring some worms by turning over the stones, he\nhad set himself to angle for eels in a sullen-looking\npool. His shoes and stockings were off, and the\nbulging out of his coat pockets told where they\nwere. He stood up to his ankles in the water, in\na very insecure position, on the shppery, sloping\nrock; and, upon Herbert thoughtlessly giving a\nshout to startle him, his feet flew from under him,\nand he sat down in the water and commenced\n 71\n183\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nsliding down to the deep pool, till he was stopped\nand unceremoniously dragged back by his coat\ncollar\u2014first himself, then his rod and line, then\na small, active eel, which gave him a great deal of\ntrouble to unhook and secure.\nIt was long past our dinner hour, we had some\ndistance to drive, the coachman was plunging down\nthrough the woods in search of us, and we were\nreluctantly compelled to leave the river and the\ncool shade.\n\" Well,\" said Yiator, \" I don't care for fishing at\nall, but such a day as this goes far to make one a\nfisherman. It has been a perfect day\u2014it is more\nthan a pleasure to live, it is an ecstasy\u2014barring\nwet coat-tail pockets\u2014on such a day,\"\u2014and more\nto the same effect, to which we Hstened indulgently.\nm\n\u25a0m\nIX.\u2014The Happy Yalley.\nIt was somewhat singular that just as we sat\ndown to write this chapter, which concerns the\npleasant Yale of Llangollen, the post should\nbring us a letter from an \"old chum\"\u2014one who\nspent his boyhood in that vaUey, and who is now\nsettled far from us, writing to us but seldom.\nIn his letter he says :\u2014\n'' I was at Llangollen again yesterday, and was\nmuch reminded of our old haunts and walks. The\nw\n ffff\nrm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nEglwyseg rocks seemed to hover like a cloud, ' so\nnear and yet so far ;' near, because I could see not\nonly the bold escarpment, but also \\ by faith ' the\nminute stones and bywalks and ledges in the crags;\nfar, because time always forbids my going up there.\nThe air of those old rocks, and the associations of\ni 4^ the river Dee, have-had a great effect on my mental\n( ^ constitution.\"\n'! '\u2022' Four years of our boyhood were spent in the\n' f- i happy valley; and in company with the writer of\ni J- the letter, we had explored every nook and cranny\n% 'Jr., of the hiUs and glens, and fished every yard of\n^f'-\u00a3,;, river and canal within the circle of mountains that\n^=^.W-: hem in the vale. We made friends with the hill\n' ]y3fcf farmers, and were heartily welcomed by them when\n^,.l|fj&r our rambles led us to their homesteads.\nAnd thus it was that we won the heart to love\nand remember the beautiful valley. Our rambles\nwere such pleasant ones, we caught such store of\nfish, obtained so many birds' eggs, climbed so often\nabove the clouds, dived into the deep pools of the\nriver, saw so many rare and lovely things in nature,\ngained so much pleasant information, and enjoyed\nsuch boisterous health during that time, that we\nchristened it the Happy Yalley. To us it. was no\nmisnomer, for it was a happy valley to us, and\nthrough the rose-coloured spectacles of our youth\nit seemed a happy place to those that dwelt there.\nIt was little matter to us whether we breathed the\ndelicious enjoyment and life of a bright June day,\nm\n!#\nSi\nj!\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nor trudged over the moorland in face of a snowstorm ; our rude health and careless minds reHshed\neach alike.\nLike the meres, the Yale of LlangoUen was a\nplace that the Gipsy must see; and so, one sunny\nday, a party of us drove in a waggonette, passing\non our way the massive structure of Chirk Castle,\nand driving through avenues of mighty trees, which\ncast their shadows upon a forest of bracken, where\nthe deer stood and gazed at us.\nFoUowing the Dee upwards, we entered the\nnarrow gorge which gives entrance to the vale,\nand has scarce room for the river, the railway,\ncanal, and a couple of roads to squeeze through.\nOn either side the hills rose steep and thickly\nwooded, and some distance below us the river ran\nbetween rocky, tree-covered banks. Before us the\nvillage lay, picturesque and irregular. To the left\nwas the long, steep range of the Berwyns, with\nthe bold Geraint, or Barber's Hill, jutting out; to\nthe right was the sugarloaf of the \" Castle Dinas\nBran\" hiH, and beyond that the white limestone\nterraces and the purple moorland of the Eglwyseg\nrocks; and far in front were the mountains and\nglens that were the fairyland of our boyhood.\nWe had a long summer's day before us, and we\n\"determined, after taking the ladies to the top of\nDinas Bran, otherwise Crow Castle, to leave them\nto their own devices, and visit as many of our old\nfishing haunts as possible. Passing over the old\nd\nMi\nmL\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nTQI\n1\/\nstone bridge, with its angular buttresses, whence\nwe used to \" dip \" for the large trout that Hved in\nthe deep, black pool below, known as Llyn Dhu,\nwe hired a couple of donkeys, and mounting the\ntwo ladies thereon, we breasted the hill. A strong\nwind blew, and when it caught us sideways it\nseemed as if donkeys and all must be blown over,\nso that we men had to lend our aid to prop up the\nanimals; and, speaking for ourselves, we can say\nthat at certain critical moments, when we were\nrounding exposed corners, the Gipsy's grip upon\nour coat coHar would not have disgraced a Cornish\nwrestler. The summit gained, we sought a sheltered\ncorner under the lee of the ruins, whence we could\ngaze on the valley of the Dee, spanned in the distance by the aerial flight of the aqueduct. Meadow,\nwood, and stream in their most beautiful aspect\nmet our view, but our gaze lingered more on the\nrocks to the left. On the opposite side of a valley,\nthree-quarters of a mile broad, rose the stupendous\nterraced cHffs of the Eglwyseg rocks, rising in snow-\nwhite steps, severed by green moss and greener\nfern, reminding us of the old time when we used to\nfind the nests of the rock-dove and the.kestrel in'\nthe clefts of the crags, or in the dark yew bushes\nthat clung to the face of the cliff. The ring-ouzel\nand the stonechat were also common there, and we\nfrequently found their nests. Then if we wandered\naway over the wild moorland that stretches in one\nunbroken mass of purple heather from the summit\nm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nof the highest cliff, we would find the broken shells\nof eggs dropped by pigeon or crow in their flight,\nor laid on the ground; and in the marshy spots the\nnests of the lapwing and curlew.\nThe whirring of grouse, the laugh of the kestrel,\nthe croak of the raven which we startled from the\ncarcase of a dead sheep, the cry of the curlew, and\nthe plaint of the lapwing\u2014these were the sounds\nthat met our ears and enchanted us in the days\nof our youth, and ring in our ears in the night\nwatches now,* so that we long to be \" off and away\nto the muirs.\"\n\" Crawling up through burn and bracken, louping down\nthe screes;\nLooking out frae craig and headland, drinking up the\nsimmer breeze.\nOh, the wafts o' heather honey, and the music o' the\nbrae I\"\nOn these moors are lonely tarns, which'we were\nsatisfied held big fish, though we seldom caught\nany; and piled-up cairns, redolent of ancient\nstory; so that there were all the elements of\nromance ready to hand for us.\nThe hand of the spoiler is already at work upon\nthe fair face of the cHffs. The limestone quarries\nrend and tear it in many a place where we have\nstriven in vain to climb the weather-beaten rock.\nIn one place\u2014now vanished\u2014was a sort of natural\nstair, blocked at the top by a huge stone, underneath which was a' crevice wide enough for a slim\n|\n1\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nlad to crawl through. This place we named\n\" Mouse-hole,\" and on the top we erected a hut,\nin which, on hoHday afternoons, we sat,^ like gods\nat ease, watching the puny world below.\nNor, when we crossed over to the other side\nof the ruins, and, facing the sturdy buffets of the\nwind, looked over the assemblage of hills\u2014green\nin the foreground, and broken with iron-grey slate\nquarries, and, in the distance, blue and uncertain\nin outline\u2014was the scene less suggestive.\nBut a truce to these memories, which, though\nsweet to us, are of Httle interest to you. Behold\nus, therefore, on the banks of the narrow, clear\ncanal, beginning, as we began in our pinafore\ntimes, to angle for gudgeon. There were plenty\nof caddis worms, or \" corbets,\" as we called them\nformerly, creeping about at the bottom of the\nwater, close to the margin; and, drawing one out\nof its case, we put the plump, white grub on our\nhook. The gudgeons were nosing about on the\ngravel in companies of a dozen or two; and as\nthe bait floated by them, one darted aside at it\nwith a silvery flash, and was twitched out. In a\nshort time we had caught a dozen of all sizes,\nfrom that of a minnow to six inches in length.\nHaving thus procured plenty of bait, we turned\nour fly-rod into something more like a spinning-\nrod, by substituting a stouter top joint, and then,\nrigging up some spinning tackle, mounted on gut,\nwe baited with a gudgeon, and commenced to trail\nV\n**\u2022*\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthe bait in the canal, walking slowly the while\nalong the bank. In this way we had formerly\ntaken many small jack, from two to four pounds\nin weight, and ere long we found that we could\nrepeat the old performance. Cunningly guiding\nthe glittering bait along a lane of water between\ntwo masses of weed, a jack darted out from under\none of them, and hooked himself fast. He was\nthree pounds in weight, and our fly-rod gave a\ndecent amount of play ere he was grassed, or, to\nspeak more correctly, graveUed. The next capture\nwas a little' larger, and came from beneath the\nstonework of a bridge, and further on still a\nsmaUer one was brought to book. It was a pretty\nsight to see the fish dart and rush in the air-clear\nwater, and dive under the green weeds.\nIn this manner we walked along the canal until\nthe scene grew very wild and picturesque. Closo\non the left the river foamed over its rocks and\nits salmon weirs; on the right the canal became\nnarrower and deeper, and the rocks overhanging\nit on the other side were fringed with ferns, laced\nwith brambles, and cushioned with moss. Beyond\nthe canal a long slope of green mountain arose,\nthickly dotted with gracefully drooping birches.\nDown that glen flows a capital trout brook, and,\ni: you were to foUow it upwards, you would come\nto the splendid ruins of Yalle Crucis Abbey, an\nin a pool in a garden hard by you would see some\ngigantic trout swimming about in pampered pride.\nm\nm\n \"\u2022\n Iflfflf\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n- A Httle further in front, the canal issues out)\nof the river, where a semicircular weir of great\nextent dams up the broad stream. It is worth\nwhile to cross the rickety old structure known as\nthe chain-bridge, and to ascend to the Berwyn\nStation to see the view up the river, which, with\nits reaches of water seen between distant woods,\nshould be drawn by Birket Foster.\nBelow the chain-bridge are two gorges, through\nwhich the whole river foams; although their\nnames, the Cow's Leap and the Robber's Leap,\nindicate their narrowness. Below each of these\nis a whirhng and eddying pool, where minnow-\nspinning has often proved deadly to the trout.\nWe baited with the smallest of our gudgeons, and\nin the lower pool, notwithstanding the brightness\nof the day and the clearness of the water, we\nhooked and landed a trout of a pound and a\nquarter in weight, which is much above the\naverage weight of trout in the Dee. Then wo\nmounted our flies, and carefully picking our way\nover the uneven rocks, we fished the best of the\nstreams and pools down to the \"Llan,\" arriving\nat the town with a couple of dozen trout, all small\n\u2014a bag which was by no means a contemptible\none for the Dee, which in its open portions is\nconsiderably overfished.\nAfter dinner we again started, while the others\nstrobed in the garden of the \"Royal,\" and threw\npebbles at the rising trout in the still pool above\n 196\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthe weir. We hastened on until we came to a\ndeep pool enshrouded with rocks and trees, and\nafter sitting for half an hour over a pipe to let\nour dinner partly digest, we stripped and plunged\nin the deep pool off the old diving-rock, while\nthe roach\u2014of which fish there are too many in\nthe quiet parts of the river\u2014darted away from\nbefore us in all directions. An old feat was to\nscramble to the top of a rapid above the pool,\nand then to swim downwards in a rush of white\nwater through a narrow gorge into the eddying\npool. We did this once again, and thereupon\nwondered how it was that we did it so often and\nsafely when we were boys. It struck us as being\nan exemplification of the old proverb that \"fools\nrush in where wise men fear to tread.\"\nThere was but one thing more wanting to complete the old fishing round, arid that was soon\ndone. Wading through a shallow part of the\nriver, and carrying our clothes across, we dressed,\nand clambering through a thicket reached the foot\nof the canal embankment, and *were soon on its\nbanks. Close by was a \"basin\" or wider space\nwhere the canal barges are turned. In this quiet,\nweedy spot the roach were swimming in hundreds,\njust the same as if years had not passed since we\nfished for them before. With a black gnat and a\nsmall \" coch y bonddu,\" each tipped with a bit of\nkid glove, we were soon doing execution among\nthe silver-scaled beauties. They were rising gently\nt2$jaBmfegtf%? c**i w\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nall over the still surface, and we threw our flies\nbefore the biggest of them, and watched them sail\nup to the bit of feather and open their mouths\njust with the intention of tasting\u2014no more; but\nah! a quick jerk of the wrist, and the steel goes\nhome.\nWhile the evening breeze sang quietly in the\ntree-tops, and the sunset flush filled the fragrant\nair, the sand-martins flew lower, the bats fluttered\nabove us, and followed with quick turns the wave\nof our Hne; and the peace of the dying day was\nonly disturbed by the wind playing on its harp\nof fir-trees,' the hurried twitter of the martins,\nthe shrih squeak of the bats, and the splash of a\ncaptured roach.\nMany other such days, and then, refreshed and\nstrengthened, we rush once more into the toil and\n0 turmoil of Hfe.\nl|f|\nUr\n ANGLING ACQUAINTANCES.\nIt is not of the acquaintances which the angler has\namong human kind that we write, although much\nmight be said upon such a topic, for anghng, like\npoverty, makes us acquainted with strange companions. There is another class of acquaintances\nof which the angler should know more than he\noften does know\u2014the beasts and the birds with\nwhich his waterside rambles bring him into contact. The angler's friends among men are usually\npleasant feUows, for \" birds of a feather flock\ntogether,\" and, if he but knows them aright, the\nbirds and the animals are pleasant friends too.\nEvery angler should be a naturalist, or have, at\nleast, an inteUigent knowledge of the more interesting of the component parts of that great\nthing called Nature, which makes anghng what\nit is. It is astonishing how much the interest\nof a ramble is increased by such a knowledge.\nDepend upon it, the difference between \" eyes and\nno eyes\" is greater than is at first apparent, and\nto no man is this more important to be understood than the follower of the gentle craft.\nAnghng acquaintances, then, Of the sort-of\n \u25a0-'.., .j\n ?:~vi\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwhich we write, may fairly be divided into two\nclasses: those which Hve upon fish, and are\nanglers themselves, forming one ; and those whose\npresence by the waterside is an attribute of it and\nbrings them constantly under the angler's notice'\nforming the other. The birds are plenty, the\nanimals few. Of the latter, the only two that\ncome within the province of such an article as\nthis are the otter and the water-rat. Comparatively few are the anglers who, in the course of\ntheir rambles, have met with the former. It\nis only when the dusk faUs greyly over the river,\nor the early dawn is breaking, that he whose\ninclinations lead him to the river-side may hear\na light plunge, and see a dark body glancing off\na grey rock into the circHng water. The otter\nis nocturnal in his habits, and few men linger\nsufficiently late by the river-side, or rise sufficiently early, to keep him company in his fishing\nrambles ; or even if they do so, they rarely move\nalong the bank with that quietness and caution\nwhich is needful ere you may catch a gHmpse of\nhim on the bank. We believe the otter is much\nless rare than is generally supposed. It* was our\npractice in our younger days to be much at the\nriver-side in the early morning hours, and many\na time have we seen and heard otters when it\nwas believed that there were no such animals\nin the river. They move with such exceeding\nstealthiness that a keen observation is needful to\n^?*\u00bb\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ndetect them, and it is well known that country\nfolk have but Httle keenness of observation where\ncountry sights and sounds are concerned. On\nmany of the Welsh rivers they are tolerably\nplentiful, and also in the wilder streams of the\nnorth of England and Scotland.\nAccording to Sfcoddart, the otter has much increased of late years on the Tweed; and so far\nfrom the spread of cultivation having been any\ncheck to it, it appears to have aided it in its increase, from the fact that the greater number of\ndrains and culverts have afforded it more and safer\nplaces of refuge than formerly existed.\nThe long, lithe body and short legs of the otter\nwill indicate, even to him who looks upon it for\nthe first time, that the animal belongs to the group\ncomprising the ferret, the polecat,, and the weasel\n\u2014but while all its confreres live upon flesh, to\nthe otter aH days are Fridays, for it Hves almost\nentirely upon fish. Indeed, our forefathers were\nmuch in doubt as to whether the otter was not\na fish itself; and so little has their doubt been\nresolved by certain of their descendants, that the,\nRoman Cathohc Church still allows its flesh to\nbe eaten on Fridays and fast days.\nIn length the otter is, from its snout to the tip\nof its tail, about three feet four inches, and its\ntail takes up a third of its length. It weighs,\nwhen full grown, from twenty to twenty-four\npounds, and even more. Pennant gives an in-\n^r^^^fe^^^^,..\n.Jfi\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nstance of one which weighed forty pounds. As\nbefits an animal which lives so constantly under\nwater, it is peculiarly constructed. Its head is\nbroad and flat, and it has a broad muzzle, with\na thick, overhanging upper Hp. Its body is long\nand low, and much flattened horizontally. Its\ntail is flat and broad, and acts like a rudder; and\nits Hmbs are loosely jointed, so that the otter\ncan quickly turn in any direction .while it swims;\nand its broad feet are webbed. In general colour\nthe otter is of a rich brown, but its body is\ncovered with two distinct and very different coatsN\nof fur, \"the shorter being extremely fine and soft,\nof a lightish grey colour, and brown at the tips;\nthe longer are stiffer and thicker, very shining,\ngreyish at the. base, bright rich brown at the\npoints, especially at the upper parts, and tho\nouter surface of the legs.\"\nSo much for the outer appearance of our shy\nand retiring friend. During the night he wanders\nboldly about the streams and rivers, \" seeking his\nprey from God ;\" in the daytime he is \" at home \"\u25a0\nin a deep burrow in the river's bank, in the interstices of a crag, or mid the tangled roots of a tree,\nwhence it would be hard for spade to oust him.