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diff --git a/2022-h/2022-h.htm b/2022-h/2022-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b91c11 --- /dev/null +++ b/2022-h/2022-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3434 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Angling Sketches</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Angling Sketches, by Andrew Lang</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Angling Sketches, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Angling Sketches + + +Author: Andrew Lang + +Release Date: April 18, 2005 [eBook #2022] +[Last updated: December 28, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANGLING SKETCHES*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1895 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h1>ANGLING SKETCHES</h1> +<p>Contents:</p> +<p>Preface<br /> +Note to New Edition<br /> +The Confessions of a Duffer<br /> +A Border Boyhood<br /> +Loch Awe<br /> +Loch-Fishing<br /> +Loch Leven<br /> +The Bloody Doctor<br /> +The Lady or the Salmon?<br /> +A Tweedside Sketch<br /> +The Double Alibi<br /> +The Complete Bungler</p> +<h2>DEDICATION</h2> +<p>TO MRS HERBERT HILLS</p> +<p>‘NO FISHER<br /> +BUT A WELL-WISHER<br /> +TO THE GAME.’</p> +<p>IN MEMORY OF PLESANT DAYS AT CORBY</p> +<h2>PREFACE</h2> +<p>Several of the sketches in this volume have appeared in periodicals. +“The Bloody Doctor” was in <i>Macmillan’s Magazine</i>, +“The Confessions of a Duffer,” “Loch Awe,” and +“The Lady or the Salmon?” were in the <i>Fishing Gazette</i>, +but have been to some extent re-written. “The Double Alibi” +was in <i>Longman’s Magazine</i>. The author has to thank +the Editors and Publishers for permission to reprint these papers.</p> +<p>The gem engraved on the cover is enlarged from a small intaglio in +the collection of Mr. M. H. N. STORY-MASKELYNE, M.P. Such gems +were recommended by Clemens of Alexandria to the early Christians. +“The figure of a man fishing will put them in mind of the Apostle.” +Perhaps the Greek is using the red hackle described by Ælian in +the only known Greek reference to fly-fishing.</p> +<h2>NOTE TO NEW EDITION</h2> +<p>The historical version of the Black Officer’s career, very +unlike the legend in “Loch Awe,” may be read in Mr. Macpherson’s +<i>Social Life in the Highlands</i>.</p> +<h2>THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER</h2> +<p>These papers do not boast of great sport. They are truthful, +not like the tales some fishers tell. They should appeal to many +sympathies. There is no false modesty in the confidence with which +I esteem myself a duffer, at fishing. Some men are born duffers; +others, unlike persons of genius, become so by an infinite capacity +for not taking pains. Others, again, among whom I would rank myself, +combine both these elements of incompetence. Nature, that made +me enthusiastically fond of fishing, gave me thumbs for fingers, short-sighted +eyes, indolence, carelessness, and a temper which (usually sweet and +angelic) is goaded to madness by the laws of matter and of gravitation. +For example: when another man is caught up in a branch he disengages +his fly; I jerk at it till something breaks. As for carelessness, +in boyhood I fished, by preference, with doubtful gut and knots ill-tied; +it made the risk greater, and increased the excitement if one did hook +a trout. I can’t keep a fly-book. I stuff the flies +into my pockets at random, or stick them into the leaves of a novel, +or bestow them in the lining of my hat or the case of my rods. +Never, till 1890, in all my days did I possess a landing-net. +If I can drag a fish up a bank, or over the gravel, well; if not, he +goes on his way rejoicing. On the Test I thought it seemly to +carry a landing-net. It had a hinge, and doubled up. I put +the handle through a button-hole of my coat: I saw a big fish rising, +I put a dry fly over him; the idiot took it. Up stream he ran, +then down stream, then he yielded to the rod and came near me. +I tried to unship my landing-net from my button-hole. Vain labour! +I twisted and turned the handle, it would not budge. Finally, +I stooped, and attempted to ladle the trout out with the short net; +but he broke the gut, and went off. A landing-net is a tedious +thing to carry, so is a creel, and a creel is, to me, a superfluity. +There is never anything to put in it. If I do catch a trout, I +lay him under a big stone, cover him with leaves, and never find him +again. I often break my top joint; so, as I never carry string, +I splice it with a bit of the line, which I bite off, for I really cannot +be troubled with scissors and I always lose my knife. When a phantom +minnow sticks in my clothes, I snap the gut off, and put on another, +so that when I reach home I look as if a shoal of fierce minnows had +attacked me and hung on like leeches. When a boy, I was—once +or twice—a bait-fisher, but I never carried worms in box or bag. +I found them under big stones, or in the fields, wherever I had the +luck. I never tie nor otherwise fasten the joints of my rod; they +often slip out of the sockets and splash into the water. Mr. Hardy, +however, has invented a joint-fastening which never slips. On +the other hand, by letting the joint rust, you may find it difficult +to take down your rod. When I see a trout rising, I always cast +so as to get hung up, and I frighten him as I disengage my hook. +I invariably fall in and get half-drowned when I wade, there being an +insufficiency of nails in the soles of my brogues. My waders let +in water, too, and when I go out to fish I usually leave either my reel, +or my flies, or my rod, at home. Perhaps no other man’s +average of lost flies in proportion to taken trout was ever so great +as mine. I lose plenty, by striking furiously, after a series +of short rises, and breaking the gut, with which the fish swims away. +As to dressing a fly, one would sooner think of dressing a dinner. +The result of the fly-dressing would resemble a small blacking-brush, +perhaps, but nothing entomological.</p> +<p>Then why, a persevering reader may ask, do I fish? Well, it +is stronger than myself, the love of fishing; perhaps it is an inherited +instinct, without the inherited power. I may have had a fishing +ancestor who bequeathed to me the passion without the art. My +vocation is fixed, and I have fished to little purpose all my days. +Not for salmon, an almost fabulous and yet a stupid fish, which must +be moved with a rod like a weaver’s beam. The trout is more +delicate and dainty—not the sea-trout, which any man, woman, or +child can capture, but the yellow trout in clear water.</p> +<p>A few rises are almost all I ask for: to catch more than half a dozen +fish does not fall to my lot twice a year. Of course, in a Sutherland +loch one man is as good as another, the expert no better than the duffer. +The fish will take, or they won’t. If they won’t, +nobody can catch them; if they will, nobody can miss them. It +is as simple as trolling a minnow from a boat in Loch Leven, probably +the lowest possible form of angling. My ambition is as great as +my skill is feeble; to capture big trout with the dry fly in the Test, +that would content me, and nothing under that. But I can’t +see the natural fly on the water; I cannot see my own fly,</p> +<blockquote><p>Let it sink or let it swim.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I often don’t see the trout rise to me, if he is such a fool +as to rise; and I can’t strike in time when I do see him. +Besides, I am unteachable to tie any of the orthodox knots in the gut; +it takes me half an hour to get the gut through one of these newfangled +iron eyes, and, when it is through, I knot it any way. The “jam” +knot is a name to me, and no more. That, perhaps, is why the hooks +crack off so merrily. Then, if I do spot a rising trout, and if +he does not spot me as I crawl like the serpent towards him, my fly +always fixes in a nettle, a haycock, a rose-bush, or whatnot, behind +me. I undo it, or break it, and put up another, make a cast, and, +“plop,” all the line falls in with a splash that would frighten +a crocodile. The fish’s big black fin goes cutting the stream +above, and there is a <i>sauve qui peut</i> of trout in all directions.</p> +<p>I once did manage to make a cast correctly: the fly went over the +fish’s nose; he rose; I hooked him, and he was a great silly brute +of a grayling. The grayling is the deadest-hearted and the foolishest-headed +fish that swims. I would as lief catch a perch or an eel as a +grayling. This is the worst of it—this ambition of the duffer’s, +this desire for perfection, as if the golfing imbecile should match +himself against Mr. Horace Hutchinson, or as the sow of the Greek proverb +challenged Athene to sing. I know it all, I deplore it, I regret +the evils of ambition; but <i>c’est plus fort que moi</i>. +If there is a trout rising well under the pendant boughs that trail +in the water, if there is a brake of briars behind me, a strong wind +down stream, for that trout, in that impregnable situation, I am impelled +to fish. If I raise him I strike, miss him, catch up in his tree, +swish the cast off into the briars, break my top, break my heart, but—that +is the humour of it. The passion, or instinct, being in all senses +blind, must no doubt be hereditary. It is full of sorrow and bitterness +and hope deferred, and entails the mockery of friends, especially of +the fair. But I would as soon lay down a love of books as a love +of fishing.</p> +<p>Success with pen or rod may be beyond one, but there is the pleasure +of the pursuit, the rapture of endeavour, the delight of an impossible +chase, the joys of nature—sky, trees, brooks, and birds. +Happiness in these things is the legacy to us of the barbarian. +Man in the future will enjoy bricks, asphalte, fog, machinery, “society,” +even picture galleries, as many men and most women do already. +We are fortunate who inherit the older, not “the new spirit”—we +who, skilled or unskilled, follow in the steps of our father, Izaak, +by streams less clear, indeed, and in meadows less fragrant, than his. +Still, they are meadows and streams, not wholly dispeopled yet of birds +and trout; nor can any defect of art, nor certainty of laborious disappointment, +keep us from the waterside when April comes.</p> +<p>Next to being an expert, it is well to be a contented duffer: a man +who would fish if he could, and who will pleasure himself by flicking +off his flies, and dreaming of impossible trout, and smoking among the +sedges Hope’s enchanted cigarettes. Next time we shall be +more skilled, more fortunate. Next time! “To-morrow, +and to-morrow, and to-morrow.” Grey hairs come, and stiff +limbs, and shortened sight; but the spring is green and hope is fresh +for all the changes in the world and in ourselves. We can tell +a hawk from a hand-saw, a March Brown from a Blue Dun; and if our success +be as poor as ever, our fancy can dream as well as ever of better things +and more fortunate chances. For fishing is like life; and in the +art of living, too, there are duffers, though they seldom give us their +confessions. Yet even they are kept alive, like the incompetent +angler, by this undying hope: they will be more careful, more skilful, +more lucky next time. The gleaming untravelled future, the bright +untried waters, allure us from day to day, from pool to pool, till, +like the veteran on Coquet side, we “try a farewell throw,” +or, like Stoddart, look our last on Tweed.</p> +<h2>A BORDER BOYHOOD</h2> +<p>A fisher, says our father Izaak, is like a poet: he “must be +born so.” The majority of dwellers on the Border are born +to be fishers, thanks to the endless number of rivers and burns in the +region between the Tweed and the Coquet—a realm where almost all +trout-fishing is open, and where, since population and love of the sport +have increased, there is now but little water that merits the trouble +of putting up a rod.</p> +<p>Like the rest of us in that country, I was born an angler, though +under an evil star, for, indeed, my labours have not been blessed, and +are devoted to fishing rather than to the catching of fish. Remembrance +can scarcely recover, “nor time bring back to time,” the +days when I was not busy at the waterside; yet the feat is not quite +beyond the power of Mnemosyne. My first recollection of the sport +must date from about the age of four. I recall, in a dim brightness, +driving along a road that ran between banks of bracken and mica-veined +rocks, and the sunlight on a shining bend of a highland stream, and +my father, standing in the shallow water, showing me a huge yellow fish, +that gave its last fling or two on the grassy bank. The fish seemed +as terrible and dangerous to me as to Tobit, in the Apocrypha, did that +ferocious half-pounder which he carries on a string in the early Italian +pictures. How oddly Botticelli and his brethren misconceived the +man-devouring fish, which must have been a crocodile strayed from the +Nile into the waters of the Euphrates! A half-pounder! To +have been terrified by a trout seems a bad beginning; and, thereafter, +the mist gather’s over the past, only to lift again when I see +myself, with a crowd of other little children, sent to fish, with crooked +pins, for minnows, or “baggies” as we called them, in the +Ettrick. If our parents hoped that we would bring home minnows +for bait, they were disappointed. The party was under the command +of a nursery governess, and probably she was no descendant of the mother +of us all, Dame Juliana Berners. We did not catch any minnows, +and I remember sitting to watch a bigger boy, who was angling in a shoal +of them when a parr came into the shoal, and we had bright visions of +alluring that monarch of the deep. But the parr disdained our +baits, and for months I dreamed of what it would have been to capture +him, and often thought of him in church. In a moment of profane +confidence my younger brother once asked me: “What do <i>you</i> +do in sermon time? I,” said he in a whisper—“mind +you don’t tell—<i>I</i> tell stories to myself about catching +trout.” To which I added similar confession, for even so +I drove the sermon by, and I have not “told”—till +now.</p> +<p>By this time we must have been introduced to trout. Who forgets +his first trout? Mine, thanks to that unlucky star, was a double +deception, or rather there were two kinds of deception. A village +carpenter very kindly made rods for us. They were of unpainted +wood, these first rods; they were in two pieces, with a real brass joint, +and there was a ring at the end of the top joint, to which the line +was knotted. We were still in the age of Walton, who clearly knew +nothing, except by hearsay, of a reel; he abandons the attempt to describe +that machine as used by the salmon-fishers. He thinks it must +be seen to be understood. With these innocent weapons, and with +the gardener to bait our hooks, we were taken to the Yarrow, far up +the stream, near Ladhope. How well one remembers deserting the +gardener, and already appreciating the joys of having no gillie nor +attendant, of being “alone with ourselves and the goddess of fishing”! +I cast away as well as I could, and presently jerked a trout, a tiny +one, high up in the air out of the water. But he fell off the +hook again, he dropped in with a little splash, and I rushed up to consult +my tutor on his unsportsmanlike behaviour, and the disappointing, nay, +heart-breaking, occurrence. Was the trout not morally caught, +was there no way of getting him to see this and behave accordingly? +The gardener feared there was none. Meanwhile he sat on the bank +and angled in a pool. “Try my rod,” he said, and, +as soon as I had taken hold of it, “pull up,” he cried, +“pull up.” I did “pull up,” and hauled +my first troutling on shore. But in my inmost heart I feared that +he was not my trout at all, that the gardener had hooked him before +he handed the rod to me. Then we met my younger brother coming +to us with quite a great fish, half a pound perhaps, which he had caught +in a burn. Then, for the first time, my soul knew the fierce passion +of jealousy, the envy of the angler. Almost for the last time, +too; for, I know not why it is, and it proves me no true fisherman, +I am not discontented by the successes of others. If one cannot +catch fish oneself, surely the next best thing is to see other people +catch them.