\nThe mouth of the burrow is as near as may be\nto the usual level of the river, but we do not\nthink it is actually below water, as some authorities\nassert. In this snug abode, on a couch of leaves,\nhe sleeps comfortably until the sun goes down, and\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nVfc\n\u25a0fJm\nw\nhere the female brings forth her Htter of four or\nfive when the land brightens with spring.\nAnd now let us look at a summer's night and\nday from the otter's point of view.\nIt is a deep, slow reach of river, running between\nclose-wooded banks, where the oak and ash are\nseamed by the silvery birches, which look ghostlike in the coming twilight. The fire of sunset has\ndeparted, leaving but a sullen red in the clouds,\nwhich hang low in the west. The gloaming steals\ndarkly over the river, and faint wreaths of mist\nrise from the quiet bays. The brown owl flits\nbetween the stems of the oaks, the water-hens\ncome nodding from the thickly-herbaged banks,\nthe trout rise with noisy splashes, and the circles\nsail down the smooth stream and mingle with\nothers.\n\" The day has erided,\nThe night has descended.\"\nHow does the otter in his deep hole\u2014where day\nand night it must be pitch-dark\u2014tell when the\nday changes into night ? Yet, as the daylight\nfades, he starts from his heavy sleep, and showing\nhis teeth as he yawns\u2014and a capital set of teeth\nthey are\u2014he uncoils himself from his bed of dried\nleaves, and sets out on his evening stroll. As he\ncreeps through the marginal bushes, he comes\nsuddenly upon a water-hen, at which he makes a\n\" playful snap, tearing out some of her wing feathers.\nHe leaps down upon a mud-bank, and finds himself\nAP\nm\nrW\\\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nface to face with a heron, standing solemnly upon\none leg, intently watching a shallow. The two\nrival anglers watch each other with dubious looks.\nThe otter snarls at the bird, and the latter gives\na startled leap and a half-peck at the intruder.\nThe otter is inchned for hostilities, but he is\nafraid of the sharp and threatening beak of the\nbird. Just then, however, he catches sight of an\nobject which is of more interest to him at present\nthan a combat. It is the snout and neck of an eel\nprojecting from the muddy bank. The otter slips\ninto the water, and ere the eel can withdraw into\nits fastness, it is in his cruel gripe, and is drawn\nout of the mud and carried to the opposite bank,\nwhere, as the beast is hungry, it is eaten up\u2014head,\nand tail, and bones, and all. The otter then takes\nto the water, and, after cruising about a little, he\nsees another eel swimming with slow and sinuous\nmotion. This he has no difficulty in seizing, but\ninstead of being despatched like the former, it is\ncarried to the bank and left there, where, if by any\nchance he should return hungry, it wiU be ready\nfor him. A large trout next claims his attention,\nand in that wide reach of water the fish is more\nthan a match for the beast, although the latter\ncarries on the chase with great perseverance,\nswimming under water, and following the trout\nin all its darts and windings with astonishing\nrapidity, rising now and then to the surface to\nbreathe. But he cannot corner the trout, which\nmm\n \u25a0\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nis a cunning old stager, and will not poke its head\ninto a hole. The otter gives it up at last, and\nseeing an unwary chub rising at a moth, he seizes\nit, and carries it to a rock, where, after taking a\nbite from its shoulder, he leaves it as he left the\neel. The otter longs for trout, and trout he will\nhave,- and he knows where to get them.\nA good-sized burn runs into the river from out a\ncraggy, wild, and wooded dene, where it leaps over\na score of waterfalls, and eddies into a hundred\npools. Up this the otter takes his \"way, pushing\nthrough bramble and brier, and splashing over\nstream and shallow in. a very businessHke way.\nHe comes to where the burn, fast sweeping over\na slanting rock, spreads out into a clear, deep\npool. The otter gazes into the pool with eyes\nthat in the dark glare luminously, and sees a\nlarge trout poising itself midway in the clear\nwater. With an almost noiseless plunge the beast\ndives into the pool, and, quick as thought, the\nfish pops under a stone. The otter kicks the\nstone away with his paw, snaps up poor trouty,\nand in a few minutes has eaten a considerable\nportion of it. So up the brook he goes\u2014\"the\ndainty old thief of an otter\"\u2014capturing a fish\nhere and there, eating some, and leaving others\nwith barely a bite taken out of the shoulder.\nThe moon rises large and red over the hill, and\nsends bright sheets of light between the oak trees.\nThe robber growls at the bright-faced moon, for\nm\nn\nm\nm\n'.'^-.i\nlir\nWW\nTak\n I\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nshe sends strange shadows upon the earth, which\nmake him tremble with fright.\nHe at last begins to retrace his steps towards\nthe river, for it is close upon dawn, and daylight\nmust see him in his \"hover,\" as otter-hunters call\nhis burrow. Hark ! what is that noise that is\nborne upon the chill morning breeze ? He stops,\nand Hstens intently. It is repeated. He knows\nit too well; It is the twang of a horn, and close\nupon it is the beUing of a hound. The otter-\nhunters are afoot, and, as he stiU listens, the\nloud chorus of hound-cries rings through the wood.\nHe knows that they have found his scent or\n\" drag,\" and have cut off his retreat from the\nriver. There is no place in the pool where he\ncan conceal himself, so he turns tail and bounds\nthrough the wood, foUowing the stream \"upwards,\nfear lending speed to his feet, until he reaches the\nopen fields. Crossing these at a gallop, he strikes\nthe head of another burn, and tearing down this\nhe regains the river. Even as he does so he is\novertaken, and surrounded by his pursuers in the\nshallow stream. An eager sportsman dashes up to\nhis waist in the water, and seizes the otter by his\ntAil in the approved method, but he is not quick\nenough. Ere he can swing the poor hunted beast\nclear of the water, the latter has turned round and\nmade his teeth meet in the arm of his Would-be\ncaptor, who lets him go. The otter slips past the\nhounds and regains the deep water, and shortly\n mr1\nTHE ANGLER'S SOUVENIR.\nafterwards his home, where he gathers himself up\npanting and weary, and whence the united efforts\nof his enemies fail to dislodge him.\nOtter-hunting is a sport which still flourishes in\nthe west and north of England, and very fine sport\nit is. It is necessary to rise early, or the scent of\nthe otter will have disappeared. Hard running, and\nplenty of it, jumping, wading, and even swimming,\ncombine to render it a laborious and healthy exercise.\nThe otter does not confine himself exclusively to\nfish diet. When fish are scarce, he will travel far\ninland, and, pressed by hunger, attack poultry,\nand also lambs or sucking-pigs. But such instances are very rare, and as a general rule the\notter has no worse sin to answer for than that of\nl ; and we think there are few anglers\nso bigoted, and such poor naturalists, as to be\njealous of, and to wish to exterminate, this wild\nand interesting species.\nThe otter may be tamed and taught to catch fish\nfor its master, and many instances of its doing this\nhave been recorded. It shows great attachment to\nits young, and is very fierce in their defence, even\nattacking and driving away those who have tried\nto capture the young ones. OccasionaUy it will\nmake its way to the sea, and even swim a good\nway out from land in pursuit of fish. Much more\nmitten about the otter, but other a\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nNext in order on our Hst, but with a very wide\ngap between it and the otter, comes the water-rat\nor water-vole ; and as it is such a small animal, we\nwill add to its importance by giving it its proper\nLatin name of Arvlcola amphibius. It is a little\ncreature, much prettier than the common rat; and\nwith its brown soft fur, and round snout, and\nblack beady eyes, it is not by any means an ugly\nobject. While walking by the water-side, one hears\na splash, and sees a train of bubbles dimphng the\nsurface, and one knows that it is either a water-\nhen or a water-rat. If it be the latter, it will\ncome to the surface in about a minute to breathe.\nEvery rambler by the water-side knows the difference there is in the appearance of the water-vole\nand the common rat, and he ought also to know\nthe great and important difference there is in their\nhabits. The common rat Hves upon fish, flesh, or\nfowl, when it can get them. The water-rat Hves\nentirely upon roots or sub-aquatic plants. They\noften bear upon their shoulders the sins.of their\nmore rapacious brethren, but there is no reason\nwhy they should be destroyed, save in those places\nwhere their habit of burrowing in the banks might\nbe productive of damage.\nIn the \"Journal of a NaturaHst\" there is an\ninteresting anecdote of this little animal. The\nwriter says : \" A large stagnant piece of water in\nan inland county, with which I was intimately\nacquainted, and which I very frequently visited\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nfor many years of my Hfe, was one summer\nsuddenly infested with an astonishing number of\nthe short-tailed water-rats, none of which had\npreviously existed there. Its vegetation was the\ncommon production of such places, excepting that\nthe larger portion of it was densely covered with\nits usual crop, the smaU horsetail (equisetum limn^\nsum). - This constituted the food of the creatures,\nand the noise made by their champing it we could\ndistinctly hear in the evening at many\u00abyards'\ndistance. They were shot by dozens daily, but\nthe survivors seemed quite regardless of the noise,\nthe smoke, the deaths around them. Before the\nwinter this great herd disappeared, and so entirely\nevacuated the place that a few years after I could\nnot obtain a single specimen.\"\nWhen capes and bays of rivers \u00abre shady in the\ngloaming, how often have we seen the heron slowly\nwinging its way down-stream, turning its head and\nlong neck this way and that, looking for a likely\nspot to settle, its large, grey shape dimly reflected\nin the misty water. A bird of weird and ghostlike aspect is the heron, but one which is a favourite\nwith the angler; for whether he comes suddenly\nupon it by some lonely tarn-side, standing knee-\ndeep in the shaUows, with its neck drawn back,\nand head resting on its breast, or watches its' slow\nand laboured flight as it awkwardly takes wing\nfrom the river-bank as he suddenly approaches, it\nis an interesting and beautiful object. It awakens\n<0YJ\ni\n\u20ac\nf\nMl\n4t,\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ny :\/,\nms&*\nmemories of olden times when the heron was the\nfavourite quarry of the hawker. What an exciting\nthing it must have been, to have seen the noble\nfalcon swoop upon the huge-winged heron, and to\nsee the bird turn over on its back, and with long,\nsharp beak and talons fight savagely to the last.\nWhen the heron is on the wing its flight is apparently slow. When you come upon it suddenly, it\nhas a very awkward and ugly way of taking wing,\nstretching out its neck and hunching up its back\nin an ungainly fashion. When it is fully on the\nwing, its neck is stretched out before and its legs\nbehind; and when it alights, it brings its legs\nforward with a peculiar \"hoist.\" Although its\nflight seems slow, the beats of its wings are far\nquicker than one would imagine, inasmuch as they\naverage 120 a minute. How quick, then, must be\nthe vibrations of the wings of smaller birds !\nThe food of the heron is principally fish, and to\ncatch these it stands in some shallow portion of the\nriver or lake, where the water is tolerably quiet,\nand thus it watches until its prey passes within\nreach, when out darts its long neck, and the\ning trout or eel is caught between the long sharp\nmandibles. If it be an eel, the heron has often\nsome difficulty in killing it, but it takes particular\ncare to do it effectuaUy by nipping it in the back,\nfor a live eel wriggling about in its inside would\nbe far from pleasant. Ln~ default of fish diet, the\nheron will eat the young of water-fowl, mice, frogs,\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ntin\nA?\nm\nmm\nA\nI\netc. It has been known to seize a wounded snipe\nwhich had fallen near it, and to swim Out for several\nyarls to. seize the newly-hatched young from the\nwater-hens' nests.\nAlthough, as a general rule, the heron is a\nsoHtary feeder, it has gregarious breeding habits,\nnesting together in large companies like rooks.\nThere are several heronries in England, but they\nare scattered far and wide ; and the heron flies\nlong distances night and morning in quest of food.\nIt builds on the extreme tops of the tallest trees,\nand as near the end of the branch as possible^for\nthe size of the bird makes it inconvenient for it\nto penetrate far amid the branches of the tree.\nIt lays its eggs, which are of a Hght bluish-green\ncolour, early in the spring. It is said that if it\naccidentally drops the food it is carrying to its\nyoung to the ground, it does not take the trouble\nto pick it up again, but flies off for more. This\nmay arise from the difficulty it has in rising from\nthe ground in a confined space.\nSome years ago there appeared in one of the\nillustrated papers a birdseye view of a heronry\nfrom above. The enterprising artist had climbed\nto the summit of a tall tree overlooking the\nheronry, and from thence made his sketch. It\nwas a very novel and interesting sight. The\nherons were flying about in dire alarm, or swaying\nuncomfortably on the pHant branches. Many of\nthe nests which were not tenanted by the hero\nh\nI\nm\nX\n\u25a05^mm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwere occupied by squirrels, and by hawks, jackdaws, and other birds.\nBut we think the prettiest object of aU those\nwhich greet the eye of the angler by the riverside is the kingfisher, whether it skims so swiftly\nalong the river, midway between the banks, that\nit looks like one continuous line of blue, and\ngreen, and orange; or, rarer and loveHer still,\nwhen it hovers hawk-like over the water, and\nthen plunges down upon the fish below. No bird\nis a greater favourite of ours than the kingfisher,\nand we much regret that each year it is becoming\nrarer, even on our most preserved streams. Its\nbeauty makes it sought after by every gunner,\nwho finds a ready market for its skin. Many are\nthe times we have stopped in our fishing to watch\nit sitting on a bough projecting over the water,\nits orange breast shining brightly against the fresh\ngreen of the willows behind it. It sits motionless,\nuntil the gleam of a minnow below attracts its\nattention, and then it dives like a flash of coloured\nHght into the water, to reappear with a silvery\nmorsel in its beak. A toss and twist of its head,\nand the fish is bolted, and the bird sits motionless\nagain. The kingfisher has been known to perch\nupon the rod of an angler, when he has been\nstanding stiU and quiet on the bank.\nThe. kingfisher nests in holes in the bank. It\nsometimes takes possession of the deserted, hole\nof a sand-martin, but more often, we imagine, it\n I\nitf^\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nmakes a hole for itself. The bank chosen is a\nsoft graveUy one, such as those which often overhang the outer curve of an eddying, pool. The\nburrow is from two to three feet deep, and often\ncurved. At the end it is enlarged, so as to form\na sort of chamber, and on the floor of this are\nlaid six, or eight, round white eggs, of such\nbrilliant whiteness and transparency as to be excessively beautiful. The old birds show great\nattachment to their home, and return to it year\nafter year. Even if their eggs are disturbed again\nand again the same year, they will continue to\nlay. In course of time the deposit of fish-bones\narising from the excrements of the birds accumulates in the nest; and as the eggs are laid on\nthese, it has been said that kingfishers purposely\nmake their nests of fish-bones; but this we do\nnot think is the case. Stevenson, in his \" Birds of\nNorfolk,\" gives such an interesting account of the\ndiscovery and analysis of a kingfisher's nest, that\nbut little apology is necessary for our quoting it\nhere. He says :\u2014\n\" The drain or ' dyke,' as it is caUed in Norfolk,\nwas rather wide, and the hole, which I should\ncertainly have taken for a rat's, was about a foot\nbelow the top of the bank, and the same distance\nfrom the water. We first took the precaution to\nintroduce some paper into this aperture, spreading\nit over the eggs, to prevent the soil from crumbhng\ninto the nest, and then dug carefully down upon\n\\m\ni\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n213\nthe paper, extracting a large circular piece of turf ;\nbut, in spite of all our precautions, the earth,\nowing to a long-continued drought, was too friable\nto be kept from partiaUy falhng in. Carefully\nbrushing this away and removing the paper, we\ndiscovered the nest, for such with its raised sides\nit might fairly be called, occupying a round\nchamber at the upper end of the passage, which\nsloped gradually upwards from the point of entrance. From the mouth of the hole to the circular\nbed was about two feet, and the chamber containing the nest itself was about six or eight inches\nin diameter, and completely filled with the remains\nof fish, in every stage of decomposition. The eggs,\nseven in number, exhibiting the usual pinky hue\nof the yolk showing through their glossy shells,\nwere laid exactly in the centre, and reposed on a\nstrata of fragmentary fish-bones, pure white, and\nby no means offensive; but a sHghtly raised wall\nof similar substances, of a dirty-yellow tint, crumb-\nHng to the touch, and alive with maggots, was far\nfrom pleasant; and I doubt not consisted of the\nrecent deposits of the old bird or birds whilst\nsitting, the bleached-looking bones beneath the\neggs being evidently of older date, and dried, no\ndoubt, by the warmth 'of their bodies. On inserting a spade beneath the entire mass, in order\nto carry away as much as possible, we found\napparent evidence of this hole having been tenanted\nfor more than one season, since below the white\nJBt*\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbones forming the actual nest was at least an inch\nin depth of former dejecta. This under layer was\nalso very dark in colour, and very lively, whilst\nthat portion nearest the walls of the chamber was\nquite dry, and caked into the surrounding soil.\nAmongst the half-digested portions of bone, I\nparticularly noticed the remains of beetle-cases,\nand one large fragment of a water-beetle (notonecta),\nwith the claws complete ; but aU these substances\nwere confined exclusively to the nesting-chamber,\nand were not scattered about the passage leading\nthereto, nor was there a single atom of grass,\nstraw, or such-like material to be seen anywhere.\nWishing to preserve, not only the eggs, but the\nstrange bed on which they were placed, the whole\nmass, on our reaching home, was turned into a\nmusHn bag, and by placing that in a colander,\nand allowing water to run freely through it for\nsome time, all the earthy particles were soon disposed of; and the maggots were as effectively\ndestroyed by a single immersion in boiling water.\nThe bones, thus thoroughly cleansed and sifted,\nwere next turned out upon a sheet of blotting-\npaper, and then laid on a wire sieve to strain and\ndry, tiH in a few hours the entire heap looked as\nwhite and free from all impurities as the portion\non which the eggs had been.first seen. On weighing\nthese bones, thus freed from all foreign particles,\nI found they amounted to exactly 1,080 grains, or\ntwo'ounces and a quarter and thirty grains.