</p> +<p>My own progress was now checked for long by a constitutional and +insuperable aversion to angling with worm. If the gardener, or +a pretty girl-cousin of the mature age of fourteen, would put the worm +on, I did not “much mind” fishing with it. Dost thou +remember, fair lady of the ringlets? Still, I never liked bait-fishing, +and these mine allies were not always at hand. We used, indeed, +to have great days with perch at Faldonside, on the land which Sir Walter +Scott was always so anxious to buy from Mr. Nichol Milne. Almost +the last entry in his diary, at Naples, breathes this unutterable hope. +He had deluded himself into believing that his debts were paid, and +that he could soon “speak a word to young Nichol Milne.” +The word, of course, was never spoken, and the unsupplanted laird used +to let us fish for his perch to our hearts’ desire. Never +was there such slaughter. The corks which we used as floats were +perpetually tipping, bobbing, and disappearing, and then the red-finned +perch would fly out on to dry land. Here I once saw two corks +go down, two anglers haul up, and one perch, attached to both hooks, +descend on the grassy bank. My brother and I filled two baskets +once, and strung dozens of other perch on a stick.</p> +<p>But this was not legitimate business. Not till we came to fly-fishing +were we really entered at the sport, and this initiation took place, +as it chanced, beside the very stream where I was first shown a trout. +It is a charming piece of water, amber-coloured and clear, flowing from +the Morvern hills under the limes of an ancient avenue—trees that +have long survived the house to which, of old, the road must have led. +Our gillie put on for us big bright sea-trout flies—nobody fishes +there for yellow trout; but, in our inexperience, small “brownies” +were all we caught. Probably we were only taken to streams and +shallows where we could not interfere with mature sportsmen. At +all events, it was demonstrated to us that we could actually catch fish +with fly, and since then I have scarcely touched a worm, except as a +boy, in burns. In these early days we had no notion of playing +a trout. If there was a bite, we put our strength into an answering +tug, and, if nothing gave way, the trout flew over our heads, perhaps +up into a tree, perhaps over into a branch of the stream behind us. +Quite a large trout will yield to this artless method, if the rod be +sturdy—none of your glued-up cane-affairs. I remember hooking +a trout which, not answering to the first haul, ran right across the +stream and made for a hole in the opposite bank. But the second +lift proved successful and he landed on my side of the water. +He had a great minnow in his throat, and must have been a particularly +greedy animal. Of course, on this system there were many breakages, +and the method was abandoned as we lived into our teens, and began to +wade and to understand something about fly-fishing.</p> +<p>It was worth while to be a boy then in the south of Scotland, and +to fish the waters haunted by old legends, musical with old songs, and +renowned in the sporting essays of Christopher North and Stoddart. +Even then, thirty long years ago, the old stagers used to tell us that +“the waiter was owr sair fished,” and they grumbled about +the system of draining the land, which makes a river a roaring torrent +in floods, and a bed of grey stones with a few clear pools and shallows, +during the rest of the year. In times before the hills were drained, +before the manufacturing towns were so populous, before pollution, netting, +dynamiting, poisoning, sniggling, and the enormous increase of fair +and unfair fishing, the border must have been the angler’s paradise. +Still, it was not bad when we were boys. We had Ettrick within +a mile of us, and a finer natural trout-stream there is not in Scotland, +though now the water only holds a sadly persecuted remnant. There +was one long pool behind Lindean, flowing beneath a high wooded bank, +where the trout literally seemed never to cease rising at the flies +that dropped from the pendant boughs. Unluckily the water flowed +out of the pool in a thin broad stream, directly at right angles to +the pool itself. Thus the angler had, so to speak, the whole of +lower Ettrick at his back when he waded: it was a long way up stream +to the bank, and, as we never used landing-nets then, we naturally lost +a great many trout in trying to unhook them in mid water. They +only averaged as a rule from three to two to the pound, but they were +strong and lively. In this pool there was a large tawny, table-shaped +stone, over which the current broke. Out of the eddy behind this +stone, one of my brothers one day caught three trout weighing over seven +pounds, a feat which nowadays sounds quite incredible. As soon +as the desirable eddy was empty, another trout, a trifle smaller than +the former, seems to have occupied it. The next mile and a half, +from Lindean to the junction with Tweed, was remarkable for excellent +sport. In the last pool of Ettrick, the water flowed by a steep +bank, and, if you cast almost on to the further side, you were perfectly +safe to get fish, even when the river was very low. The flies +used, three on a cast, were small and dusky, hare’s ear and woodcock +wing, black palmers, or, as Stoddart sings,</p> +<blockquote><p>Wee dour looking huiks are the thing,<br /> +Mouse body and laverock wing.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Next to Ettrick came Tweed: the former river joins the latter at +the bend of a long stretch of water, half stream, half pool, in which +angling was always good. In late September there were sea-trout, +which, for some reason, rose to the fly much more freely than sea-trout +do now in the upper Tweed. I particularly remember hooking one +just under the railway bridge. He was a two-pounder, and practised +the usual sea-trout tactics of springing into the air like a rocket. +There was a knot on my line, of course, and I was obliged to hold him +hard. When he had been dragged up on the shingle, the line parted, +broken in twain at the knot; but it had lasted just long enough, during +three exciting minutes. This accident of a knot on the line has +only once befallen me since, with the strongest loch-trout I ever encountered. +It was on Branxholme Loch, where the trout run to a great size, but +usually refuse the fly. I was alone in a boat on a windy day; +the trout soon ran out the line to the knot, and then there was nothing +for it but to lower the top almost to the water’s edge, and hold +on in hope. Presently the boat drifted ashore, and I landed him—better +luck than I deserved. People who only know the trout of the Test +and other chalk streams, cannot imagine how much stronger are the fish +of the swift Scottish streams and dark Scottish lochs. They’re +worse fed, but they are infinitely more powerful and active; it is all +the difference between an alderman and a clansman.