\"\n%A\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n215\nDuring a severe frost the kingfisher has been\nknown to be frozen by the claws to his perch, by\nthe water dripping from it after a dive, and to\ndie. What a sad end for the beautiful bird !\nNext to the kingfisher, the greatest ornament to\nour streams is the dipper. On some boulder that\nstems the eddying current it rests, its white breast\nfacing you, arid its tail jerking like the robin's.\nIt dives into the water, and reappears a yard or\ntwo off; then flies to another stone, repeating the\nprocess ; and then, as you approach, it flies onward\nwith a straight flight like that of the kingfisher.\nIn a short time you again come up with it, and\nyou may so keep the same bird before you for a\ncouple of miles. The dipper is a lonely bird, frequenting sequestered and secluded spots, and more\nthan two are seldom seen together.\nIt nests very early in the year, and builds a\nlarge, fine nest, after the pattern of the wren's,\ndomed, and with a small hole as entrance. It is\nplaced in a crevice of a rock, between the roots\nof trees, that overhang the river, and oftentimes\nin a hole in a wheel, or rock, in the very splash of\nthe waterfall. The eggs are five in number, pure\nwhite, very pointed, and somewhat less in size\nthan those of ai. thrush. Like the kingfisher, the\ndipper reappears year after year at the same nest;\nand when one pair dies, another will take up the old\nquarters. The dipper has a faint, sweet, piping song,\nwhich sounds like the echo of a rivulet's music.\n4L\ni\n1\n111\n rtpn\n216\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nThere are two vexed questions concerning the\ndipper, which have caused a great amount of controversy. One is, What does the dipper eat ? and\nthe other is, Can it walk under water ? With\nregard to the former, our observation has convinced us that the dipper Hves almost exclusively\nupon insects. Now and then, it is possible he\nmay gobble up a few grains of spawn which have\nescaped from their bed, but it is clear that if the\ndipper did not eat them the fish would. Numbers\nof dippers have been shot through the mistaken\nidea that they are great devourers of spawn, and\nthey have much decreased in consequence. This\nis a thousand pities, and we wish to say what we\ncan to stop useless and cruel massacre. Assertion\nis no use without proof, and no one can prove that\nthe dipper eats \u00a3pawn, while abundant proof can\nbe adduced to the contrary. It will be sufficient\nfor ns now to quote the opinions of three weU-\nknown naturalists.\nMacgilHvray says: \"I have opened a great number\nof individuals at all seasons of the year, but have\nnever found any other substances in the stomach\nthan lymnce, ancyli, coleoptera, and grains of gravel.\"\nGould says : \" During my visit, in November,\n1859, to Penoyre, the seat of Col. Watkyns, on the\nrive* Usk, the water-ouzels were very plentiful, and\nthe keeper informed me that they were then feeding on the recently deposited roe of the trout and\nsalmon. By the colonel's desire five specimens were\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nSJ\nW\nshot for the purpose of ascertaining by dissection\nthe truth of this assertion, but I found no trace\nwhatever of spawn in either of them. Their hard\ngizzards were entirely fined with larvae of phryganea\nand the water-beetle (hydrophilus).,,\nBuckland says: \"It may be observed that I do\nnot mention the water-ouzel as destructive to\nspawn : this advisedly, as of late I have carefully\nexamined the gizzards of several of these beautiful\nlittle birds, and have found only the remains of\nwater insects in them; write the water-ouzel the\nfriend, and not the enemy, of the fish spawn.\"\nWe think also that it is quite clear that dippers\ncan walk under water. There is no evidence against\nit except the assertion of those who say it is impossible for a bird which is so much Hghter than\nwater to be able to walk under it. If they would\nexamine the foot of a dipper, they would see that\nits claws are admirably formed to enable the bird\nto cling to the stones at the bottom of the stream ;\nand it is, in fact, by their aid that the dipper\nmanages to walk or scramble, not only under water,\nbut up-stream as weU. Our own observation of\nthese birds has been keen, and we are convinced\nthat the dipper can, and does, walk under water,\nand that for three or four yards, and it is some\ntime picking up its insect-food from between the\nstones. We may be permitted, however, to support our assertion by the following quotation from\na paper read some time ago by Dr. J. R. Kinahan,\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbefore the Dublin Natural History Society, and\nwhich we read in \" Science Gossip\" for 1866 :\u2014\n\" During the years 1849 and 1850, having nearly\ndaily occasion to frequent that part of the river\nDodder which passes through the romantic mountain glens of Glemismaul and Castlekelly, the great\nabundance of the water-ouzel, or, as the peasantry\nthere call it, kingfisher, induced me to study its\nhabits somewhat particularly.\n\" The general habits of the water-ouzel have been\nso well and so often described that they need not\ndetain us ; but although it is now some years since\nM. Herbert announced the fact that this bird is\npossessed of the power of walking under water, on\nthe bottom of streams, and although the truth of\nthis observation has been strengthened by the evidence of such men as St. John, Dilwyn, Rennie,\nWilHam Thompson, and MacgilHvray, yet stiU there\nare found many\u2014especially among the closet naturalists\u2014who prefer to ignore the fact altogether, or\nelse assert that this bird's habits in this respect are\nidentical with those of other divers.\n\" My observations, made repeatedly during many\nmonths, and having for their object the elucidation\nof this very point, enable me to corroborate M.\nHerbert's account in every particular, except that\nthe bird carries down a supply of air to the bottom,\nenclosed within its wings, in which he most certainly\nis in error, led away by a fancied analogy between\nthe bird and diving-beetles; as I have repeatedly\nI A\nfx\nif\nw\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nm\nifef\nIte\n#\nseen them rise to the surface to obtain air, which\nthey do exactly like a grebe, merely raising the tip\nof the bill out of the water.\n\" The bird has several modes of diving : when\nseeking food, it generally goes down\u2014like most\ndivers\u2014head-foremost, in an oblique direction, or\nelse walks deliberately in from the shaUow edge of\nthe pool, the head bent down, and the knees (tarsal\narticulation) crouched. When seeking refuge, however, it sometimes sinks like a stone, exactly as the\ngreat northern diver, C. glacialis, has been observed\nto do ; that is, gradually, the top of the head the\nlast part submerged, without any apparent exertion ; sometimes in the midst of its most rapid\nflight dropping down suddenly into the water like\na plummet. Its course is indifferently with or\nacross the stream, rarely against it.\n\"It often remains under water, totaUy submerged,\nfor fifty seconds or upwards, and during that time\nwill proceed from ten to twenty yards. When it\ncomes out, the water may be seen running rapidly\noff its plumage. It swims with great rapidity, and\nappears to rejoice in the water as its true element ;\nhardly ever ahghting directly on a rock, but, even\nafter its longest flight, splashing slap into the water\nat the base of a stone selected as a resting-place,\nand then .scrambling to the summit of this. In\nits motion in the water it more closely resembles\nthe jackass penguin of Cape Horn {Apt. chryso-\ncoma) than any other aquatic bird I have had an\nmjt\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nopportunity of studying. Like that bird\u2014especiaUy\nin the breeding season\u2014the ouzels may be seen\nat times leaping right out of the water in their\ngambols.\n\" That the bird actuaUy does possess the power\nof motion under water, the following notes on\na wounded bird, made , on the spot, abundantly\nprove :\u2014\n\"'November 29th, 1850. \u2014 Bohernabreena.\u2014\nWounded a water-ouzel, which, as I observed them\nall to do, immediately made for shore. On my\ngoing to seize him, he darted into the water, running\nslap in. Waded in after him. Under water he\nlooks quite glossy, but does not seem increased in\nbulk, the glossiness probably arising from the oiled\nstate of the plumage, or else from its pecuhar\ntexture. When I first got up with the bird he was\nperfectly stationary at the bottom, not using any\nexertion to remain there (this remark applies to two\nother birds wounded later in the day, which also\ntook to the water). The bird next got under a big\nstone, and when I poked him out on one side he\nran to the other. After the lapse of a minute or\nso he put his head out of the water to breathe,\nalways keeping the stone between him and me ; and\nwhen I tried to catch him, he would dodge under\nthe water again, and come up on the other side.\n\" 'Finding that I was still chasing him, he took\nto the stream, and went under water faster than I\ncould follow him. He seemed to move entirely by\nHlfisf\nw\nIf\nh\ni\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR:\nn\nIM)\n4t\nmeans of his feet, his wings hanging down behind\nhis tail; though his motions were so quick, it was\ndifficult to be positive as to the latter part of this\nobservation. At times he swam in mid-water, using\nhis wings, crossing the current several times, and\nseeming but little incommoded by it.\n\" 'All at once he turned over on his back\u2014still\npossessing the power of continuing under water ;\nstruggling to regain his original position, he spun\nround and round. It appeared as though the\nwounded wing had suddenly failed him, and thus\nprevented his preserving a due equilibrium in the\nwater. At length he came to the top, when he\nimmediately righted and swam as at other times.\nEvery time I tried to lay hold of him he again\nducked and dived down to the bottom, at first all\nright, and then the tumbling began again. When\ncaptured at length, I found him merely winged. I\nwas enabled to confirm these observations several\ntimes that day, as I obtained seven specimens, five\nof which necessitated a watery chase before I succeeded in catching them, and one got clear off.' \"\nSuch testimony should settle the matter at last.\nWe hope it wiU be a very long time ere the dipper\nis banished from our trout streams, for without it\na great part of their charm would be lost to us.\nEvery one knows the common water-hen. Where\nrivers slowly sweep between rushy banks, where\nthe lake bends into quiet bays, and in the small\nrushy \"pits\"\" in fields, even close to houses, the\nM\nW\n nf\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwater-hen is to be seen making its way through the\nweeds, or swimming across the tiny bays, jerking\nits head and making as much fuss as if it were\nswimming twice as fast as it really is doing. It\ngives life and motion to many a lake that would\notherwise be dull and drear, and its appearance in\nevery small rushy pond adds great interest to the\ncountry ramble. The nest of the water-hen is one\nof the earliest prizes to the bird-nesting schoolboy.\nThe large, shallow structure, made of dry flags and\nwater-plants, is generally placed amid the rushes or\nreeds on the margin of a pool, and is conspicuous\nenough, but the bird sometimes departs from its\nusual habits, and builds its nest above the water.\nWe have found one in the crown of an old poUard\nwiHow, which slanted over a pool. Though, usuahy,\nwater-hens Hve entirely among the coarse herbage\nby the waterside, and in the water itself, in severe\nweather, when they are frozen out of their ordinary\nhaunts, they wiH perch in trees, notwithstanding\ntheir webbed feet. We have seen more than a dozen \\\nin a smaU fir-tree by a pool's side. In such weather,\ntoo, they will crowd to any spot which is unfrozen\nin great numbers. While out shooting once we\ncame to a reach of the river Yyrnwy, which was\ncompletely frozen over, except a small spot around\na wiHow bush which had fallen into the stream.\nNoticing a peculiar motion of the water about this\nspot, we went up to thebush, and lo ! at least a\nscore of water-hens flew out. The flurry and con-\nj\u00a9&\u00bb\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nm\nm\n\u00a3H5;\nm\nfusion was so great that, although we fired both\nbarrels, we kiHed nothing.\n\u2022 When disturbed, the water-hen dives, or resorts\nto the shelter of the herbage; but when hard\npressed, it takes to its wings with an ungainly\nflight, its legs hanging down and neck outstretched.\nWhen once fairly on the wing, they can fly for a\nconsiderable distance, and at night their notes may\nbe heard in the summer-time, as they fly at a considerable height overhead. It is supposed that it\nis chiefly the males which have this nocturnal\nhabit. The water-hen dives with great facility,\nand can remain under water for a length of time.\nIt also seeks concealment by sinking in the water g5\nuntil only its beak is visible above the surface, and\nremains in that position, holding on by some weed\nor branch, until the danger has passed.\nInstances ha*ve been known of its feigning death,\nafter the manner of the corncrake, as a last chance\nof escape.\nIf unmolested, the water-hen wiU become very\ntame, and wiU come and feed with domestic fowls\nin the farmyard. It rears two or three broods in\nthe year, and it has been observed that the brood\nfirst hatched helps to feed and look after the young\nof the second brood, but as soon as the third brood\nis hatched the first is sent about its business. If\nthe nest is much exposed, the water-hen wiU sometimes cover it with the leaves of dried flags before\nshe leaves it, but it is not often that this is done,\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR,\n\\\\\\h\nand it can scarcely be called a distmguishing habit,\nas it is in the case of the grebe.\nLess common than the last-mentioned, the coot\nis yet a weU-known bird, and, when swimming\nin company with the water-hen, is easily distinguished from it by the white patch on its head.\nIn its habits it is like the water-hen, but is shyer\nand more retiring. It is also stronger on the wing,\nand takes long migrations from one part of the\nkingdom to another. Its nest is also much more\nsubstantially built, and often floats upon the surface of the water, held in its place only by the\nreeds growing around it. A strong wind once\ndrove the nest of a coot from its moorings, and it\nfloated hither and thither on the surface of the\nlake, according to the direction of the wind. Notwithstanding this, the old bird continued to sit, and\neventually brought off her brood.\nThe scenery of our larger lakes would not be\ncomplete without the presence of the grebes. The\nlarger one, the great-crested grebe, is the rarer,\nbut we think it quite possible that it is the more\ngeneraHy known to the majority of fishermen. Its\nsize and remarkable appearance ensure its being\nobserved ; and then it keeps so carefuUy out in the\nopen water, away from other birds, that it cannot\nbe overlooked when it is present on the mere. If\nyou row near it, it turns its head suspiciously from\nside to side, and sinks low in the water, until only\nits head and long neck are visible above the sur-\nA\nS^i\nmm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n225\n1 t\nWM\u00a5\n>mr\nface then, if you approach nearer, it dives with the\nquickness of Hghtning. It is quite impossible to\nsay where it will rise after its dive, for it'will swim\nunder water a lorig way, and twist and turn about\nif foUowed. Its nest is simply a mass of black and\nsoaking weeds, almost level with the surface of the\nwater; and the eggs, which are white when laid,\nsoon become stained and darkened by the decaying\nvegetable matter. When the old bird leaves the\nnest she carefully covers the eggs with weeds, so\nthat a casual observer would be far from suspecting\nthat that iH-shaped mass of wet weed was a nest\ncontaining eggs.\nThe smaller grebe or dabchick is common everywhere, where there are lakes, ponds, or quiet rivers.\nIn its breeding habits it is Hke its larger brother,\nbut it is not quite so shy; and if you wiU only\nkeep quite still, you may watch it at only a few\nyards' distance ; but if you move but a finger it\ndives instanter, with a very little splash, and a\nkick of its legs. If it apprehend danger, it will\nkeep under water for an incredible length of time;\nbut if it be not much frightened, it will pop up\nagain Hke a cork, and shake the water off itself in\nsilvery drops. It is a very pretty sight to see a\npair of old birds feeding their young, in some clear\npost between the floating vegetation. The young\nones are such Httle black dots, and the movements\nof all of them are so quick and comical, that one\ncannot help being interested and amused.\nmm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nW\nMm' i\nThe pretty little snipe-like bird that skims with\ngraceful flight from the advancing angler, or runs\nalong the sandy bays of the stream, or Hghtly over\nthe Hly leaves on the placid pool, is the sandpiper, a bird not uncommon by most of our rivers.\nIt makes its nest in some sly hole in the bank, or\neven dispenses with a nest altogether, and lays its\neggs in a hollow on the ground.\nSuch, then, are the chief among an angler's\nacquaintances, but there are many others he would\nnot wilhngly pass. The sand-martins sweeping and\nwhirhng over the stream, dashing this way and that,\nand altering their course with wonderful celerity,\nin the pursuit of their insect prey, and drilhng the\ngravel escarpment with the numerous holes of their\nnesting-places ; the water-wagtail merrily wagging\nits tail, and snapping up the insects at the margin\nof the water; the gaudy dragon-flies hovering and\ndarting in the blazing sunhght; the shining water-\nbeetles gyrating, multitudinous, in the quiet pools\n\u2014these and many others come within the term of\nthe angler's acquaintances. And may they not be\nthe angler's friends too? Even those which are\navowedly destructive to fish, is it too great a stretch\nof clemency to spare them from slaughter, and\nshow them at least negative friendship 1 Live and\nlet live is a good motto. There is enough and to\nspare for all who are not greedy; and where the fish\nare decreasing, it is not from the. depredations of\nthose whose cause we plead, but from the folly and\nfm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n227\nwastefulness of man himself. Drains and the refuse\nof manufactories\u2014these are the causes which lead\nto the blank days of the angler.\n\" He prayeth best who loveth best\n\u2022 All things both great and small;\nFor the dear God that loveth us,\nHe made and loveth all.\"\nmi\niHHSssgi\nn\nMh\n WATERSIDE PLANTS.\nIt is a true saying, that half the beauty of a thing\nis lost to those who do not know how to look for\nits beauty. The man who \" knows when a thing\npleases him and when it doesn't,\" is not the man\nto appreciate a good picture. In like manner, the\nman who has no more than a surface knowledge of\nthe natural things about him, loses more than half\nthe pleasure to be derived from a country ramble.\nHe sees a general dash of colour : a blue, or red,\nor yellow flower, but nothing more :\n| A primrose by the river's brim\nA yellow primrose is to him,\nAnd it is nothing more.\"\nIt is something, however, to know the names of\nthe primroses, daisies, and other common flowers.\nThe mere recognition of a score or so of flowers and\nshrubs increases the charm of a stroll over the\nmeadows, and through the green lanes, and drives\naway the monotony of a mere I constitutional.\"\nIt is astonishing how little most people know of\nthe lovely plants and flowers that meet their view\nevery day in the country. Even though a man may\nbe an exceUent general naturalist, practical botany\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n229\nis, perhaps, the one study he has neglected.\nDoubtless the dryness of the technical part of the\npursuit\u2014the long names and the minute subdivisions\u2014have something to do with it, but we think\nthe vastness of the study has more. What is the\nuse, one asks, of beginning when it is impossible\never to get near the end ? There is a great deal in\nthis, and we must confess that our own study of\nplants has been more with a view to understanding their artistic effect, as component parts of the\nlandscape, than from a love of the abstruse and\nscientific part of the business. In that spirit, therefore, the following paper is written; and as our\nbook is chiefly intended for waterside wanderers,\nwe shaU confine ourselves to pointing out the more\nstriking of the shrubs and flowers which meet the\neye of the angler by lake or stream; and surely\nthe angler, of all men, should know what there is\nto interest him when sport fails, and fish are not.\nThere are few streams whose waters do not\nreflect the graceful wands of the wiUow. By\nornamental waters, the weeping willows droop their\npensile branches; by sluggish, tortuous streams,\nthe white wiUows, crowned with a pollard-top, or\ngrown into a more natural but somewhat ungainly\ntree, diversify the level landscape, and mark the\ncourse of the hidden river; in hedgerows, the\npalms, whose yeUow clusters herald the grey foliage ; and in marshy spots, the common osiers grow\nin fringed companies. The wiHow, in these its\n 230\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n[m\ndifferent species, is a weH-known and prominent\nobject. WeU known ! true ; but how many know\nthe number of species of willow that are more or\nless common in this country?\u2014Five or six, of\ncourse. No, seventy, or thereabouts, be the same\nmore or less, as our legal friends say. Certainly\nnot less either, for the wiHow has a bewildering\nway of striking out an apparently new species now\nand then ; a freak which may be very amusing to\nit, but gives no end of trouble to botanists.\nThe pollard-wiHow, with its stumpy, many-leaved\nhead, has often afforded us concealment, as from\nits overhanging shelter we have fished for chub in\nth i river reach below.\nAll the wiHows have a silvery-grey under-surface\nto the leaves \\ and as the breeze sweeps down the\nriver, the willows quiver and whiten as they proudly\nshake out their garments, while hypocriticaUy bending away from the too-eagerly wooing wind.\nFairest of aU the many-faced Clan is the goat-\nwiUow, round-leaved saHow, or palm. When the\n\" bleak winds of March make us shudder and\nshiver,\" the long wands of the palm stand out stark\nand bronze by the steel-blue pools. Then the rich\nred-brown buds open, and with silver-silken lustre\nthe numerous catkins clothe the rods, so that the\nbushes become Hke white and shining clouds dropped\nupon the yeUow-green fields. Then, when the\nprimrose peeps, golden-eyed, from the old dead\nleaves and wind-laid brambles, the silver, buds grow\n stark\n yssr\nIP\n M\nIt\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nand deepen into gold, and the clustered rods shine\nbrighter in the white spring sunhght than the\nyeUowest hair of blue-eyed children.\nThe osier beds are great harbours of insect life,\nand \" wheresoever \"the carcase is, there wiU the\neagles be gathered together,\" and so among the\nosiers tits, warblers, and other birds congregate\nand nest.\nThe dark-green fringe of the alder covers the\nmargin of many a pool and river ; sometimes, where\nbanks are narrow, giving a gloomy look to the\nscene, but at times beautifying, with the richness\nand picturesque solidity of its foliage, what would\notherwise be a flat and dreary plain ; but the\nfoliage is too heavy to wave much in the wind, and\nthis lack of motion gives it a sullen look at times.\nA quiet curve and bay, with alders drooping over\nit, and a wiHow in the corresponding promontory!\nHow often have we admired a scene formed of such\nsimple elements, while our loaded pike-bait clove\nthe deep water, or our roach-float calmly ghded\npast. Many a river in our more level counties,\nwhich is now picturesque and lovely, would, if\ndeprived of its willows and alders, be but a sluggish,\nuninteresting canal. The glossy leaves of the alder\nare not so pleasant to the touch as those of most\nther trees. They are harsh and sticky, and this\nis a drawback where they are numerous and one\nhas to push through them. Alder-wood is one of\nthe best for making that \" villanous saltpetre,\" and\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nit is good for wood-carving and turning. It has,\nwhen cut, a pale, flesh-coloured tint, which takes\npolish well. Under water, as piles, it is almost\nindestructible.\nThe alder has another recommendation\u2014it retains its foliage far on into the winter.\nWandering up the banks of a wooded burn, one\ncomes sometimes on an open marshy glade, where\nthe sunshine falls hot, and a delicious incense fills\nthe air. The grateful fragrance comes from that\nsober-tinted shrub, two to three feet in height,\nand with lanceolate, yeUow-green leaves, which\ngrows in abundance within a small space. It is the\nsweet-gale, or bog-myrtle. Walk through it, crush\nthe scented essence out of the leaves, and mark\nhow strong the odour is.\nOut of the marshy side of the mere, the king of\nferns, the Osmunda regalis, rears its stately head,\ngrowing four or six feet high, and giving a tropical\nrichness to the marsh. .\nOn those banks of gravel, which often form the\ninner portion of a river curve, the butterbur has\nits home. When the saUows are silver and golden,\nyou may see, projecting out of the ground, thick,\npink, fleshy spikes or stems. These are the flower-\nclusters of the butterburs, which make their appearance long before the huge, rhubarb-shaped\nleaves. In the summer the leaves (the largest of\nall those of our native plants) crowd thickly together,\nand it is difficult to push one's way through them,\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nw%.\nfor they are stiff and strong. They form an attractive feature in the landscape, hiding, as they do,\nall the barren spots. Under the shelter of the roof\nof its leaves, and between the pillars of its stems,\nthe water-fowl feed and take refuge. We are Very\nfond of the butterbur, because of its size and sturdy\nstrength, and its picturesque effect in brook scenery.\nIts roots extend rapidly, and send up shoots here\nand there. Where it has seized upon some bit of\nmarshy meadow-ground, as it sometimes does, and\ngains a headway, it is most difficult to eradicate.\nThe queen of the meadows, and not of the\nmeadows alone, but the woodland glades and the\nshady lanes, is in our eyes the feathery, fragrant\nmeadowsweet. It is not by any means exclusively\na Waterside plant, but as it is most abundant in the\nfertile \"haughs\" by the river-side, it may well be\nincluded in this chapter. In July and August its\nwhite blossoms, green-tinged and creamy, quiver in\nj crowded clusters in the summer air. Amid the\ncrowd of gaudy blossoms which at this time burst\nupon our ken, the meadowsweet looks pure and\nethereal\u2014a lily among scarlet roses, sweet seventeen by the side of painted forty. Often the angler\nwades knee-deep through it, as it spreads its summer\nsnow by the streamlet; and light as snow-flakes,\nand as graceful in texture, are its tiny blossoms.\nIn the dew-wet night it gleams ghost-Hke in the\n) margin of the wood, and loads the gloaming with\nits sweet yet heavy odour. It dances in the\n 234\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nU\nmorning breeze, and nods gaily at its distorted\nreflection in the rippling lake, and the deer inhale\nits almond scent as they come down to drink. It\nis a tender and deHcate plant, and dies soon after\nit is plucked; so, grasp it not, but pass your hand\nHghtly through its blossoms, and provoke it to a\ngreater fragrance.\nIn the spring the \"wild marsh-marigold shines\nHke fire in swamps and hoUows grey ;\" the water-\ncrowfoot lifts its white blossoms over every pool or\nslow-moving stream; in the marshy meadows the\ncardamine, or lady's-smock, makes its appearance\nin abundance. Its pink-white flowers are so fresh\nand pleasant, as they nod over the old-year's grass\nand sprouting flags, that it is a great favourite of\nours, and we welcome its appearance Hke that of\nthe primrose and violet.\nEvery one knows the daffodil:\u2014\nr A host of golden daffodils\nBeside the lake, beneath the trees,\nFluttering and dancing in the breeze,\nContinuous as the stars that shine\nAnd tumble in the milky way,\nThey stretched, in never-ending line,\nAlong the margin of a bay ;\nTen thousand saw I at a glance,\nTossing their heads in sprightly dance !\nsings Wordsworth, and be sure his eyes rested with\npleasure on the golden carpet the daffodil spreads\nin the marshy meadow hoHows\\\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n235\nWhere mountain streams struggle through long\ngreen moss, the smaU yeUow umbels of the golden\nsaxifrage, and its yeUow-green leaves, struggle\nthrough the wet moss like a stream of gold, shining\nin bright contrast to the vivid green of its mossy\ncushion.\nIn June and July the margin of our rivers is in\nmany places made most beautiful by the handsome\npurple loose-strife\u2014a plant with a long, narrow\nleaf, and taH, tapering spikes, a foot long, of rich\npurpEsh-red flowers, on a stem two to four feet\nhigh.\nIn most meadows the silver-weed presents to our\nnotice its large, yellow, velvety flowers, growing\nclose to the creeping stem and pinnated leaves,\nwhich, in large masses, shine silvery with the silken\ndown on their under-surface.\nThe forget-me-not has fame enough for its\nloveliness and its pretty name, and no flower\nwould be more missed than this were it never\nmore to gleam blue and bright from the lush\nvegetation of the water-edges. It has, nevertheless, rivals by the waterside that run it hard,\nand of its own colour and semblance. One of\nthese is the brookhme, a common plant, in flower\naU the summer, and bearing bright blue flowers\non a stout, juicy stem, about a foot high, with\nthick, dark-green leaves. In the water, among the\nroots of the iris and reeds, it does its best to rival\nits more graceful neighbour the forget-me-not.\n*%$^MS^g^^%\nWh>\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nI\nWhere there are large marshes, many acres\nare often covered with the snowy white cotton-\ngrasses. It seems a pity the silky globes cannot\nbe utilised for some purpose; but, in the meantime, we are well content to see the marsh flooded\nwith their silver overflow, and shining in the sunlight. Growing in the water, on the borders of\nslow streams with gravelly bottoms, and in the\nshallows of lakes, one often sees that singular\nplant the mare's-tail. It has an erect and jointed\nstem, growing ten or twelve inches above the\nsurface; its leaves are linear, or narrow and\ngrass-Hke, and grow in whorls at intervals up the\nstem. It is easily puUed to pieces at the joints.\nBesides its singularity and picturesqueness of\nappearance, it is said to be of use in purifying\nstagnant water, and absorbing the inflammable air.\nCats like the great wild valerian, if nobody else\ndoes. Its powerful scent has a great attraction\nfor them, and they wiU roll in the leaves, and\nsmeU, and grow almost frantic with excitement;\nand if any one were to put a small piece in his\npocket, the shyest pussy would court his company. ;\nThe valerian is one of the most conspicuous of the\nplants which grow on the river borders, standing\nas it does from three to four feet high, and with\nlarge clusters of pale pink flowers. Its powerful\nscent is decidedly unpleasant when close, and, in\nits case, distance is certainly required to add enchantment to the smeU; but as an item of scenery\nw\nJI\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nm\nit is of value, and its presence enhvens many a\nrushy-margined stream.\nWatercress gatherers should beware not to\ngather by mistake the marshwort, or fool's watercress. The general appearance of the plant is\nsimilar to that of the watercress, from which,\nhowever, its more pointed and serrated leaves,\nits umbelliferous growth of small white flowers,\nand the hoHow stem, serve to distinguish it. It\nflowers during July and August.\nIn July and August, the pale lilac flowers of\nthe water capitate-mint cluster in shallow water\nand fringe the islets. The flowers grow in dense\nwhorls at the summit of the stem, which rises\nfrom egg-shaped leaves.\nOf those weeds which grow in the water, the\nanacharis has pushed itself to the chief place.\nPlague upon it ! it is filling up aU our rivers,\ncanals, and lakes, spoiling our fishing and spoiling our tempers. We have not a good word to\nsay for it. We deny it any kind of beauty, and\nwe wish it far away. That thick green scum\nwhich so often clothes piles and woodwork in the\nwater with its dark, clinging mass, is the crowsilk.\nIt is said to be a good bait for roach, but we\nhave never had sufficient faith to try it. The\nduck-weeds and pond-weeds are known to every\none by sight, but it is not every one who knows\nhow interesting and singular a close examination\ndiscovers them to be.\n1\np\nIte\n^^Sg^SI\nSMm\nmmim\n 230\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nNow we come to a number of plants which are\nnoticeable chiefly for their size. In July and\nAugust the aromatic odour of the hemp agrimony\ngreets us in moist woods, and by the river\nmargins. It is a tall and conspicuous plant, but\nit certainly has no pretensions to good looks. Its\ndense clusters of small flesh-coloured flowers are\nsupported on many-branched steins, three and\nfour feet high. The water-dropwort is common\nenough in aU ditches. Its umbels of flowers are\ngreenish-white, its stems are hoUow, and it bears\nangular fruits as large as marbles.\nThe. hemlock water-dropwort also forces itself\nupon our attention by its size. It grows to three\nand five feet in height, and on its much-branched\nstem it bears large, broad, glossy leaflets, and large\numbels of white flowers, which appear in July.\nIt is very poisonous. Of a similar size is the\ncommon comfrey, which has large, strongly-veined\nleaves, and clusters of white, or greenish, or\npinkish, drooping bell-Hke flowers. Its stem and\nfoHage are thickly beset with bristles.\nEvery winter fisherman must have caught his\nline in a certain tall bush, with rigid and dry\nstems, which when broken are found to be quite\nhollow. These are the dead plants of the water-\nfigwort, a large and ugly plant, with indented,\nduU green leaves, and clusters of purphsh-brown\nflowers. The great water-dock, with its long\nleaves drooping from its taU stem, is not un-\nV* 1\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n239\nW\nMl\nW\nIF\nSP\ngraceful in its effect among the sedges and\nrushes.\nWhat a bright bit of colour the yellow flower\nof the iris, or yeUow water-flag, presents on the\nsummit of its sword-shaped, glossy green leaf-\nstems ; while in the quiet pools beneath it, the\nbeautiful white and yellow water-HHes sleep away\nthe lazy day, and close their flowers and sink\nunder the surface of the water as the gloaming\ndeepens. A HHed bay of a large lake is a very\nlovely sight, both when the HHes expand their\nlargest and shine their brightest on the mirror-like\nwater in the blaze of a summer's noonday sun, or\nwhen they dance merrily on the wavelets, when\nthe north-west wind blows, and the large leaves\ncurl over and expose their grey under-sides.\nThe black coots and water-hens paddle about\nthrough the snow-white HHes, and are capital\nfoils to their lovehness and simplicity. We are\nvery fond of the aroma of the water-lily, but wo\nhave met people who much dislike it. It is weU\nto drop one's float in the spaces between the lily\nleaves, for big fish often take shelter under the\nbroad leaves from the glare of the sun. Side by\nside with the water-HHes is often seen a pretty\nand showy plant with a dense egg-shaped spike\nof pink flowers rising above the water, on which\nthe lanceolate leaves repose. This plant rejoices\nin the long name of amphibious persicaria. It is\nvery common in the Shropshire meres. Yery\nr\u00ab\n 240\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nrare, but very elegant, is a plant caHed the water\nlobeUa, which grows in some mountain tarns and\nin the Cumberland and Westmoreland lakes,\nwhere the surface in places is closely carpeted\nwith its matted leaves. It has clusters of light\nblue flowers, drooping from a stem a foot high.\nYery arrow-like must be the plant which bears\nthe English name of arrowhead and the Latin\nname of Sagibtaria saglttifolia, and its leaves are\nindeed very arrow-shaped. Quiet pools and bays\nof rivers are often carpeted with the large, bright\nleaves, from which in July and August rise whorls\nof pretty white flowers on a stalk seven or eight\ninches above the water.\nAmid the rushes the water plantain grows tall\nand large, with delicate, small, rose-coloured\nflowers; and below, among the HHes, the kidney-\nshaped leaves and white three-petalled flower of\nthe frogbit may often be seen.\nThese are but a few of the commoner flowers\nand plants which meet the eye of the angler on\nhis waterside rambles; and they are pleasant pictures enough, severally and coHectively set as\nthey are in a framework of waving rushes of\nmany kinds, reeds brown and featheiy, bur-reeds\nwith clustered fruits, and reed mace and bulrush\nwith purple and substantial heads. Colour,\nbeauty, motion, Hghtness, elegance\u2014these are\nthe elements of the picture of which these waterside plants are the canvas and the paints.\n&\n BREAM FISHING.\n\/ %\nSB\nIt is a land of deep rivers, flowing with quiet\ncurrent through miles of marsh, and by broad\nlagoons whose banks are fringed with *eeds.\nThree rivers, a score of shallow meres, locally\ncalled \"broads,\" and deep, slowly-moving dykes,\ncombine to make this eastern county a very attractive one for the angler and the naturalist. Those\nwho have been in Norfolk will not fail to recognise\nthe locale of the spot we describe. Twenty miles\nand more inland from the coast stretches a wide,\nflat tract of country, through which the rivers\nBure, Yare, and Waveney flow with sinuous courses\nto unite at Breydon YVater, and debouch into the\nsea by the quaint semi-Dutch town of Great Yarmouth ; the Yare, the Chiefest of the rivers,\ncarries the traffic of the ancient city of Norwich\nto the sea; the \"Waveney, the clearest of the\nrivers, runs from the little town of Beccles on\nthe south of the Yare; and the Bure passes by\nthe pretty village of Wroxham, and the beautiful\n\" broad\" of that ilk, and many others, on the\nnorth.\nAlong the course of these rivers, and generally\nQ\nWNKHt\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ncommunicating with them by narrow reed-fringed\nchannels, are the sheets of water known as\n\" broads.\"\nIt may be imagined that such an extent of water\nmust harbour many fish, and the surmise would\nbe correct. The chief products are bream and\npike. The pike are getting scarcer, owing.to the\ngreat prevalence of the practice of \"liggering,\"\nas setting trimmers is caUed in Norfolk, and the\nindiscriminate netting of under-sized fish. This\nunwise mode of fishing has had another necessary,\nthough unfortunate, step; that is, the closing or\npreserving of many of the \"broads,\" so that the\nvast expanses of water which were formerly alive\nwith fishermen, are now silent and lonely, save for\nthe clamour of the wild-fowl; and the middle-\nclass angler is bereft of his pleasure.*\nThe bream, on the contrary, are as numerous\nas ever, and the Norfolk angler counts his catch,\nnot by the pound weight, but by the stone.\nFishing for bream may be said to be an institution\nof Norfolk, and to judge by the numbers of London\nriien who annually visit the Yare, at Reedham and\nColdham, its fame has spread wide.