</p> +<p>Tweed, at this time, was full of trout, but even then they were not +easy to catch. One difficulty lay in the nature of the wading. +There is a pool near Ashiesteil and Gleddis Weil which illustrated this. +Here Scott and Hogg were once upset from a boat while “burning +the water”—spearing salmon by torchlight. Herein, +too, as Scott mentions in his Diary, he once caught two trout at one +cast. The pool is long, is paved with small gravel, and allures +you to wade on and on. But the water gradually deepens as you +go forward, and the pool ends in a deep pot under each bank. Then +to recover your ground becomes by no means easy, especially if the water +is heavy. You get half-drowned, or drowned altogether, before +you discover your danger. Many of the pools have this peculiarity, +and in many, one step made rashly lets you into a very uncomfortable +and perilous place. Therefore expeditions to Tweedside were apt +to end in a ducking. It was often hard to reach the water where +trout were rising, and the rise was always capricious. There might +not be a stir on the water for hours, and suddenly it would be all boiling +with heads and tails for twenty minutes, after which nothing was to +be done. To miss “the take” was to waste the day, +at least in fly-fishing. From a high wooded bank I have seen the +trout feeding, and they have almost ceased to feed before I reached +the waterside. Still worse was it to be allured into water over +the tops of your waders, early in the day, and then to find that the +rise was over, and there was nothing for it but a weary walk home, the +basket laden only with damp boots. Still, the trout were undeniably +<i>there</i>, and that was a great encouragement. They are there +still, but infinitely more cunning than of old. Then, if they +were feeding, they took the artificial fly freely; now it must be exactly +of the right size and shade or they will have none of it. They +come provokingly short, too; just plucking at the hook, and running +out a foot of line or so, then taking their departure. For some +reason the Tweed is more difficult to fish with the dry fly than—the +Test, for example. The water is swifter and very dark, it drowns +the fly soon, and on the surface the fly is less easily distinguished +than at Whitchurch, in the pellucid streams. The Leader a tributary, +may be fished with dry fly; on the Tweed one can hardly manage it. +There is a plan by which rising trout may be taken—namely, by +baiting with a small red worm and casting as in fly-fishing. But +that is so hard on the worm! Probably he who can catch trout with +fly on the Tweed between Melrose and Holy Lee can catch them anywhere. +On a good day in April great baskets are still made in preserved parts +of the Tweed, but, if they are made in open water, it must be, I fancy, +with worm, or with the “screw,” the larva of the May-fly. +The screw is a hideous and venomous-looking animal, which is fixed on +a particular kind of tackle, and cast up stream with a short line. +The heaviest trout are fond of it, but it can only be used at a season +when either school or Oxford keeps one far from what old Franck, Walton’s +contemporary, a Cromwellian trooper, calls “the glittering and +resolute streams of Tweed.”</p> +<p>Difficult as it is, that river is so beautiful and alluring that +it scarcely needs the attractions of sport. The step banks, beautifully +wooded, and in spring one mass of primroses, are crowned here and there +with ruined Border towers—like Elibank, the houses of Muckle Mou’ed +Meg; or with fair baronial houses like Fernilea. Meg made a bad +exchange when she left Elibank with the salmon pool at its foot for +bleak Harden, frowning over the narrow “den” where Harden +kept the plundered cattle. There is no fishing in the tiny Harden +burn, that joins the brawling Borthwick Water.</p> +<p>The burns of the Lowlands are now almost barren of trout. The +spawning fish, flabby and useless, are killed in winter. All through +the rest of the year, in the remotest places, tourists are hard at them +with worm. In a small burn a skilled wormer may almost depopulate +the pools, and, on the Border, all is fish that comes to the hook; men +keep the very fingerlings, on the pretext that they are “so sweet” +in the frying-pan. The crowd of anglers in glens which seem not +easily accessible is provoking enough. Into the Meggat, a stream +which feeds St. Mary’s Loch, there flows the Glengaber, or Glencaber +burn: the burn of the pine-tree stump. The water runs in deep +pools and streams over a blue slatey rock, which contains gold under +the sand, in the worn holes and crevices. My friend, Mr. McAllister, +the schoolmaster at St. Mary’s, tells me that one day, when fish +were not rising, he scooped out the gravel of one of these holes with +his knife, and found a tiny nugget, after which the gold-hunting fever +came on him for a while. But little is got nowadays, though in +some earlier period the burn has been diverted from its bed, and the +people used solemnly to wash the sand, as in California or Australia. +Well, whether in consequence of the gold, as the alchemical philosophers +would have held, or not, the trout of the Glengaber burn were good. +They were far shorter, thicker and stronger than those of the many neighbouring +brooks. I have fished up the burn with fly, when it was very low, +hiding carefully behind the boulders, and have been surprised at the +size and gameness of the fish. As soon as the fly had touched +the brown water, it was sucked down, and there was quite a fierce little +fight before the fish came to hand.</p> +<p>“This, all this, was in the olden time, long ago.”</p> +<p>The Glengaber burn is about twenty miles from any railway station, +but, on the last occasion when I visited it, three louts were worming +their way up it, within twenty yards of each other, each lout, with +his huge rod, showing himself wholly to any trout that might be left +in the water. Thirty years ago the burns that feed St. Mary’s +Loch were almost unfished, and rare sport we had in them, as boys, staying +at Tibbie Sheil’s famous cottage, and sleeping in her box-beds, +where so often the Ettrick Shepherd and Christopher North have lain, +after copious toddy. “’Tis gone, ’tis gone:” +not in our time will any man, like the Ettrick Shepherd, need a cart +to carry the trout he has slain in Meggat Water. That stream, +flowing through a valley furnished with a grass-grown track for a road, +flows, as I said, into St. Mary’s Loch. There are two or +three large pools at the foot of the loch, in which, as a small boy +hardly promoted to fly, I have seen many monsters rising greedily. +Men got into the way of fishing these pools after a flood with minnow, +and thereby made huge baskets, the big fish running up to feed, out +of the loch. But, when last I rowed past Meggat foot, the delta +of that historic stream was simply crowded with anglers, stepping in +in front of each other. I asked if this mob was a political “demonstration,” +but they stuck to business, as if they had been on the Regent’s +Canal. And this, remember, was twenty miles from any town! +Yet there is a burn on the Border still undiscovered, still full of +greedy trout. I shall give the angler such a hint of its whereabouts +as Tiresias, in Hades, gave to Odysseus concerning the end of his second +wanderings.</p> +<p>When, O stranger, thou hast reached a burn where the shepherd asks +thee for the newspaper wrapped round thy sandwiches, that he may read +the news, then erect an altar to Priapus, god of fishermen, and begin +to angle boldly.</p> +<p>Probably the troops who fish our Border-burns still manage to toss +out some dozens of tiny fishes, some six or eight to the pound. +Are not these triumphs chronicled in the “Scotsman?” +But they cannot imagine what angling was in the dead years, nor what +great trout dwelt below the linns of the Crosscleugh burn, beneath the +red clusters of the rowan trees, or in the waters of the “Little +Yarrow” above the Loch of the Lowes. As to the lochs themselves, +now that anyone may put a boat on them, now that there is perpetual +trolling, as well as fly-fishing, so that every fish knows the lures, +the fun is mainly over. In April, no doubt, something may still +be done, and in the silver twilights of June, when as you drift on the +still surface you hear the constant sweet plash of the rising trout, +a few, and these good, may be taken. But the water wants re-stocking, +and the burns in winter need watching, in the interests of spawning +fish. It is nobody’s interest, that I know of, to take trouble +and incur expense; and free fishing, by the constitution of the universe, +must end in bad fishing or in none at all. The best we can say +for it is that vast numbers of persons may, by the still waters of these +meres, enjoy the pleasures of hope. Even solitude is no longer +to be found in the scene which Scott, in “Marmion,” chooses +as of all places the most solitary.