\nIt was our lot to go straight from a trout-fishing\ncounty in the west to a residence for some time in\nNorfolk; and while we fully appreciated the ad-\n* An Act has just-been passed to protect and regulate\nthe fishing on the Norfolk broads and rivers, so that they\nwill soon regain their pristine fame.\u2014Ed.\nw\nflik\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n41\n243\nm\nvantages of that county for those who were fond\nof yachting in the summer and pike-fishing in the\nautumn and winter, yet we looked with great contempt upon bream-fishing. We had never seen a\nbream but once, and that was while we were perch-\nfishing in Shropshire, and hooked a large, white,\nbeUows-like fish, which broke away, leaving us to\nguess that it was a bream; and we disdained to\nangle for fish that were reputed to be so shmy\nthat we had to take hold of them with a cloth\nwhen captured, and so uneatable that they were\nonly fit for manure. We remember, too, that we\nfelt a repugnance to fishing in such sluggish waters,\nafter throwing a fly on the sparkling, dashing\nrivers and streams of Wales. For weeks we went\nabout with a moping air, Hke a kitten in a strange\nhouse, longing for the sound of rushing water and\nthe glint and dazzle of a cascade, so wearisome\nwas the smooth, oily flow of the level waters. But\nat last, when the memory of the salmon pools and\nthe grayling fords began to fade, we grew more\ncontent, and soon we discovered that there was a\nsingular beauty in the slow, wide rivers and the\nflat far-reaching marshes. And it was a cruise we\nhad down the Yare and up the Bure, and a little\nbream-fishing by the way, that completed our conversion*; and this is how it came about.\n\u2022 Two of us hired a boat, a tiny large-sailed thing,\nwith a centre-board, and a fast sailer, although\nsomewhat ticklish to handle. We provisioned her\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nwell, particularly in the matter of bottled beer and\ntobacco ; and we took care to have plenty of fishing\ntackle with us. We started from Norwich with\na light breeze, which wafted us gently along at a\nsteady pace. With our large sail set we gHded\nalong with the ease of a dream, at first between\ntrees whose leaves danced merrily in the summer\nwind, and then between drooping wiUows, shivering\nand paling with the gentle violence of the zephyrs\neven as the water below trembled and whitened\nwith the ripples. On we went with softest motion,\nthe bow of the boat parting the water tenderly,\nand leaving two long wave-lines diverging and\nretreating from our troubled wake. The yellow\niris flower shone in the long, green ranks of the\ntall flags, the bulrush bowed its head of regal\npurple, and the reedmace shook its plumes on\neither side of us ; and then we were out upon the\nmarshes', which stretched as far as eye could reach,\nyet it was not by any means a monotonous picture.\nThe marsh itself was beautiful. Here a tract of\nwhite cotton-grass, there a patch of yeUow, all\naround greys, and browns, and reds, and greens\nmingled in wonderful harmony, and varying inconceivably in tint as the shadows of the cloudlets\nfloated over the luxuriant marsh grasses, and the\nwind swayed them in billowy undulations. There\nwas light and motion everywhere ; not the jarring\nmotion of a crowd in a street, but the silent mystic\nmotion of the northern Hghts in a winter sky. The\nim\n THE ANGLER'S SOUVENIR.\nV\nm\nred and white cattle lay and stood in picturesque\ngroups, or waded knee-deep in the grass with bent-\ndown heads and lazily-switching tails. WindmiUs\nwhirled their great arms over the far-reaching\nplain, and ever and anon we passed a clump of\ntrees, in the midst of which nestled a small farmhouse or inn, with a broad, flat ferry-boat lying by\nthe river bank.\nAll down here the river is banked up on either\nside, so that the level of the river surface is\nactually higher than the dykes which drain the\nmarsh into it. Hence at the end of each important\ndrain there is a smaU windmill, which works a\npump, and so lifts the water from the marsh into\nthe river.\nThe prettiest feature, however, in the whole\nscene is the presence of numbers of yachts and\nwherries. The former with their snow-white sails,\nand the latter with their huge brown or black ones,\nlook very singular indeed in the distance, for, low\ndown as we are, the river is invisible, and the\nvessels seem tacking and sailing about in the marsh\nitself.\nThe day wore on, and at intervals we passed\nsmaU boats moored by the bank, the occupants of\nwhich were fishing for bream and roach.\n\"By the shade of Walton I but they look very\nhappy and comfortable yonder; and they seem to\nbe taking some heavy fish. We must try bream-\nfishing ourselves, for, after all, it doesn't seem such\n*%\n 246\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbad fun ; but then, under such a sky and on such\na day, any kind of fishing is idyllic in its appearance.\"\n-k Presently the breeze died out as the sunlight ,\nsoftened into the evening shades, and we floated -\nlistlessly as far as Coldham Hall, a riverside inn,\nsurrounded by taU poplars. We landed here with\nthe intention of staying the night, and moored\nour boat to the staith. Our curiosity was at once\naroused by the sight of a large pair of scales, suspended from a cross bar between two poplar trees.\nUpon entering the inn, we found a supper ready '\nlaid, that betokened the expectation of many guests\nand the satisfying of mighty appetites. We had\nevidently fallen upon our feet, as the saying is,\nand our stomachs rejoiced at the sight of such good\nthings. But, the reason, the reason 1 we inquired ;\nand then we learned that there was a fishing match,\nand that nearly thirty boats were out engaged in\ncompeting for the prizes. Each boat was \"allowed\nthree rods, and all of them were down the river,\na mile away. The match must be over now. Aye !\nthere they come; and looking down the long,\nshining stretch of river, we saw them coming back\nin a pretty compact body of black dots. In advance of them was a yacht, with all canvas set\nand boomed out, gliding on like a ghost, impelled\nby some faint lingerings of the breeze that caught\nher lofty topsails. Out of the dull grey east she\ncame, with wings outspread, as if in haste to reach'\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n247\nm:\nrm\nthe sunset west; and behind her, withduH, material\nmotion, were the fishers' boats, Hghtening the grey\nriver with the flash of their oar-dips.\nThe yacht reached her anchorage in a Httle\nlagoon off the river amid the poplars, through the\nbranches of which her red pennant fluttered. The\nboats came up and the crews landed, each man with\na heavy load of silver-scaled roach and bream.\nThen we saw the use of the big scales. Amid the\ngreatest interest and anxiety, and a vast amount\nof talk and argument, the various takes were\nweighed and noted. The winning boat had taken\nmore than ten stone weight, Ghiefly of bream,\nand the largest fish was four pounds. The fish\nwere then spread out on the grass, and a goodly\nshow they made. We were permitted to join the\nfishermen at the festive meal which afterwards\nensued, and we can safely say that we never before\nor since heard such wonderful angling stories, or\nmet with such apparently skHful anglers. The\nclass of men who composed the assemblage rather\npuzzled us. Many of them seemed to be small\ntradesmen, but the majority were of a lower class;\nbut what their occupations might be when at home\nwe could not guess\u2014artisans of some kind, with an\naffectation of the sportsman in their dress, which\ngave them a nondescript look. They were capital\nfeUows, though, and we spent a merry evening\nwith them, and imbibed no end of anghng lore.\nWhat surprised us much was that they should\nft&lft\n 248\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nhave such good sport, seeing that during the night\na terrific thunderstorm came on with torrents of\nrain. Standing at the door, and gazing at the\nbrilHant light and the intense darkness which in\nquick recurrence overspread the marsh, and Hsten-\ning to the savage crack and heavy roll of the\nthunder, arid the hissing of the rain on the river,\nwe thought we had never seen such a storm. The\ntide, which \" backs \" the water of the Yare as far\nas Norwich, had risen to a favourable height for\nbream^fishing, our informant told us, and for two\nor three hours-the fish had bitten as fast as possible.\nWhen* the tide is right, and-the big bream do come\non the feed, the catches are often almost incredible\nin weight and number, and the largest fish appear\nto* be caught where-the water is slightly brackish.\nWe fished ourselves* the whole of the next day ;\nano> although ifc was after rain, neither we nor any\nof the other half-dozen boats out caught more than\na dozen small ones each.\nA* few days afterwards we found ourselves sailing\nup--the Bure, hastening to keep an appointment to\nmeet scone friends^ and^ have a- day's bream-fishing\nnear Ranworth Broad. We had hoped to reach\nRanworth that night, but the wind died away\ntowards evening, as it usnaUy does in the summer\ntime ; aru& long before we reached A-cle we had to\ntake to* our oarsl The darkness came'on too, and\nwe had rather a weary puU ere we reached Acle\nBridge, While rowing along in the deep gloaming\n3\nI\nw i\nJit* f&\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR,\n249\nf\nw\nK$\nwe saw several floats of wood on the surface of the\nwater. We at once jumped to the conclusion that\nsome poacher had been at work setting night lines,\nand with a laudable desire to frustrate his evil\ndesigns, we attempted to haul the supposed lines\nin. Fortunately for ourselves, we could not move\nthe weight at the bottom, for the pieces of wood\nturned out to be the floats of the eel nets which are\nnightly set in the river by persons who make a\nregular trade of it, and whose take that night we\nmight have spoiled. We did not guess what the\nfloats were, however, until we came to a turn in\nthe river, where, on the bank, a mysterious framework rose from the rushes, and there loomed against\nthe oHve sky the large circles of the eel nets which\nwere hung up to dry.\nThe next day we sped before a pleasant breeze\nswiftly up to Ranworth. We were to meet our\nfriends at an inn on the banks of the adjacent\nBroad, and turning up a wide channel we ran\nbetween lofty reeds, between the stems of which\nthe coots and water-hens swam and nodded their\nheads, and the reed-wren suspended its purse-like\nnest. We could see the Broad every now and then\nthrough narrow openings on our left, and as we\nseemed to be running paraUel to it we conceived\nthe idea of taking a short cut. Entering one of\nthe narrow channels, we steered boldly for the\nopen water, which appeared to be only a hundred\nyards off. The passage presently dwindled away,\nm\nit\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nand we found ourselves charging the reeds and\nforcing a passage through them. With the way\nwe had on the boat, and the wind dead aft, it\nseemed as if we should succeed in our endeavour;\nand as we passed along, the reeds parted in front\nof us, and bowed down right and left with a steady\nrushing sound; but one of us was an ornithologist,\nand as we passed a small hiHock, a bird like a\nlandrail, but smaller, flew up. The lover of birds\nrushed franticaHy to the mast, and, loosing the\nhalyard, let the sail down with a run, careless\nwhether it went into the water, or the yard hit\nus on the head.\n\"It was a water-rail,\" was his excuse; \"andthere\nis its nest.\"\nSure enough, there its nest was, like a water-\nhen's in build, and containing four or five eggs,\nsmaller and lighter in colour than a landraH's.\n\" There, that is a prize. Never mind the wet\nsail; and I'll push you out with the oars, if you\nwiU hoist the sail.\"\nThat was all very well, but it took us a good\nhalf-hour ere we reached the blue water of the\nopen Broad.\nAn hour afterwards we were moored in a bay of\nthe river. There were four of us, so there was not\nmuch room for movement in the boat. We had a\nsack of grains as ground-bait, and we threw plenty\nof it in. Then we set to work, two of us with the\nold-fashioned red-worm, and the other two with a\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\npaste coloured red with Judson's dye. One seemed\nto be as efficacious as the other, but a rather singular\ncircumstance happened to one of the paste fishers.\nHe was a very big, portly man, and he caught\nnothing but the smallest fish. While the rest of\nus were pulhng out fine feUows of two and three\npounds in weight, he continued catching tiny ones,\nnot six inches long. He lost his temper somewhat at last, and it certainly was rather trying,\nespecially as his companions were proficients in the\nart of chaff. Not a minute elapsed without one or\nother of us having a bite. And then, if it happened\nto be a good-sized fish, it was held at the- top of the\nwater, while a landing-net was slipped under it.\nSome of the larger ones gave a few vigorous dashes,\nbut as a rule they gaye but little play.\nWe had a cloth in which to hold the fish while\nwe took the hook out; but notwithstanding this\nprecaution, we were soon covered with the white,\nsticky shme which covers the bream as with a\ngarment. We soon gave up counting the fish we\ncaught; and we should scarcely be beheved, out of\nNorfolk, if we gave the estimated number and\nweight we ultimately caught.\nIn itself, bream-fishing is the most unromantic\nkind of sport, but the surroundings gave it an\nadventitious charm. The river was broad and\nclear, the green flags .and reeds bowed in the wind\nwith a pleasant sighing; the great red valerian grew\non the bank, and scented the air with its agreeable\nfldSR^\/*^\nS\u00ae^\n \u25a0\u25a0\u25a0\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nodour; the snipe hung in the blue sky Hke a lark,\nand the sound of its \"drumming\" or \"bleating\"\nfloated about us Hke the voice of a ventriloquist;\na hawk, probably a marsh-harrier, swept over us,\nstalling the song of the reed-wrens and the twitter\nof the bearded tits. Yachts gHded by with all\ncanvas set; wherries rushed past with the white\nfoam spurting up at their bows, and their great\nsails flapped thunderously as they gybed or tacked\nat each twist of the river.\nWith all these sights and sounds about us, the\nfish biting merrily, the sun warm and the breeze\ncool, we enjoyed our bream-fishing amazingly, and\nfelt sorry when the sun sank in the crimson west,\nand the river grew black in the gloaming.\nOne word of caution to the bream-fisher : moor\nyour boat on the concave side of a bend, and not on\nthe convex. The wherries are often compelled to\n\" shave\" the corners, or lose the wind, and tack ;\nand it is a pity to give them the trouble and delay\nof doing this, for as a rule they do aU they can to\nobhge the angler.\n J\n m\u00bb\nRAIN.\nThe two great enemies of the angler are the east\nwind and the drought, and the latter is the worse\nof the two; for though the former makes the fish\nshy of biting, yet that is not so bad as having no\nwater to fish in. When the rivers are low and\nclear, the salmon-fisher is in despair, and as his\nhoHday slips away with day after day of dry\nweather, he begins to feel the most miserable man\nin creation. He knows that numbers of salmon\nare waiting in the estuary, or in the lower pools of\nthe river, for the water to come down in a spate, so\nthat they may make a straight run up to their\nspawning grounds, but nothing larger than a small\nparr can go up the fords, over which the water\ntrickles in decreasing volume. And those fish that\nare in the pools, trout included, grow shy and\nsuspicious, as their Hberty is circumscribed by the\nnarrowing banks, and they are crowded against\ntheir fellows.\nThe trout-fisher has this advantage over the\nsalmon-fisher : he can seek out some shaded burn,\nand there practise the mode of fishing described in\nour paper \"The Linn,\" a method which, however\ni-j*\u00a3- - ?-J ^ ; jfV* \\ J^_\n 254\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nWilling in small burns, is not so certain of success\nin wide rivers.\nA drought! What a picture the word represents\n\u2014a sky blue in the summit of its arc, and a duU\ngrey where it clasps the panting earth in its misty\ngirdle. There is no clear denned Hne in the\nhorizon; the woods lose themselves in haze; the\nhills are less substantial than clouds; and when\nout to seaward you look at a low, straight Hne,\ntaking it to be the limit of the visible sea, you are\nastonished at seeing a vessel sailing along far above\nit, apparently in the air. The sunshine is a blinding glare^ pervading every nook and corner of the\nparched and dusty landscape. There is the maximum of sunshine and the minimum of shade ; the\ngrass is burned off the brown hiH-side, and even\nthe grasshoppers are too lazy to jump and too hot\nto chirp. The foHage of the trees acquires a dull,\ndead tint of green,- and the leaves droop and curl,\nthereby letting wider sun-shafts strike the glades\nbelow, that should be soft and moist, but are hard\nand dry.\nThe river-Deds are great tracts of white stones,\nsimply darkened as with varnish where the water\ntrickles over them, but none the less visible, so\ntransparent is the stream. Like as a skater upon\nclear ice, seeing the deep holes over which he\ngHdes, and the masses of waving weeds below him,\ndeems the ice to be thinner than it really is, and is\nmore apprehensive of danger, so do the trout in\n1\nn\nm 1\nF\nMl\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n255\nthis preternaturally clear water see evil even where\nnone exists. They have the same feeling of insecurity as a sailor would have in a ship with a glass\nbottom, or a nymph sleeping in a satyr-haunted\nwood. If a rod be waved over the stream, the fish\ndart away with the greatest expedition.\nWe remember one exception to this shyness of\nthe trout during a drought. A big trout had taken\nup its position in a wide part of the canal which\nruns through the charming vale of LlangoUen. Its\nweight was over four pounds, and it was regularly\nbesieged by anglers, who tried for it with aU sorts\nof bait; but it took no notice of them, and went on\nfeeding and swimming about in a circumscribed\nspot without evincing the slightest fear of its many\nvisitors. A friend of ours, yclept Jones, was determined to catch this trout, and after many\nfailures he grew desperate, and resolved to fish for\nit through the night, as a last chance of catching\nit off its guard. The sun went down and the dark\ncame on; and minnow, worm, and fly had been\ntried in vain. The night was a dark one, and\nJones mounted a huge white moth, and sent it to\nwhere he imagined the fish to be, but he found\nthat he had got his Hne fast in the branches of the\nbushes that grew on the opposite side of the canal.\nHe tugged and pulled, but he could not loosen it.\nHe did not wish to break his line, and he fancied\nhe could see his white moth dangling a short\ndistance above the water. He sat down on the\ntf>\n 2S6\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nbrink to consider, and Ht his pipe. It was very\nwarm and still, and he fell into a doze, in a very\ninsecure position. His pipe feU into the water\nand went out with a fizz, without arousing him ;\nthen he heard a loud splash, and no wonder, for he\nhad faUen into the water. He scrambled out again,\ndripping wet, and missed his rod, which had lain\nacross his knees. As he was wet through, he\nwaded through the canal to unfasten his line, but\nto his astonishment he found that had gone too.\nThen he heard a sound some distance off which he\nweU knew. It was the sound of the Hne being\nrapidly run off a check reel. Running along the\nbank, he was able to distinguish his rod moving\nalong the water at a good pace. He dashed in\nand seized it, and after a long and arduous fight\nhe succeeded in landing the big trout, which\nhad sprung up at his fly as it dangled over the\nwater.\nNor is it on running streams alone that the\ndrought has .^uch an effect. The lakes and pools\nlower, and their muddy margins, emit unhealthy\nvapours. The tench and the carp nose about the\nsurface of the water, gasping with their leathery\nmouths. The pike hangs motionless, though you\nwork your gudgeon to his very nose; the perch\nswim in scornful circles round your worm; and\nthe little roach jump and play around your float.\nOnly the leaves of the water-lilies and the arrowheads look cool and green, and the water rises in a\n\u00abM\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n,A\nI\nI\nledge around the edge of each, as if wishful, yet\nafraid, to overflow it.\nBut this is aU about drought, not rain. True,\nbut we describe the subject of our paper by\nantithesis. But do you wish for rain ? then, see,\nthe haze is lifting from the weather-gleam, the\ndistant woods assume a shape, the hills stand out\nbold and clear, sound travels far, the flies are\ndoubly annoying, they seem to sting where they\nalight upon your flesh. The gnats throng close to\nthe earth, and the swaHows foHow them; the dust\neddies in the roads, and the birds shake themselves\nand twitter in the bushes. The clouds gather,\u2014a\nsilence falls over all. Pat comes the first drop, and\nthen down it comes, the blessed rain. The leaves\nof the trees expand and shake under its downpour,\nthe branches sway and bend under the beating\ndrops, and there is a sound through the woods as\nof a mighty wind.\n\" How beautiful is the rain,\nAfter the dust and heat ;\nIn the broad and fiery street,\nIn the narrow lane,\nHow beautiful is the rain !\nHow it clatters along the roofs,\nLike the tramp of hoofs ;\nHow it gushes and struggles out,\nFrom the throat of the overflowing spout!\nAcross the window-pane\nIt pours and pours,\nA\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nAnd swift and wide,\n\"With a muddy tide,\nLike a river down the gutter pours\nThe rain, the welcome raia !\nThe sick man from his chamber\nLooks at the twisted brooks ;\nHe can feel the cool\nBreath of each little pool;\nHis fevered brain\nGrows calm again,\nAnd he breathes a blessing on the rain.\nIn the country on every side,\nWhere far and wide,\nLike a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,\nStretches the plain,\nTo the dry grass and the drier grain,\nHow welcome is the rain !\"\nThe brooks rise and lose their transparency, and\npresently rush down in a yeHow flood to the rivers,\nwhich ere long renew their strength, and roH majes-\ntieaHy between their receding banks. The country\nsprings at a bound from death to life. The fresh\ngreenness of the vegetation is a positive deHght.\nThe air is cool, and laden with the Hfe-giving\nincense which arises from the steaming plants,\nand all nature is grateful for the reHef brought\nby the welcome rain..\nNow, too, is the time when the rustic angler is\nin his glory. His hazel bough and coarse Hne are\nas effective in the muddy waters as the most\nfinished appliances of the wealthy angler. A worm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n259\nft.\ndug out of a manure-heap is as kiUing as any bait\never devised, and it will go hard with our rustic\nangler if he catch not a fair dish of trout for his\nsupper. If the stream is unpreserved, every likely\nhole has its visitor, and many are the trout who\nhave no reason to bless the oncoming of the rain.\nBirds, beasts, fishes, and man welcome the rain\nin summer, but in the colder months of the year,\nah ! it is altogether a different story. We write\nnow in the month of November, and we have had\nfour weeks of almost incessant rain. We have\ntried to drill ourselves into a cheerful state of\nmind, but as one swallow does not make a summer,\nso all our writing has not persuaded us that this\npresent rain is of the same nature as summer rain.\nI The day is cold, and dark, and dreary,\nIt rains, and the wind is never weary ;\nThe vine still clings to the mouldering wall,\nBut at every gust the dead leaves fall,\nAnd the day is dark and dreary.\"\n \/ps\\\nThe art of anghng does not seem to flourish among\nthe lower classes in the country. Your true labouring man is not, as a rule, either a lover of nature\nor a f oUower of the gentle craft. When labourers\nare boys, they will fish in noisy companies by some\npool-side ; and sad it is to see them, for their\nlanguage is foul and their voices discordant. The\nrustic youth is not, as a rule, by any means a fine\nspecimen of human nature. He has not the quickness and intelligence of the town boy, neither has\nhe any perception of the beautiful about him.\nHence, as the raw material is seldom the stuff of\nwhich anglers are made, it is not wonderful that the\nfinished product should seldom pass his days'by\nthe river-side, and enjoy the \"innocent and calm\nrecreation \" which seems so peculiarly suitable for\na country life. Perhaps it is that the dull monotony of his daily labour so deadens his perceptive $gp\nfaculties that he cannot see pleasure in angling, but\nsees a great deal in leaning on a gate, or drinking\nbad beer in the pubHc-house. The case is somewhat\ndifferent with the corresponding class in our towns.\nTown-lif e gives a greater activity of mind and in-\n\u25a0w\n W&m&\u00a3\n ' THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nrp\n' are Dright as mother-of-pearl, flashing in\nthe sun, and lower down are tinged with gold, which\nshines in strong contrast to the jet of the dripping\ntimber.\n 266\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nFrom a subaqueous sluice the water pours and\nbubbles in its haste to join the eddies which whirl\nabout the lower pool, widening and circHng more\nslowly as the distance increases from the floodgate.\nBehind the angler rises a sloping sward of green,\nbroken only by the soft grey trunks of numerous\nbeech trees, until it reaches the oak-crowned ridge\nof the hill. In the autumn this beech slope presents a wonderful maze of colours. The bright\nyellow and scarlet of the dying fohage above, and\nthe more sober red and brown of the beech-mast\non the ground, burn and glow like a stormy sunset.\nIt is no less beautiful now. The massive fohage of\nthe trees is fresh and green after the rain. Every\nleaf holds a raindrop, and every raindrop holds\na morsel of Hght. The sun brightens the whole\nmass, so that the myriad diamond and emerald\nsparkles are toned down by quantity into a gleamy\nand quivering lustre.\nThe river rushes on through the fair English\nlandscape, by bowery woods and coppiced hills, by\nnestling villages and undulating parks ; but nowhere does it pass a happier or more contented\nman than the cobbler, who sits watching his float\nas it is carried this way and that way by the conflicting streams.\nIt is almost needless to say that his bait is a\nworm. Rustic anglers rarely use any other. His\nrod is a home-made one, for he cannot afford to\n\u00a5\n\u25a0$pV\nwfc.\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nI\nV\nbuy one equal to what he is now able to make.\nThe bottom piece is of ash, the second joint is of\nhazel, arid the top is made of a piece of lance-\nwood, which once formed part of a gig-shaft.\nHe sits and fishes patiently, but, to his astonishment, he catches no fish save one little perch.\nAfter a while he guesses the cause. A pike must\nbe prowling about, and must be got rid of before\nthe smaUer fish will bite. He puts his hand into\nhis large pocket and pulls out a stout line, a large\nfloat, and a wooden reel with a sharp peg attached.\nHe drives the peg into the ground, and lays the\nhne down while he goes to a small pool in a\nmeadow a couple of hundred yards away, where\nin a few minutes he succeeds in catching a small\nroach. With this he baits a live-bait hook. Then,\nthrowing in this pike line, he goes patiently on with\nhis fishing, and in less than a quarter of an hour\nthe pike float disappears with a rush as a pike\nseizes the bait. He gives him plenty of time to\ngorge, for he has seen many a pike lost by striking\ntoo soon, while none are lost by giving them\nplenty of time. At last he lays down his pipe\nand takes up the set line. He hauls in the slack,\nand then, when he feels the Hne taut, he gives a\nshght strike to make sure; and then, with little\nceremony\u2014for he does not believe in giving the\nfish too much play\u2014he hauls in a pike of fully\nsix pounds in weight. This is a stroke of luck\nwhich he did not expect, and he is pleased accord-\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ningly. Now that the tyrant of a pike is removed,\nthe other fish begin to bite weU. Every now and\nthen the float gives a sharp dash with the bite\nof a perch, wriggles away with the slow bite of\nan eel, or shdes away under the seductive influence\nof a chub or roach. If, in any interval between\nthe bites, his mind is troubled with the thought\nof his present monetary embarrassments, the cloud\nis dissipated by the next movement of his float.\nMeanwhile, his good wife, when she discovers\nwhere he has gone, and that his work is unfinished,\nis growling and scolding at her husband in his\nabsence. But as evening approaches she remembers that he left without his dinner, so she\ndespatches the youngest of their children, a flaxen-\nhaired, blue-eyed Httle thing, and her father's\nespecial favourite, to him with bread and cheese\nand a bottle of beer.\nThis adds to the angler's happiness, and with his\nchild by his side and a goodly pile of fish at his\nfeet, \"he cares for nobody, no, not he.\"\nThe long evening draws on towards dusk. The\nsun goes down, and the air is so clear that the blue\nof the western sky is scarce hidden by the pale\npink of the sunset flush. The air is full of a sleepy\nsound; the hum of insects\u2014of myriads of tiny\nwings vibrating in golden clouds ; the wood-pigeons\nin the oak copse ; the cattle lowing in the meadows ;\n\u25a0 the splash and gurgle of the river ; and the rustling\nof the leaves in the wind which rose at sunset.\nI\nJ\nm\nn\nn\\\nJ\\\n?\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR..\n269\nAs he loiters slowly homeward through the.\nglamour of the twilight he meets the clergyman\nof the parish, a man who is himself an angler,\nand is fond of doing a good deed in a quiet way.\nHe asks the cobbler a few questions about his\nsport, and then insists upon buying the pike and f \u2022\"'' \u2022;>\n& ^ a brace of the biggest perch of him for 5s. ; so the *\u00a3ffi\n1 J *\" cobbler goes home with a light heart, and a present yjt\/ (.\n\\' which will appease his wife. *'\"$\u00a3'\n7 L. ^e confess t\u00b0 having very great sympathies with \\ *XfH*\nj J~ the rustic angler and his class, and we have drawn h\/,Tr\n\\Y:^> his portrait lovingly. Let the rich see this moral : _ \\1\n,3fo don't, by over-preserving, close your rivers to the S$\\\njjp. poor fellow, and so deprive him of his pleasure, f^W^\nra) and, what is of more importance, so valuable an H ^j&e&b1*\n|? aid to his moral well-being. %\u25a0%&\nmu\n A MONSTER PIKE.\nYery few anglers are \"all round\" men\u2014i.e.,\ndevote themselves to the pursuit of aU branches\nof angling ahke. Most men cherish a liking for\nsome particular branch of their art until it grows\ninto a hobby. Thus we have the different classes\nof fly-fishers, bottom-fishers, salmon-fishers and\ntrout-fishers, pike-fishers and roach-fishers, barbel-\nfishers and gudgeon-fishers ; and each class stands\nby its favourite pursuit, and declares it to be the\nonly true kind of angling. I can turn my hand\nto all these branches on occasion, and enjoy them\nall, but above all do I like pike-fishing. That is\nmy hobby, and in that do I glory. I would rather\nhave one day's pike-fishing than have a dozen days\nof any other kind of fishing. The pike is such a\nsavage brute,\u2014he rushes at your bait with such\nvigour and ferocity, his jaws close so firmly upon\nthe fish which has lured him, he shakes his head\nso fiercely, and. fights to the death with such\ntenacity and pluck, that one feels great pride in\nsubduing him. The captive trout or salmon gives\nmore dashing play, no doubt; but then these\nseem to be the struggles of mad terror, and a\n1\nI\nA\na i\npi\nM\\\n\/**\u00a7\n rmr\nM\nv&l\nA MONS\n w\n'it\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nfrantic desire to escape. The pike, on the other\nhand, shows no terror; he fights you as an enemy\nwould, with a great pleasure in the fight; and if\nhe succeeds in breaking away from you, he will\neven dash at your bait again, although his mouth\nmay be lacerated by the former struggle. When he\nk dies, he dies not in pitiful terror, but in splendid\n:x rage. One experiences no uncomfortable feelings\nJ of compassion, but rather a sense of weU-won\n\\ triumph. Then there are so many ways of fishing\n) for him. You may troU with a dead-gorge bait\nin weedy pools beset with sunken roots and\nbranches ; and then you have a dehcious f eeHng of\nsuspense for ten minutes or so while he gorges the\nbait. You may spin for him, your bait sliding\nover masses of tangled weed, and from out the\n* lanes of clear water you will see his swift and\n' splendid rush that sends your heart leaping into\nyour mouth with excitement; you may fly-fish for\nhim with a huge fly, or trail a spoon-bait after\nyour boat as you row round the mere during\nan autumn gale ; and you may sit at ease in your\npunt, on a warm August day, and watch your\nlarge float bob with the- movement of your Hve-\nbait, and then dive down suddenly with the\n\"run\" of a pike. In aU and each of these ways\nyou wiU find much enjoyment and good sport.\nThe worst of it is that good pike-waters are\nvery hard of access nowadays. As a general rule\nthey are strictly preserved, and where they are not\nmm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nso are overfished and poached, so that they are\nscarcely worth a visit. Very often the best sport\nis to be had in deep pools in trout rivers, where\nthe pike has made his home unnoticed, and where\nnobody thinks of fishing for him.\nIn spite of a commandment against envying one's\nneighbour's possessions, I always envy the man\nwho has a good pike pool or river all to himsejf\nand his friends. For him there is no asking for\nleave and incurring an obligation. He can go when\nhe pleases, and have his fill of sport, without having\nto ask any man for permission. The summit of\nmy angling ambition is to possess a pike pool, or\na right of fishing in one when I please. Now\nthat I have made my wants known, perhaps some\nkind friend will step forward and give me that\nwhich I desire.\nI have pike-fished in many waters, and have\ncaught my fair share of pike, but up to the time\nof which I write I had never caught any really\nlarge fish. I had caught plenty of good-^ized ones,\nup to ten or twelve pounds or so, but none of your\nmonster fish of thirty, forty, and fifty pounds in\nweight. I had seen a friend catch one thirty-three\npounds in weight, and that was the nearest I had\never been to a big fish. Many a time I had gone\nto noted pike waters expecting to do wonders, and\nbuilding very pleasing castles in the air, but the\nsame confounded mediocrity always attended my\nefforts.\n^fj|\n THE ANGLER'S SOUVENIR.\nw\nVI\nPr\nI was on a visit some little time ago in one of\nthe western counties, and in the course of a picnic\nexcursion we came upon a lake embosomed in\nwoods, which at once took my fancy as the very\nbeau idial of a pike-pool. It was surrounded with\nreeds and rushes. Its shores curved in many a\nquiet bay margined with HHes, where the coot and\nthe water-hen swam with a tameness and sense of\nsecurity which showed that they were not often\ndisturbed. A Hght breeze was rippling the pool,\nand every now and then a rush of smaU fish out\nof the pool showed where the pike were chasing\nthem. The remembrance of that pool quite haunted\nme for a long time to come, and the desire to fish\nin it was fanned by the tales which our host told\nme of the wondrously large pike which Were to\nbe caught there. It was strictly preserved, and\nvery seldom fished. Some time afterwards I accidentally made the acquaintance of its owner. We\nbecame good friends\u2014for the possession of this\npike-pool made him seem a very pleasant fellow\nin my eyes. I cunningly led him up to the subject\nof fishing, and to his pike-pool; and the end of\nt was that he invited me to spend a short time\nwith him at his house, and to help to kill some\nof its large pike; for he was an angler, only his\ntastes ran upon salmon-fishing, and nothing pleased\nhim better than going to Norway.\nA clear dry frosty night in January saw me with\nmy legs under my friend's mahogany. We were\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nto fish the mere on the morrow, and everything\nwas prepared for our sport. The gamekeeper had\nobtained a quantity of gudgeon from a neighbouring river, and they had been kept fresh and lively\nin a tank sunk in the mere. Ere the coffee came\nin I had heard many wonderful stories about the\nimmense fish that were to be caught in the mere,\nand went to bed perfectly convinced that at last\nI was to realise my dreams, and catch some monster pike ; and I slept uneasily.\nWe were up and about on our way to the lake.\nIt was a brilliantly bright morning\u2014so dry and\nfrosty that the stiff north-east wind blew golden\nclouds of dust along the roads. The sun, as he\nclimbed over the oak plantation, threw his level\nbeams across the undulating meadows, which were\nbarred with steps of deep, dark, and brilliant Hght\ngreen; as they lay in sunlight or shadow.\nWe lost little time in embarking, and, selecting\ngood-sized gudgeons, we baited our spinning-tackle,\nand proceeded to trail our baits round the mere.\nThe wavelets leaped cheerily against the side of\nour boat, and the water-fowl swam lazily from\nbefore us, or flew into the rustling reeds. The\nsheltered corners of the bays were coated with ice ;\nthe reeds were laid and rotted by the frost; the\nwater was just the right colour, and it seemed a\nperfect day both for enjoyment and for sport.\nOur expectations were high, and it seemed as if\nthey were to be realised. In the first round we\nif\nmi\ni\\\nWim\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n275\nh\ncaught six pike, but what rather astonished me was\nthat they were all under five pounds in weight.\nWhen we were halfway round a second time, just\noff the mouth of a weedy bay, my rod gave a great\nlunge, and was nearly torn out of my hand. I\nstruck, and it was evident that I was fast in a\nmighty fish.\n\"Keep him away from the weeds,\" exclaimed\nmy companion ; \"you have caught a whopper, and\nno mistake.\"\nThere was no need for his caution to keep the\nfish away from the weeds. The pike made straight\nfor the centre of the mere, running out my line\nat a fearful rate. I let go the Hne grudgingly, for\nI expected him to make a dash back for the weeds,\nwhen my Hne would be doubled-up and I should\nlose my fish. But the pike had no such intention.\nHe went straight ahead, without pausing in his\nsteady rush, until my Hne, which was eighty yards\nlong, wras nearly all out. I gave him the butt,\nand held on until I thought my rod would have\nbroken, in the hope of turning him; but he still\nwent on, and then, as my rod was stanch and my\nHne was strong, our boat began to move after the\npike. \u2022\n\"By Jove ! this is wonderful,\" said my friend.\n\" You have hooked a leviathan. Play him steadily\nand skilfully, and don't get excited\/'\nNow that was very good advice if it could be\ncarried out; but as the speaker was already white\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nand trembling with excitement, and I was, if anything, Worse, his advice was not of much use.\nWeU, I stood in the bows of the boat, and the\nmonster towed us with increasing swiftness, right\nacross the lake, which was about a quarter of a\nmile broad at this part. When we came to the\nweeds at the other side of the mere he turned\nback again; and to prevent undue strain on the\nrod in turning the boat, I ran to the other end\nof it, and we were towed back again in precisely\nthe same way, and at a fair three miles an hour\npace. Our excitement was fast turning to awe\nwhen, on reaching the other side of the mere, the\nbrute turned again, and began to make a slow\ntour of the lake, stopping every now and then\nto sulk at the bottom, but never allowing us to\nget back much of our Hne, or to catch a glimpse\nof him.. In this way two hours passed away, and\nthe case began to assume a serious aspect.