</p> +<blockquote><p>Here, have I thought, ’twere sweet to dwell,<br /> +And rear again the chaplain’s cell.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>But no longer does</p> +<blockquote><p>“Your horse’s hoof tread sound too rude,<br /> +So stilly is the solitude.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Stilly! with the horns and songs from omnibusses that carry tourists, +and with yells from nymphs and swains disporting themselves in the boats. +Yarrow is only the old Yarrow in winter. Ages and revolutions +must pass before the ancient peace returns; and only if the golden age +is born again, and if we revive in it, shall we find St. Mary’s +what St. Mary’s was lang syne—</p> +<blockquote><p>Ah, Buddha, if thy tale be true,<br /> + Of still returning life,<br /> +A monk may I be born anew,<br /> + In valleys free from strife,—<br /> +A monk where Meggat winds and laves<br /> +The lone St. Mary’s of the Waves.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Yarrow, which flows out of St. Mary’s Loch was never a great +favourite of mine, as far as fishing goes. It had, and probably +deserved, a great reputation, and some good trout are still taken in +the upper waters, and there must be monsters in the deep black pools, +the “dowie dens” above Bowhill. But I never had any +luck there. The choicest stream of all was then, probably, the +Aill, described by Sir Walter in “William of Deloraine’s +Midnight Ride”—</p> +<blockquote><p> Where Aill, from mountains freed,<br /> +Down from the lakes did raving come;<br /> +Each wave was crested with tawny foam,<br /> + Like the mane of a chestnut steed.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>As not uncommonly happens, Scott uses rather large language here. +The steepy, grassy hillsides, the great green tablelands in a recess +of which the Aill is born, can hardly be called “mountains.” +The “lakes,” too, through which it passes, are much more +like tarns, or rather, considering the flatness of their banks, like +well-meaning ponds. But the Aill, near Sinton and Ashkirk, was +a delightful trout-stream, between its willow-fringed banks, a brook +about the size of the Lambourne. Nowhere on the Border were trout +more numerous, better fed, and more easily beguiled. A week on +Test would I gladly give for one day of boyhood beside the Aill, where +the casting was not scientific, but where the fish rose gamely at almost +any fly. Nobody seemed to go there then, and, I fancy, nobody +need go there now. The nets and other dismal devices of the poachers +from the towns have ruined that pleasant brook, where one has passed +so many a happy hour, walking the long way home wet and weary, but well +content. Into Aill flows a burn, the Headshaw burn, where there +used to be good fish, because it runs out of Headshaw Loch, a weed-fringed +lonely tarn on the bleak level of the tableland. Bleak as it may +seem, Headshaw Loch has the great charm of absolute solitude: there +are no tourists nor anglers here, and the life of the birds is especially +free and charming. The trout, too, are large, pink of flesh, and +game of character; but the world of mankind need not rush thither. +They are not to be captured by the wiles of men, or so rarely that the +most enthusiastic anglers have given them up. They are as safe +in their tarn as those enchanted fish of the “Arabian Nights.” +Perhaps a silver sedge in a warm twilight may somewhat avail, but the +adventure is rarely achieved.</p> +<p>These are the waters with which our boyhood was mainly engaged; it +is a pleasure to name and number them. Memory, that has lost so +much and would gladly lose so much more, brings vividly back the golden +summer evenings by Tweedside, when the trout began to plash in the stillness—brings +back the long, lounging, solitary days beneath the woods of Ashiesteil—days +so lonely that they sometimes, in the end, begat a superstitious eeriness. +One seemed forsaken in an enchanted world; one might see the two white +fairy deer flit by, bringing to us, as to Thomas Rhymer, the tidings +that we must back to Fairyland. Other waters we knew well, and +loved: the little salmon-stream in the west that doubles through the +loch, and runs a mile or twain beneath its alders, past its old Celtic +battle-field, beneath the ruined shell of its feudal tower, to the sea. +Many a happy day we had there, on loch or stream, with the big sea-trout +which have somehow changed their tastes, and to-day take quite different +flies from the green body and the red body that led them to the landing-net +long ago. Dear are the twin Alines, but dearer is Tweed, and Ettrick, +where our ancestor was drowned in a flood, and his white horse was found, +next day, feeding near his dead body, on a little grassy island. +There is a great pleasure in trying new methods, in labouring after +the delicate art of the dry fly-fisher in the clear Hampshire streams, +where the glassy tide flows over the waving tresses of crow’s-foot +below the poplar shade. But nothing can be so good as what is +old, and, as far as angling goes, is practically ruined, the alternate +pool and stream of the Border waters, where</p> +<blockquote><p> The triple pride<br /> +Of Eildon looks over Strathclyde,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and the salmon cast murmurs hard by the Wizard’s grave. +They are all gone now, the old allies and tutors in the angler’s +art—the kind gardener who baited our hooks; the good Scotch judge +who gave us our first collection of flies; the friend who took us with +him on his salmon-fishing expedition, and made men of us with real rods, +and “pirns” of ancient make. The companions of those +times are scattered, and live under strange stars and in converse seasons, +by troutless waters. It is no longer the height of pleasure to +be half-drowned in Tweed, or lost on the hills with no luncheon in the +basket. But, except for scarcity of fish, the scene is very little +altered, and one is a boy again, in heart, beneath the elms of Yair, +or by the Gullets at Ashiesteil. However bad the sport, it keeps +you young, or makes you young again, and you need not follow Ponce de +Léon to the western wilderness, when, in any river you knew of +yore, you can find the Fountain of Youth.</p> +<h2>LOCH AWE</h2> +<h3>THE BOATMAN’S YARNS</h3> +<p>Good trout-fishing in Scotland, south of the Pentland Firth, is almost +impossible to procure. There are better fish, and more of them, +in the Wandle, within twenty minutes of Victoria Station, than in any +equal stretch of any Scotch river with which I am acquainted. +But the pleasure of angling, luckily, does not consist merely of the +catching of fish. The Wandle is rather too suburban for some tastes, +which prefer smaller trout, better air, and wilder scenery. To +such spirits, Loch Awe may, with certain distinct cautions, be recommended. +There is more chance for anglers, now, in Scotch lochs than in most +Scotch rivers. The lochs cannot so easily be netted, lined, polluted, +and otherwise made empty and ugly, like the Border streams. They +are farther off from towns and tourists, though distance is scarcely +a complete protection. The best lochs for yellow trout are decidedly +those of Sutherland. There are no railways, and there are two +hundred lochs and more in the Parish of Assynt. There, in June, +the angler who is a good pedestrian may actually enjoy solitude, sometimes. +There is a loch near Strathnaver, and far from human habitations, where +a friend of my own recently caught sixty-five trout weighing about thirty-eight +pounds. They are numerous and plucky, but not large, though a +casual big loch-trout may be taken by trolling. But it is truly +a far way to this anonymous lake and all round the regular fishing inns, +like Inchnadampf and Forsinard there is usually quite a little crowd +of anglers. The sport is advertised in the newspapers; more and +more of our eager fellow-creatures are attracted, more and more the +shooting tenants are preserving waters that used to be open. The +distance to Sutherland makes that county almost beyond the range of +a brief holiday. Loch Leven is nearer, and at Loch Leven the scenery +is better than its reputation, while the trout are excellent, though +shy. But Loch Leven is too much cockneyfied by angling competitions; +moreover, its pleasures are expensive. Loch Awe remains, a loch +at once large, lovely, not too distant, and not destitute of sport.