\n\" Don't get into a funk, old man. I have seen\nsalmon take very much longer to kiU ; and I have\nheard of one being on nineteen hours at a stretch,\nand when he was caught he was not a very big one,\neither.\"\n\"Aye, that is all very weU for a salmon, but a\npike does not fight so long. I saw a thirty-three\npounder kiUed in a quarter of an hour, so this\nmust be a veritable shark.\"\nWell, matters went on in this way until four\nhours had elapsed, and still we seemed no nearer\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nIt\nto the end. Then seventy yards away there was\na huge \"boil\" at the top of the water, and the\nstrain on the rod slackened.\n\" Hurrah ! there he is. He is beginning to give\nin. It wiU only be a short time now.\"\n. My friend was right. Little by Httle I wound\nin my Hne, and nearer and nearer the monster\ncame. At last we could distinctly see him rushing\nand waUowing about with widely-distended mouth,\nin the clear water. In length he was about five\nfeet, and his weight, it is clear, must have been\neighty pounds. What a proud man I felt at that\nmoment! All my hopes were on the point of being\nrealised. I drew him slowly and carefully in, and\nmy friend struck the gaff into him, and then our\nunited efforts\t\n\" Hallo ! what's that knocking for 1\"\n\" Here's your hot water, sir, and breakfast will\nbe ready in half an hour.\"\n\"Oh, murder! where is the big pikel\" I exclaimed, looking about. Alas! it was only a dream.\nI had very good sport that day and the following,\nbut not a fish was over ten pounds in weight, and my\nbig pike has yet to be caught.\no\nB\ntfSIP\n ON SOME\nWTAYS OF FISHING.\nThe maxim that one half the world does not know\nhow the other half Hves, may, with but sHght\nvariation, be applied to the world of sportsmen.\nThe \"sportsman\" is not of any particular class.\nThe highest in the land and the lowest may rub\nshoulders in. the broad field of sporL This is\npecuharly true as regards the gentle art. Wandering by the side of an unpreserved stream, you may\nsee my lord casting a fly over this shallow, and,\ntwenty yards farther down, Tinker Ben seated by\nthe side of a chub-hole watching his float circling\nround in the eddy; and as the noble passes the\nboor an honest angler's greeting may be exchanged,\nand a light for the latter's pipe asked for and given.\nIt may be taken as a general rule that between\nahglers who pursue their sport by fair means there\nis a 1 evening freemasonry of the craft which is as\npleasant as it is right.\nBetween the fair fisherman and the poacher there\nis, however, a broad Hne of demarcation\u2014a Hne\nwhich bars the interchange of even the commonest\ncivihties on the mutual ground of pursuing the same\nobject. The fair fisherman hates the man who\n^. --.--7-f\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ncaptures the finny tribe by unfair or iUegal means\nas strongly as a fox-hunter hates a fox-kiUer, or a\nstrict Sabbatarian hates a sinner who enjoys a\nSunday afternoon's walk and the gHmpses of nature\nit may afford him. There is also a line drawn\nbetween the man who fishes for amusement alone\nand him who fishes for profit. The division.in the\nlatter instance may not be so broad as in the\nformer, but nevertheless it is wide enough to distinctly separate the two classes. Now we think\nthe fair and amateur angler is, in a great many\nnstances, unaware of the shifts and dodges adopted\nby the poacher and pot-hunter to fill their pockets,\nand of the consequent hindrance to his own sport.\nTherefore, by way of warning, of information, and\npossible amusement, we have noted down a few of\nthe instances which have come under our own\nobservation. And as we do not expect any poacher\nto read this book, our revelations will do no harm\nby way of suggestion.\nLet any one take a boat and row down the\nsluggish Yare from the commission-haunted old\ncity of Norwich, as the shades of evening are\ndarkening the river, and he wiU see several uncouth, rough-looking boats being slowly impeUed\ndownstream by rougher-looking men. He will\nnotice that they have short, stout rods and long\npoles in their boats ; and if he watches them, he\nwiU presently see them take up their stations by\nthe margin of some reed-bed, or in a quiet bay of\njSIS&M\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nthe river. Driving the poles in the mud at the\nstems and sterns of their boats, the men make them\nfast, and taking their seats proceed to \" bob\" for\neels. A quantity of earthworms are strung on\nworsted, and, after being weighted, are suspended\nby a stout line from a short, thick rod. The solitary fisherman holds a rod in each hand, on either\nside of the boat, just feeling the bottom with the\nbait, and now and then pulhng it up, and shaking\nthe eels, whose teeth get entangled in the worsted,\ninto the boat. There he sits, silent and uncommunicative, the greater part of the night, and\nin all weathers, for the sake, perhaps, of, on an\naverage, a shilling's worth of eels each night.\nAltogether his berth must be a lonely one, and\nno angler will grudge him his sport. His companions take up their positions too far off to hold\nconversation with him, and the splash of a water-\nrat among the reeds, or the flapping of the canvas\nof a belated wherry, and the cheery good-night of\nits steersman, are the only sounds to beguile the\ntedium of his midnight watching.\nAnother mode of capturing eels is by \"eel-\npicking,\" in the lower waters of the Yare, near\nCantley. The man, armed with an eel-spear, takes\nhis stand in the bow of his craft, and, steahng\nalong by the edge of the reeds, plunges his spear\nat random in the mud. He uses it also as\nthe means of propelling his tiny boat. We have\nseen four or five such boats following each other\n\u00abJVjj*^*^\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n281\n4\nw\n1\nf\nI\nw\nm\nH\n&\nalong the side of the river in a queer-looking procession.\nThose centres of interest to the angler, the Norfolk broads, are, alas ! the strongholds of poaching.\nNorfolk anglers plead their great expanse of water\nas an excuse\" for \"Hggering,\" or setting trimmers,\nto an enormous extent. Taking Norfolk anglers\nas a class, if they can \"Hgger\" they wiU. The\namount of destruction thus occasioned is something wonderful. The only time we ever yielded\nto the temptation of going with a friend \" Hggering\" we are thankful to say we caught nothing,\nand we are not in a hurry to repeat the experiment.\nYarreU gives an account of four days' \" sport\" (?)\nat Heigham Sounds and Horsea, where, in 1834, in\nthe month of March, when the pike breed, his\ninformants caught in that space of time 256 pike,\nweighing altogether 1135 pounds. What wonder\nthat it is now difficult to get really good sport at\nthese places with rod and Hne !\nOne of our favourite fish, the tench, has a bad\nhabit of basking on the surface of some of these\nbroads on hot summer days, in weedy bays, where\nhe deems himself perfectly secure. But the amphibious broadsman paddles' quietly up to him,\nand actually scoops him out with his hand. You\nmay touch the fish's body with your hand, and he\nwill not move; but if you touch his tail, he darts\naway.\nWe have seen a somewhat similar thing in shaUow\nm\n 2\u00ab2\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nm\npools in Shropshire. When the big carp come to\nthe side to spawn, their bodies are half out of the\nwater, and they may be approached and shovelled\nout with a spade.\nIn the reeds adjoining the carp-pool we once\nfound a murderous instrument which was used by\na gang of sawyers at work in the adjacent wood for\ndestroying the basking carp. It consisted of a\nlarge, flat piece of wood, in which were set long\nnails, like the teeth of a garden rake. This was\nattached to a long pole, and woe betide the unfortunate carp upon whose back it descended !\nGrouping for trout in the shallow streams is a\nwell-known amusement of country boys ; but the\ndastardly and cruel practice of liming a brook is\nnot now so often resorted to as it used to be. We\nhave seen it done in a mountain brook, when, on\naccount of our extreme youth, we were powerless\nto prevent it; and a schoolboy notion of honour\nprevented our peaching. A shovelful of quicklime is taken up the brook to some shallow ford,\nand then thrown into the water and triturated,\nso that the stream carries it in a milk-white stream\ndownwards. In a short time the poachers follow,\nand pick up the trout, which are floating dead on\nthe surface, or swimming in circles on the top of ^ jj\nthe water, with \u2022scorched and blinded eyeballs.\nThe lime penetrates into every crevice of the\nstream-bed ; and if it does not kill every trout\nwithin its range, it cruelly tortures all. We still\n1\nif\njtfH\n tht: anglers -souvenir.\n\\ IMfb\nm\nremember the sickening sense of shame that crept\nover us as, unwilling participators in the outrage,\nwe crept over the mossy ground; when the noise\nmade by every water-ouzel that took wing, and\nevery sheep that leaped down the hillside, seemed\nto herald the approach of a keeper^ with the awful\npenalties of the law in his train.\nDiverting the course of a brook, and emptying\nthe pools of their water, and afterwards of their\nfish, is a long operation, and therefore not so\nfrequently resorted to; but that poaching instrument caUed the two-pole net we have known to\nclear many a nice little pool in a stream of its\nspotted denizens.\nIn Cardiganshire it is the practice for men to go\nup the streams armed with a sledge-hammer, with\nwhich they strike the big stones in the brook. The\nconcussion stuns the fish, and they are easily picked\nup afterwards.\nDo our readers know what a \" cfeeching-net'\nis 1 It is in effect a magnified landing-net at the\nend of a long pole, with the lower part of the rim\nstraight. Its use is to \"grab\" fish from under\nclumps of weed and overhanging banks. We once\nhad one made for the purpose of catching bait,\nand a ludicrous accident occurred to a friend of\nours who used it. He plunged it in too far from\nthe side, where the water was deeper than he\nimagined, and the consequence was that he fell\nforward, his feet still on the bank, and his hands\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nresting on the top of the pole within a foot of\nthe water, into which he gradually subsided, in\nspite of our efforts to puU him back by the slack\nof his trousers.\n. We have seen the cleeching-net used in a very\neffective manner by bargees on canals. As their\nvessel is towed along they put the net into the\nwater alongside the bows, and walk back to the\nstern as the boat moves, so as to keep the net\nin the same position. The rush of the water,\ndisplaced by the passage of the barge, drives a\ngood many fish into the net; and we have even\nknown fair-sized pike to be captured in this way.\nOnce we were cruising down the Severn, and\nhad moored our canoe under some bushes in a\nvery secluded part of the river, to take our midday rest. Presently wO saw two men in coracles\ncoming down the river. They stopped just opposite us, and commenced to net the river with a'\nsmaU-meshed net. They payed the net out in a\nsemicircle, and then, beating the water with their\npaddles, they closed, and completed the circle, and\nwith their coracles side by side hauled their net\nin. It was a caution to see the fish they had\ncaught. Great chub of five, and one of nine\npounds in weight. Roach, pike, and dace\u2014rin\nhalf an hour they had caught a great number.\nThey looked frightened enough when we shot out\nfrom our hiding-place and examined their sport\nand their net.\nM\nmm\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nm\\\nFishing for a dinner through a hole in the ice,\nwiU also be deemed sufficiently odd, though it is\nsaid that perch will bite well then.\nAmong other odd, or at least unorthodox, ways\nof fishing, may be reckoned setting night-Hnes,\nin which art the Norfolk yachtsmen are no mean\nproficients, netting the smelts which crowd up. the\nYare at certain seasons of the year, in the heart\nof the city, and by the Hght of flaring torches;\u2014\nnetting the weedy pools in Cheshire with -a flue-\nnet ;\u2014the catching tench in hoop-nets baited with\na bunch of flowers or an old brass candlestick,\nwhich attract the too curious fish;\u2014eel-bags and\nweirs, and the large eel-nets set in the Bure\nbelow Acle ;\u2014leistering salmon and snaring pike ;\n\u2014snatching fish by casting a bundle of hooks\ninto the water and dragging it rapidly over the\nfish;\u2014the use of salmon-roe and other too deadly\nmeans of compassing the destruction of the finny\ntribe. We fancy, however, that we have said\nenough to call to the angler's remembrance that\nhis rod and line have formidable rivals, and that\nit behoves him to do all in his power to suppress\nand punish illegal and unfair sport, yet, at the\nsame time, to aHow sufficient Hberty to all whose\nsubsistence depends upon the capture of fish.\nI\nJi\u00a7\u00a3i||\n SSgiisSsS\nCARPE DIEM,\nAs one gets ever such a Httle older, one gets very\nmuch more ddsinchned to take much trouble, much\nphysical trouble that is, about hobbies which once\nwere ridden to death; A few years ago it was a\npleasure to get up at two o*clock in the morning,\nand have six hours' fishing before it became necessary to get to work at Blackstone and Chitty, and\nthe endless writing of \" common forms;\" now I\nprefer keeping within the sheets until breakfast-\ntime, and leaving fishing expeditions for legitimate hoHdays. i8o that, as hoHdays are not\nvery frequent, and often necessarily taken up in\nother ways, and as fishing stations are distant, and\nnot easily accessible, my hand is in danger of forgetting its cunning in wielding a fishing-rod. I\ndo not so much miss my favourite sport until,\nin an unfortunate hour, I get hold of a book of\nangling reminiscences, of which there are plenty,\nand reading in its pages vivid descriptions of days\nby the river-side, such as I used' to experience\nmyself, my fancy sets to work, and, aided by\nmamory, conjures up such delightful visions 'that\nat last I cannot sit still; the room\u2014ay, and the\n T^\n\u2022ip^iip^'^\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nI fLU\ntown\u2014seem to stifle me; and I long for a glorious\nramble, rod in hand, as much as I ever did.\nFoHowing close upon the perusal of such a book,\nand the feeHngs awakened by it, I was pleased\nbeyond measure to find myself possessed of a few\ndays of leisure, and once more in the border-land\nof Wales. I took care to make the most of my\ntime, and seize the opportunity of renewing my\nacquaintance with some of those charming spots\nwith which, as an angler and a writer, I had in\ntimes past identified myself.\nOne day I spent in tracing, the wanderings of\nthe burn whence many a lusty trout had been\ntransferred to my panriier. Another afternoon I\nset out for a carp-pool,^not the carp-pool par\nexcellence of our boyish days, but one nearly as\ngood, where I had caught some six-pounders years\nago. I walked to the place\u2014it was two miles and\na half away\u2014burdened with three rods and a huge\nbagful of worms, intent upon slaughter. I neared\nthe field j I crossed the hedge. I stood stiU and\ngazed in astonishment. I rubbed my eyes and\nlooked again. There was no pool there. I walked\nround the field, and across the field, which was\nstrewn with clumps of rushes. A peewit had laid\nfour eggs on the very spot, as I calculated, where\nI had hooked my biggest carp. A small boy hove\nin sight. I seized him, and asked him where the\npool had gone. He answered, \" Whoy, mun, it ha'\nbeen drained dry these three years.\" I sat upon\niBSsgigp\n 2g8\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n\\m\ni\na gate and smoked four cigarettes; then walked\nhome, my rods feehng twice as heavy as when I\ncame that way.\nI was to be recompensed, however, for my disappointment by a day at the carp-pool on the hill\nat Craigyrhiw, Coed-y-gar, or Penycoed, for it\ngoes by all three names, the first being the most\nproper. By accident I met an old friend from a\ndistance, who, when he heard where I was bound\nto, offered to accompany me. I was glad of his\ncompanionship for more than one reason. He had\naffected to disbeheve my accounts of the big fish\nto be caught there, and this was an opportunity of\nvindicating myself from the charge of exaggeration.\nHe got his rods, and we started, pausing on the\nway to get a couple of smaU Melton Mowbray pies\nfor lunch. My friend, whom I shaU call A., left the\ncommissariat department to me; and I, having\njust had a good breakfast, did not contemplate\nthe possibility of becoming very hungry during the\nday, so considered we should have quite sufficient\nto recruit ourselves with. Leaving the town, we\npassed under the beautiful avenue of limes in the\nchurchyard, musical with rooks and sweet with\nspring fragrance, and so on to Oswald's Well.\nUnder a tree close by, King Oswald feU in battle,\nand out of the ground afterward sprang water, said\nto be endowed with heaHng power. The well is\nneatly arched over with stone, and has the effigy\nof King Oswald at the back ; but the latter offered\nI\nh\nfi\nn\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\ntoo good a mark for the stones of the grammar-\nschool lads to remain undefaced. Oswaldestree is\nnow corrupted into Oswestry, or more commonly,\namong the country people, Hogestry, or Osistry.\nJust above the well is the present battle-ground\nwhere affairs of honour among the schoolboys are,\nor used to be, settled by an appeal to fisticuffs.\nCrossing Llanvorda Park, we enter Craigvorda\nwoods, at once the most beautiful and picturesque\nof the many similar woods on the borders. The\nground is mossy underfoot, the trees meet overhead, glossy green ferns pave the noble corridors,\nwhich have for pillars straight and sturdy firs and\nlarch, and for a roof the heavy foliage of interwoven sycamore and oak. At intervals the chesnut\ntoo lifts its gigantic nosegay of pink and white\nand yellow flower-spikes ; and near it, out of some\ncraggy knoU, the \"lady of the forest,,\" the silver\nbirk, bends tenderly over the masses of blue\nhyacinths below. \"The shade is silent and dark,\nand green, and the boughs so thickly are twined\nacross, that Httle blue sky is seen between;\"\nbut there is no lack of blue underfoot, for the\nhyacinths seemed to have claimed the wood as\ntheir own property, and shine like a shimmering\nsea of blue between the tree stems, quite putting\nout of countenance with their blaze 'of colour the\nmodest violet, growing by the side of the runnels\nleaping downward to join the noisy brook.\ncrossed the Morda, a purling trout stream,\n3r\nli\n 290\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nSI\nout of which you may easily basket a score of trout\nin the spring; up a lane, the banks of which were\ncrowded so thickly with spring flowers, starwort,\nand other snow-white flowers, deep-blue germander\nspeedwells, red ragged-robins, and wild geraniums,\nmonkshood, daisies, dandelions, and buttercups,\nthat the green of the leaves and grasses was quite\nabsorbed and lost in the brighter hues; up and\nup\u2014until our legs began to ache; and at last we\ncame to the crest of the lull, in the hoUow a few\nfeet below which lay the tarn, gloomy enough, but\nweirdly beautiful. The water itself looked green\nfrom the prevailing colour of the rushes and flags,\nand the deep belt of green alders, which grew half\nin and half out of it all round.\n\"Look,\" I said, \"there are two herons, a\ncouple of wild-ducks, with their young brood just\nhatched, twenty or thirty coots and water-hens,\nand some black leaves sticking up out of the water,\nwhich are the things we are after.\"\n\" What do you mean ?\" asked A.\n1' They are the back fins of carp.\"\nA.'s rods\u2014he had two, as I had\u2014were put together with remarkable quickness. I took it more\nleisurely, and watched him searching about for a\nplace to cast his Hne in, with some amusement.\n\" I say, how are we to get at the water ?\" he cried.\n. \"Wade.\" But this he was averse to doing. He\nfound a log of wood, and pushing it out beyond\nthe bushes, where it was very shallow, he took his\nHI\nW\n ife\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nstand upon it, in a very wobbly state, with a rod\nin either hand. I took up a position a short distance from him, and we waited patiently for half an\nhour without a bite. Suddenly I heard a splash,\nand, looking round, saw that A. had slipped off his\nperch, and was halfway up to his knees in water,\nwith a broken rod and a most rueful expression on\nhis face.\n\" I have lostksuch a beauty ! \"\n\" Serves you right. You can't pitch a big carp\nout as you could a trout. This is the way\u2014see.\"\nI struck at a decided bite, and found that I was\nfast in a good fish, which, after a lively bit of\nsplashing and dashing about (the water was only\nknee-deep, yet so muddy that the fish could not\nsee us), I led into a Httle haven or pond where;\nthe inmates of a cottage in the wood came to get\ntheir water, and lifted him out with my hands, a\ntidy fish of three pounds in weight. In about a\nquarter of an hour A.'s float moved shghtly. He\nwas all excitement directly. He had never caught\nanything larger than a half-pound trout. Some\nminutes elapsed before another movement took\nplace, \" He has left it,\" said A.\n\" No, he has not;\u2014don't move ; you will get\nhim presently.\"\nThen the float, or quill, gave a couple of dips,\nthen in a few seconds more moved off with increasing rapidity. \"Now strike.\" A. did so, and*\nsoon landed a carp of two pounds. From that\n 292\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nlA\ntime we had steady sport throughout the day.\nEvery quarter of an hour one of us had a bite;\nand although we missed a goOd many through\nstriking too soon, our respective heaps of golden-\nbrown fish (very few of the carp there are at all\nwhite) grew rapidly in size.\nAs we were coming back from a small larch tree\nwhere we had found a beautifully constructed\ngolden-crested wren's nest, suspended from the\nunder side of a branch, A. suddenly clasped- me\nround the middle, and gave me a very neat back-\nthrow. \" HuUo ! what's that for 1\" I exclaimed,\nconsiderably astonished as I sat on the ground.\n\"Your foot was just poised over that beggar,\"\nhe said, pointing out to a big brown adder, which\nwas gliding away like an animated ash stick.\n\"Ah, thanks; there are too many of those\nfellows here.\"\nWe had eaten the two pies, and as four o'clock\ndrew near we got mighty hungry again.\n\"Just hand me over another pie, old fellow.\nNature abhors a vacuum,\" said A.\n\"1 haven't got any more,\" I answered.\n'' Not got any more 1 Oh, dear.\" After a pause,\n\"I am hungry.\" In a little while longer A.\nstarted off saying, '\u00bbYou mind my rod while I\nam away. I am going foraging for food. Ill try\nand catch a rabbit, and eat him alive. I've been\nmeditating upon those fish, but I don't like the\n1 look of them.\" ;\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n293\n\\\nHe was gone for about half an hour, during\nwhich tune I had landed three fish. When he\ncame back he had the countenance of a man who\nhad dined well. He said to me,\n\" Go as straight as you can through the wood in\nthat direction, and you will come to a cottage\nwhere there is plenty of hot tea, a loaf of bread,\nand some butter awaiting you. I never dined\nbetter in aU my life, and I forgive you for only\nbringing two pies.\"\nI obeyed his directions, and the tea certainly was\nrefreshing, although I could not get any sugar\nwith it.\nIt-was time to be going. We counted our fish:\nI had eleven (my usual number at that pool, by the\nway), and A. had ten, most from two to three\npounds each, but one or two heavier. We selected\nthe best and as many as we could conveniently ~\ncarry, and gave the rest to some cottagers.\nFrom the shooting-box, which is. at the top of\nthe hill, and is, by the way, in a state of dilapidation, we had a most magnificent view, one well\nworth the walk to see. It was a view which embraced Shropshire, Cheshire, Montgomeryshire,\nDenbighshire, and Merionethshire. In the vividly\ngreen vaUey below us the little village of LlansiHn\nslumbered, scarcely noticeable were it not for the\ndark and massy yew-trees in its churchyard.\nFrom the rocks farther on we saw a pretty sight.\nA fox was standing on a stone, and on a sloping\nrP\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nslab beneath her five cubs were sprawling and gambolling about like a lot of Newfoundland puppies.\nPresently the vixen trotted off a little way and\nlay down ; and while we were watching her, a\nrabbit popped out of his burrow, and came several\nyards towards Reynard without seeing her. With\none bound fox was upon bunny, and the pair rolled\nover and over down the hiU. The captor then\nslunk off with her captive,\u2014not to her young ones,\nbut to a quiet hole in the chff, to have a gorge all\nby her greedy self.\nIn a hollow tree in the cliff we found three jackdaws' nests, each with four eggs in ; and we were\namused at watching a woodpecker tapping away at\na tree. The noise produced was like that made\nby drawing a stick very rapidly over some wooden\npalings, and quite as loud, or even more like a\nwatchman's rattle worked rather slowly. A curious\nspectacle was presented in the lane on going home.\nIt was a warm, damp night, and every dozen yards\nor so a glowworm exhibited its eerie light, and\neach successive one seemed to shine more whitely\nand brightly than the last, m\nThe day was done, its pleasure seized, and\u2014no,\nnot gone, for a pleasant memory remains wherewith to delight myself, and perchance please my\nfriends, among whom I would fain number all\nangling readers.\n t\u00a3\"T\nA SEPTEMBER DAY.\nYorm true pike-fisher\u2014the man who makes pike-\nfishing his hobby\u2014cares but Httle for fishing\nduring spring and summer. Trout-fishing ensnares\nhim not. Roach and gudgeon have no charms for\nhim, unless he catches a quantity to preserve in\nspirits of wine, to do duty as spinning baits on cold\nwinter days when baits are not to be had. But\nwhen the hot harvest days are passed by, and as\nSeptember wanes, as the nights grow colder, and\neven the midday air has a touch of keenness in\nit, then does the fever seize him, and henceforth\nduring the autumn and winter there is no peace\nfor him save at the waterside, with his trusty pike\nrod in his hand, and a prospect at least of having\ntwo or three good-sized pike to carry home.\nAnd about the 15th of September he hath an\nopening day, and he goeth, not to a grand preserve,\nbut to a small but pikey stream which floweth\nthrough the meadows. It is just to see that his\nrod and tackle are in order, and that he has not\nlost the knack of casting a bait. This is the record\nthereof.\nIs it any harm, I wonder, to look at one's rod on\nA^\nIP\n 296\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\na Sunday? There is such a temptation to do it.\nOne sits in one's snuggery in the afternoon ; a\nfavourite rod lies on a bracket close by. Is it\nwarped ? one wonders, after its long rest. What\nmore natural than to put it together; and if the\nstudy is not large enough for its length, to push\nit out of the window and try its spring? And\nif people are passing on their way from afternoon\nchurch, is there any particular reason why they\nshould look so extremely shocked ? If it is wrong,\nthen I am afraid the pike-fisher sinneth occasionally\nas September goes on.\nAt seven in the morning he steps out of his\nhouse and rings the gardener's beH. The gardener\ncomes, and is laden with a casting-net and a\nbucket.\n\"A fine morning, sir.\"\nI' Yes, John. We ought to get some to-day.\nThe wind blows cool and the sky is cloudy. Bring\nthe garden rake with you.\" And they walk down\nto the canal, where John rakes the bottom vigorously, until it is muddy for several yards around.\nThe master waits a few minutes, and leisurely\nadjusts the casting-net ready for a cast; and then, ^ t\nwhen he deems that there are sufficient gudgeons\nassembled on the muddy spot on the search for\nfood, he swings the net; one, two, three, and the\nnet flows evenly off his arm, and falls in a perfect\ncircle on the water. He leisurely draws it in ; and\nwhen John spreads out the tuck, they find twelve\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nWi\nh^\ngudgeons and two roach in its folds. These are\nduly transferred to the bucket, as are also half a\ndozen gudgeons secured by a second cast. Then\nthe master goes home to breakfast, while John kills\nthe bait and wraps them in a cloth, roUing them up\nin the same manner as one sees a dentist's or\nsurgeon's tools roUed up sometimes in a leather\ncase, and so that only one bait at a time is exposed,\nwhen required, and they are kept from rubbing\nagainst each other.\nAbout ten o'clock master and man are at the side\nof a small river which flows with sinuous course\nthrough rich meadows and yellow stubbles, forming\nhere a long shaUow, about a foot or two feet deep,\nwith a smooth current sliding over waving weeds,\nand there a wide pool where the water moves very\nslowly in a large eddy, and washes lazily about the\nroots of tall flags and clumps of rushes.\nHe puts his rod together, and as the weeds are\nsomewhat too thick as yet for comfortable spinning,\nhe baits a gorge-hook and makes a cast from the\nreel, and the bait descends head-foremost into a\ndeep pool close by a patch of lily leaves.\nThe master's tackle is somewhat peculiar, for he\nhas his fancies, as all true anglers have. He has\na Nottingham reel of a great diameter, and yet\nhe has a dressed line such as is not used in the\nNottingham style of fishing. The master says that\neven with a dressed line he can throw a long way\noff the reel if he so desires ; and where the ground\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nis scrubby that is a great advantage, as he is not\nbothered by the line catching in the thistles and\ngrass. Then if he desires change, there is a thick\nindia-rubber ring on the butt of the rod, and this\nhe slips down to the reel, so that it catches the\ncircumference and acts as a brake, transforming\nthe reel instantly into an excellent check one.\nThen he fishes with the line in coils at the feet,\nor gathered in ringlets in his left hand, although\nthe latter method- is open to the objection that\nboth hands are engaged, which is occasionally\nawkward.\nThe bait is drawn to the top of the water, and\nthen shoots erratically downward^until every inch\nof the pool has been systematicaHy fished. In the\nnext pool the master feels a sHght check to the\nline. Is it a fish or a weed ? There is a tremulous\nmotion of the rod, and a slight movement of the\nline through the rings. It must be a fish ; and the\nmaster lowers the point of his rod, and suffers\nthe line to be drawn out without a check, and the\nfish shall have ten good minutes to gorge. (Don't\nthose ten minutes always seem to be half an hour\nat the least ?) The fish is uneasy. It moves about\na yard or two at a time. The master is in doubt\nwhether the bait has been pouched or not; nevertheless his patience cannot last more than ten\nminutes, so he tightens his line. The pike is on,\nand fights well, although it is only a small one\u2014\nsay three pounds in weight. It is conquered, and\nif\n'9^&?\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n299\n1\nis drawn in to the side, when\u2014lo ! the bait comes\nout of the water with a jerk, and the pike is free.\n\"Ah, I thought that fellow had not pouched.\nHe was simply holding on. The bait is not much\ntorn, so here it goes on again. He will probably\nrun at it again. Ah, there he is, and he has got\nit between his great jaws.\"\nAt the bottom of the pool, which is not very\ndeep, you can see two small gleaming objects. \u00ab\nThey are the head and the tail of the gudgeon.\nIts middle part is in the pike's mouth ; and with\nthose white specks as a starting-point you can trace\nthe long body of the jack, which would otherwise\nbe invisible. The master gives the jack ten more\nminutes, and still it has not swaUowed the bait.\nHe loses patience at this, and says,\n\" We cannot waste aU the morning with this\nlittle fellow, John, so I will try and swing him\nout.\"\nSo he gently draws the pike down-stream, and\nwithin a foot of a low grassy bank, and then with\na mighty heave he tries to jerk the fish out by the\nhold of its back-bent teeth upon the bait.\nThere is a sharp struggle on the top of the water,\nand the pike escapes.\nThe master smiles grimly as he proceeds to\nchange his tackle to a spinning flight, for he will\nnot be played with again.\nTwenty yards lower down he has another run,\n\u25a0 and, striking hard, he finds that he has hooked\nt^^Pter>\n 3oo\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\na fish of six or seven pounds, which gives him a\ndecent amount of play before John lifts it out with\nthe landing-net.\nSo he goes on down the river, getting a run here\nand there as the day wears on, missing some and\nbasketing some.\nA cool west wind sweeps the first of the dying\nleaves off the trees, and carries to him the sound\nof his friends' shooting in the stubbles ; the water-\nhens rustle in the reeds, and fly out with a great\nsplutter; a weasel, foUowing a rabbit, crosses his\npath, and when John shies a stone at it, coolly,\nstops as if to ask, \"What do you mean by that,\nyou impertinent fellow ?\" and disturbed coveys\nof partridges whirr over his head. The sky is\ncovered with opaHne clouds, and long rays of misty\nsunshine stream down here and there. As he\npushes through a coppice, he stops to gather a\npocketful of nuts, and stains his fingers with the\nblackberries. Presently master and man sit down\non a fallen tree, and eat their lunch with an excellent appetite.\nWhen lunch and a pipe are finished, he puts on\na fresh bait, and spins it across a Hkely pool.\nThere is a swirl in the water, and as he strikes\nhe feels that he has hooked a good fish. After\na few minutes' play, it comes near to the surface,\nand, to his astonishment, full seven feet behind\nwhere the taut line is cutting the water, he sees\nits tail above the water. A pike seven feet long ! \u2014\nB\u00bbw***&adfi5Sfc%\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n30 r\nimpossible ! Yet there is the head and there is the\ntail. Who shall say what visions cross his brain\nat that exulting moment ! But a shaft of sunlight\nstrikes the water, and renders it more transparent,\nand lo ! the mystery is solved. There are two pike\nof equal size. One is hooked, and the other is\nfollowing close in his wake as he swims about the\npool,\u2014whether from wonder, affection, concern, or\nthe possible chance of a meal off a sick fish, one\ncannot say. Presently, however, he catches sight\nof John's extended net, and is off like a shot, while\nthe hooked fish is landed, and promises to turn the\nscale at seven pounds.\nAnd now they come to a Httle pool apart from\nthe river, but communicating with it by a narrow\nchannel. The pool is completely surrounded by a\ntall and thick rampart of reeds, over which it is\ncertainly possible to cast, but which would effectually prevent the return of any spinning flight. It\nlooks such a pikey place, however, that the master\nis determined to try it; so he puts on a gorge-\nbait, which can be forcibly dragged back through\nthe reeds without much difficulty.\nj At the third throw the bait is seized with such a\nrush that the rod is nearly jerked out of the trailer's\nhand.\n\" That is a big fish, John.\"\n\" It is, sir ; but I think you will not get it out.\"\nAfter a considerable time, and much careful play,\nthe pike is tired out, and lies on its side at the\nm\n 302\nTHE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\nedge of the reeds, held there by main force. It\nmust weigh ten' pounds at the least. Not an inch\nfurther can it be dragged. John takes off his shoes\nand stockings, and attempts to wade to it; but as\nhe plunges up to his waist in soft mud, and has to\nbe helped out by his master, he is of no use in\nlanding the pike. At last, fearful of straining his\nrod, the master takes hold of the line, and attempts\nto lead the fish through the reeds, fervently hoping\nthat his tackle is sound and the hold of the hooks\nsecure. Wallop ! the gimp parts at the loop, and the\npike sinks back into the pool.\n'' Never mind, John. We will have him in the\nwinter, when the weeds are down. We have done\npretty weU, and we may be satisfied. Turn them\nout on the grass. Eight of them, I declare, from\ntwo to seven pounds. They will be as much as you\ncan carry home, John.\"\nSo they go homeward through the autumn gloaming, slowly but well content.\nThis is fair and quite sufficient sport. A friend\nof mine, during one day's live-baiting in a Norfolk\nriver, caught fourteen pike, from seven to fourteen\npounds in weight, with his own rod.\nI should not care for such sport as that. It is\nbutchery. Well, perhaps, as you say, the grapes are\nsour.\nA friend of mine has just told me that he once\nhad a big pike on in a similarly awkward position,\nwith a fringe of bushes between him and the pike.\n THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR.\n3\u00b03\nHe tired it out, and then strung it up to a branch\nwhile he went and got a gun, and, crossing the\nriver, shot the pike from the other side. It was a\ncute idea certainly, but rather rough on the pike,\nwho had a right to complain of being taken in the\nflank in such a way.\n A critic for whom I am compelled to profess very\n,xeat reverence, particularly as she is good enough\nto help .me very considerably with the correction of\nproofs, that most abominable of necessities, sometimes says to me, \" These articles of yours always\ndescribe such excellent sport and such big fish.\nNow I never see you get one or the other.\" To\nwhich I reply, \" Before I married you, my pearl of\nwomen, I used to have very good luck indeed ; but\nsince that to me most happy event I have the most\nd\u2014well, no\u2014the very worst luck imaginable in\nfishing, just as I have at cards or any game of\nchance.\" Then I am snubbed with the reply,\n\"That is all nonsense. There is no such thing\nas luck. It is your lack of skill in both cases.\"\nNow I have a considerable amount of patience,\nand experience ought to have given me some Httle\nskill, yet I must say that I have been most awfully\nunlucky of late, and I am ready to grumble to any\nextent, and to humble myself, and gratify my critic,\nby detailing some of my blank days.\now every angler expects to meet with blank\nnow and again, when wind and weather have\n
Text within ornamental border.
Creator information derived from UBC Library catalogue record.","@language":"en"}],"Provider":[{"@value":"Vancouver : University of British Columbia Library","@language":"en"}],"Publisher":[{"@value":"London : Frederick Warne and Co","@language":"en"}],"Rights":[{"@value":"Images provided for research and reference use only. Permission to publish, copy or otherwise use these images must be obtained from the Digitization Centre: http:\/\/digitize.library.ubc.ca\/","@language":"en"}],"SortDate":[{"@value":"1880-12-31 AD","@language":"en"},{"@value":"1880-12-31 AD","@language":"en"}],"Source":[{"@value":"Original Format: University of British Columbia. Library. Woodward Library. Memorial Room. Hawthorn collection. SH439 .C49 1880","@language":"en"}],"Subject":[{"@value":"Fishing","@language":"en"}],"Title":[{"@value":"The angler's souvenir","@language":"en"}],"Type":[{"@value":"Text","@language":"en"}],"Translation":[{"@value":"","@language":"en"}],"@id":"doi:10.14288\/1.0364310"}