</p> +<p>The reader of Mr. Colquhoun’s delightful old book, “The +Moor and the Loch,” must not expect Loch Awe to be what it once +was. The railway, which has made the north side of the lake so +ugly, has brought the district within easy reach of Glasgow and of Edinburgh. +Villas are built on many a beautiful height; here couples come for their +honeymoon, here whole argosies of boats are anchored off the coasts, +here do steam launches ply. The hotels are extremely comfortable, +the boatmen are excellent boatmen, good fishers, and capital company. +All this is pleasant, but all this attracts multitudes of anglers, and +it is not in nature that sport should be what it once was. Of +the famous <i>salmo ferox</i> I cannot speak from experience. +The huge courageous fish is still at home in Loch Awe, but now he sees +a hundred baits, natural and artificial, where he saw one in Mr. Colquhoun’s +time. The truly contemplative man may still sit in the stern of +the boat, with two rods out, and possess his soul in patience, as if +he were fishing for tarpon in Florida. I wish him luck, but the +diversion is little to my mind. Except in playing the fish, if +he comes, all the skill is in the boatmen, who know where to row, at +what pace, and in what depth of water. As to the chances of salmon +again, they are perhaps less rare, but they are not very frequent. +The fish does not seem to take freely in the loch, and on his way from +the Awe to the Orchy. As to the trout-fishing, it is very bad +in the months when most men take their holidays, August and September. +From the middle of April to the middle of June is apparently the best +time. The loch is well provided with bays, of different merit, +according to the feeding which they provide; some come earlier, some +later into season. Doubtless the most beautiful part of the lake +is around the islands, between the Loch Awe and the Port Sonachan hotels. +The Green Island, with its strange Celtic burying-ground, where the +daffodils bloom among the sepulchres with their rude carvings of battles +and of armed men, has many trout around its shores. The favourite +fishing-places, however, are between Port Sonachan and Ford. In +the morning early, the steam-launch tows a fleet of boats down the loch, +and they drift back again, fishing all the bays, and arriving at home +in time for dinner. Too frequently the angler is vexed by finding +a boat busy in his favourite bay. I am not sure that, when the +trout are really taking, the water near Port Sonachan is not as good +as any other. Much depends on the weather. In the hard north-east +winds of April we can scarcely expect trout to feed very freely anywhere. +These of Loch Awe are very peculiar fish. I take it that there +are two species—one short, thick, golden, and beautiful; but these, +at least in April, are decidedly scarce. The common sort is long, +lanky, of a dark green hue, and the reverse of lovely. Most of +them, however, are excellent at breakfast, pink in the flesh, and better +flavoured, I think, than the famous trout of Loch Leven. They +are also extremely game for their size; a half-pound trout fights like +a pounder. From thirty to forty fish in a day’s incessant +angling is reckoned no bad basket. In genial May weather, probably +the trout average two to the pound, and a pounder or two may be in the +dish. But three to the pound is decidedly nearer the average, +at least in April. The flies commonly used are larger than what +are employed in Loch Leven. A teal wing and red body, a grouse +hackle, and the prismatic Heckham Peckham are among the favourites; +but it is said that flies no bigger than Tweed flies are occasionally +successful. In my own brief experience I have found the trout +“dour,” occasionally they would rise freely for an hour +at noon, or in the evening; but often one passed hours with scarcely +a rising fish. This may have been due to the bitterness of the +weather, or to my own lack of skill. Not that lochs generally +require much artifice in the angler. To sink the flies deep, and +move them with short jerks, appears, now and then, to be efficacious. +There has been some controversy about Loch Awe trouting; this is as +favourable a view of the sport as I can honestly give. It is not +excellent, but, thanks to the great beauty of the scenery, the many +points of view on so large and indented a lake, the charm of the wood +and wild flowers, Loch Awe is well worth a visit from persons who do +not pitch their hopes too high.</p> +<p>Loch Awe would have contented me less had I been less fortunate in +my boatman. It is often said that tradition has died out in the +Highlands; it is living yet.</p> +<p>After three days of north wind and failure, it occurred to me that +my boatman might know the local folklore—the fairy tales and traditions. +As a rule, tradition is a purely professional part of a guide’s +stock-in-trade, but the angler who had my barque in his charge proved +to be a fresh fountain of legend. His own county is not Argyleshire, +but Inverness, and we did not deal much in local myth. True, he +told me why Loch Awe ceased—like the site of Sodom and Gomorrah—to +be a cultivated valley and became a lake, where the trout are small +and, externally, green.</p> +<p>“Loch Awe was once a fertile valley, and it belonged to an +old dame. She was called Dame Cruachan, the same as the hill, +and she lived high up on the hillside. Now there was a well on +the hillside, and she was always to cover up the well with a big stone +before the sun set. But one day she had been working in the valley +and she was weary, and she sat down by the path on her way home and +fell asleep. And the sun had gone down before she reached the +well, and in the night the water broke out and filled all the plain, +and what was land is now water.” This, then, was the origin +of Loch Awe. It is a little like the Australian account of the +Deluge. That calamity was produced by a man’s showing a +woman the mystic turndun, a native sacred toy. Instantly water +broke out of the earth and drowned everybody.</p> +<p>This is merely a local legend, such as boatmen are expected to know. +As the green trout utterly declined to rise, I tried the boatman with +the Irish story of why the Gruagach Gaire left off laughing, and all +about the hare that came and defiled his table, as recited by Mr. Curtin +in his “Irish Legends” (Sampson, Low, & Co.). +The boatman did not know this fable, but he did know of a red deer that +came and spoke to a gentleman. This was a story from the Macpherson +country. I give it first in the boatman’s words, and then +we shall discuss the history of the legend as known to Sir Walter Scott +and James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd.</p> +<h3>THE YARN OF THE BLACK OFFICER</h3> +<p>“It was about ‘the last Christmas of the hundred’—the +end of last century. They wanted men for the Black Watch (42nd +Highlanders), and the Black Officer, as they called him, was sent to +his own country to enlist them. Some he got willingly, and others +by force. He promised he would only take them to London, where +the King wanted to review them, and then let them go home. So +they came, though they little liked it, and he was marching them south. +Now at night they reached a place where nobody would have halted them +except the Black Officer, for it was a great place for ghosts. +And they would have run away if they had dared, but they were afraid +of him. So some tried to sleep in threes and fours, and some were +afraid to sleep, and they sat up round the fire. But the Black +Officer, he went some way from the rest, and lay down beneath a tree.</p> +<p>“Now as the night wore on, and whiles it would be dark and +whiles the moon shone, a man came—they did not know from where—a +big red man, and drew up to the fire, and was talking with them. +And he asked where the Black Officer was, and they showed him. +Now there was one man, Shamus Mackenzie they called him, and he was +very curious, and he must be seeing what they did. So he followed +the man, and saw him stoop and speak to the officer, but he did not +waken; then this individual took the Black Officer by the breast and +shook him violently. Then Shamus knew who the stranger was, for +no man alive durst have done as much to the Black Officer. And +there was the Black Officer kneeling to him!</p> +<p>“Well, what they said, Shamus could not hear, and presently +they walked away, and the Black Officer came back alone.</p> +<p>“He took them to England, but never to London, and they never +saw the King. He took them to Portsmouth, and they were embarked +for India, where we were fighting the French. There was a town +we couldn’t get into” (Seringapatam?), “and the Black +Officer volunteered to make a tunnel under the walls. Now they +worked three days, and whether it was the French heard them and let +them dig on, or not, any way, on the third day the French broke in on +them. They kept sending men into the tunnel, and more men, and +still they wondered who was fighting within, and how we could have so +large a party in the tunnel; so at last they brought torches, and there +was no man alive on our side but the Black Officer, and he had a wall +of corpses built up in front of him, and was fighting across it. +He had more light to see by than the French had, for it was dark behind +him, and there would be some light on their side. So at last they +brought some combustibles and blew it all up. Three days after +that we took the town. Some of our soldiers were sent to dig out +the tunnel, and with them was Shamus Mackenzie.”</p> +<p>“And they never found the Black Officer,” I said, thinking +of young Campbell in Sekukoeni’s fighting koppie.</p> +<p>“Oh, yes,” said the boatman, “Shamus found the +body of the Black Officer, all black with smoke, and he laid him down +on a green knoll, and was standing over the dead man, and was thinking +of how many places they had been in together, and of his own country, +and how he wished he was there again. Then the dead man’s +face moved.</p> +<p>“Shamus turned and ran for his life, and he was running till +he met some officers, and he told them that the Black Officer’s +body had stirred. They thought he was lying, but they went off +to the place, and one of them had the thought to take a flask of brandy +in his pocket. When they came to the lifeless body it stirred +again, and with one thing and another they brought him round.</p> +<p>“The Black Officer was not himself again for long, and they +took him home to his own country, and he lay in bed in his house. +And every day a red deer would come to the house, and go into his room +and sit on a chair beside the bed, speaking to him like a man.</p> +<p>“Well, the Black Officer got better again, and went about among +his friends; and once he was driving home from a dinner-party, and Shamus +was with him. It was just the last night of the hundred. +And on the road they met a man, and Shamus knew him—for it was +him they had seen by the fire on the march, as I told you at the beginning. +The Black Officer got down from his carriage and joined the man, and +they walked a bit apart; but Shamus—he was so curious—whatever +happened he must see them. And he came within hearing just as +they were parting, and he heard the stranger say, ‘This is the +night.’</p> +<p>“‘No,’ said the Black Officer, ‘this night +next year.’</p> +<p>“So he came back, and they drove home. A year went by, +and the Black Officer was seeking through the country for the twelve +best men he could find to accompany him to some deer-hunt or the like. +And he asked Shamus, but he pretended he was ill—Oh, he was very +unwell!—and he could not go, but stayed in bed at home. +So the Black Officer chose another man, and he and the twelve set out—the +thirteen of them. But they were never seen again.”</p> +<p>“Never seen again? Were they lost in the snow?”</p> +<p>“It did come on a heavy fall, sir.”</p> +<p>“But their bodies were found?”</p> +<p>“No, sir—though they searched high and low; they are +not found, indeed, till this day. It was thought the Black Officer +had sold himself and twelve other men, sir.”</p> +<p>“To the Devil?”</p> +<p>“It would be that.”</p> +<p>For the narrator never mentions our ghostly foe, which produces a +solemn effect.</p> +<p>This story was absolutely new to me, and much I wished that Mr. Louis +Stevenson could have heard it. The blending of the far East with +the Highlands reminds one of his “Master of Ballantrae,” +and what might he not make of that fairy red deer! My boatman, +too, told me what Mr. Stevenson says the Highlanders will not tell—the +name of the man who committed the murder of which Alan Breck was accused. +But this secret I do not intend to divulge.</p> +<p>The story of the Black Officer then seemed absolutely unpublished. +But when Sir Walter Scott’s diary was given to the world in October, +1890, it turned out that he was not wholly ignorant of the legend. +In 1828 he complains that he has been annoyed by a lady, because he +had printed “in the ‘Review’” a rawhead and +bloody-bones story of her father, Major Macpherson, who was lost in +a snowstorm. This Major Macpherson was clearly the Black Officer. +Mr. Douglas, the publisher of Scott’s diary, discovered that the +“Review” mentioned vaguely by Scott was the “Foreign +Quarterly,” No. I, July, 1827. In an essay on Hoffmann’s +novels, Sir Walter introduced the tale as told to him in a letter from +a nobleman some time deceased, not more distinguished for his love of +science than his attachment to literature in all its branches.</p> +<p>The tale is too long to be given completely. Briefly, a Captain +M., on St. Valentine’s day, 1799, had been deer-shooting (at an +odd time of the year) in the hills west of D-. He did not return, +a terrible snowstorm set in, and finally he and his friends were found +dead in a bothy, which the tempest had literally destroyed. Large +stones from the walls were found lying at distances of a hundred yards; +the wooden uprights were twisted like broken sticks. The Captain +was lying dead, without his clothes, on the bed; one man was discovered +at a distance, another near the Captain. Then it was remembered +that, at the same bothy a month before, a shepherd lad had inquired +for the Captain, had walked with him for some time, and that, on the +officer’s return, “a mysterious anxiety hung about him.” +A fire had also been seen blazing on an opposite height, and when some +of the gillies went to the spot, “there was no fire to be seen.” +On the day when the expedition had started, the Captain was warned of +the ill weather, but he said “he <i>must</i> go.” +He was an unpopular man, and was accused of getting money by procuring +recruits from the Highlands, often by cruel means. “Our +informer told us nothing more; he neither told us his own opinion, nor +that of the country, but left it to our own notions of the manner in +which good and evil is rewarded in this life to suggest the author of +the miserable event. He seemed impressed with superstitious awe +on the subject, and said, ‘There was na the like seen in a’ +Scotland.’ The man is far advanced in years and is a schoolmaster +in the neighbourhood of Rannoch.”</p> +<p>Sir Walter says that “the feeling of superstitious awe annexed +to the catastrophe could not have been improved by any circumstances +of additional horror which a poet could have invented.” +But is there not something more moving still in the boatman’s +version: “they were never seen again . . . they were not found +indeed till this day”?</p> +<p>The folklorist, of course, is eager to know whether the boatman’s +much more complete and connected narrative is a popular mythical development +in the years between 1820 and 1890, or whether the schoolmaster of Rannoch +did not tell all he knew. It is unlikely, I think, that the siege +of Seringapatam would have been remembered so long in connection with +the Black Officer if it had not formed part of his original legend. +Meanwhile the earliest printed notice of the event with which I am acquainted, +a notice only ten years later than the date of the Major’s death +in 1799, is given by Hogg in “The Spy,” 1810-11, pp. 101-3. +I offer an abridgment of the narrative.</p> +<p>“About the end of last century Major Macpherson and a party +of friends went out to hunt on the Grampians between Athole and Badenoch. +They were highly successful, and in the afternoon they went into a little +bothy, and, having meat and drink, they abandoned themselves to jollity.</p> +<p>“During their merry-making a young man entered whose appearance +particularly struck and somewhat shocked Macpherson; the stranger beckoned +to the Major, and he followed him instantly out of the bothy.</p> +<p>“When they parted, after apparently having had some earnest +conversation, the stranger was out of sight long before the Major was +half-way back, though only twenty yards away.</p> +<p>“The Major showed on his return such evident marks of trepidation +that the mirth was marred and no one cared to ask him questions.</p> +<p>“This was early in the week, and on Friday the Major persuaded +his friends to make a second expedition to the mountains, from which +they never returned.</p> +<p>“On a search being made their dead bodies were found in the +bothy, some considerably mangled, but some were not marked by any wound.</p> +<p>“It was visible that this had not been effected by human agency: +the bothy was torn from its foundations and scarcely a vestige left +of it, and one huge stone, which twelve men could not have raised, was +tossed to a considerable distance.</p> +<p>“On this event Scott’s beautiful ballad of ‘Glenfinlas’ +is said to have been founded.”</p> +<p>As will be seen presently, Hogg was wrong about ‘Glenfinlas’; +the boatman was acquainted with a traditional version of that wild legend. +I found another at Rannoch.</p> +<p>The Highland fairies are very vampirish. The Loch Awe boatman +lives at a spot haunted by a shadowy maiden. Her last appearance +was about thirty years ago. Two young men were thrashing corn +one morning, when the joint of the flail broke. The owner went +to Larichban and entered an outhouse to look for a piece of sheepskin +wherewith to mend the flail. He was long absent, and his companion +went after him. He found him struggling in the arms of a ghostly +maid, who had nearly murdered him, but departed on the arrival of his +friend. It is not easy to make out what these ghoulish women are—not +fairies exactly, nor witches, nor vampires. For example, three +shepherds at a lonely sheiling were discoursing of their loves, and +it was, “Oh, how happy I should be if Katie were here, or Maggie, +or Bessie!” as the case might be. So they would say and +so they would wish, and lo! one evening, the three girls came to the +door of the hut. So they made them welcome; but one of the shepherds +was playing the Jew’s-harp, and he did not like the turn matters +were taking.</p> +<p>The two others stole off into corners of the darkling hut with their +lovers, but this prudent lad never took his lips off the Jew’s-harp.</p> +<p>“Harping is good if no ill follows it,” said the semblance +of his sweetheart; but he never answered. He played and thrummed, +and out of one dark corner trickled red blood into the fire-light, and +out of another corner came a current of blood to meet it. Then +he slowly rose, still harping, and backed his way to the door, and fled +into the hills from these cruel airy shapes of false desire.</p> +<p>“And do the people actually believe all that?”</p> +<p>“Ay, do they!”</p> +<p>That is the boatman’s version of Scott’s theme in “Glenfinlas.” +Witches played a great part in his narratives.</p> +<p>In the boatman’s country there is a plain, and on the plain +is a knoll, about twice the height of a one-storeyed cottage, and pointed +“like a sugar-loaf.” The old people remember, or have +heard, that this mound was not there when they were young. It +swelled up suddenly out of the grave of a witch who was buried there.</p> +<p>The witch was a great enemy of a shepherd. Every morning she +would put on the shape of a hare, and run before his dogs, and lead +them away from the sheep. He knew it was right to shoot at her +with a crooked sixpence, and he hit her on the hind leg, and the dogs +were after her, and chased the hare into the old woman’s cottage. +The shepherd ran after them, and there he found them, tearing at the +old woman; but the hare was twisted round their necks, and she was crying, +“Tighten, hare, tighten!” and it was choking them. +So he tore the hare off the dogs; and then the old woman begged him +to save her from them, and she promised never to plague him again. +“But if the old dog’s teeth had been as sharp as the young +one’s, she would have been a dead woman.”</p> +<p>When this witch died she knew she could never lie in safety in her +grave; but there was a very safe churchyard in Aberdeenshire, a hundred +and fifty miles away, and if she could get into that she would be at +rest. And she rose out of her grave, and off she went, and the +Devil after her, on a black horse; but, praise to the swiftness of her +feet, she won the churchyard before him. Her first grave swelled +up, oh, as high as that green hillock!</p> +<p>Witches are still in active practice. There was an old woman +very miserly. She would alway be taking one of her neighbours’ +sheep from the hills, and they stood it for long; they did not like +to meddle with her. At last it grew so bad that they brought her +before the sheriff, and she got eighteen months in prison. When +she came out she was very angry, and set about making an image of the +woman whose sheep she had taken. When the image was made she burned +it and put the ashes in a burn. And it is a very curious thing, +but the woman she made it on fell into a decline, and took to her bed.</p> +<p>The witch and her family went to America. They kept a little +inn, in a country place, and people who slept in it did not come out +again. They were discovered, and the eldest son was hanged; he +confessed that he had committed nineteen murders before he left Scotland.</p> +<p>“They were not a nice family.”</p> +<p>“The father was a very respectable old man.”</p> +<p>The boatman gave me the name of this wicked household, but it is +perhaps better forgotten.</p> +<p>The extraordinary thing is that this appears to be the Highland introduction +to, or part first of, a gloomy and sanguinary story of a murder hole—an +inn of assassins in a lonely district of the United States, which Mr. +Louis Stevenson heard in his travels there, and told to me some years +ago. The details have escaped my memory, but, as Mr. Stevenson +narrated them, they rivalled De Quincey’s awful story of Williams’s +murders in the Ratcliffe Highway.</p> +<p>Life must still be haunted in Badenoch, as it was on Ida’s +hill, by forms of unearthly beauty, the goddess or the ghost yet wooing +the shepherd; indeed, the boatman told me many stories of living superstition +and terrors of the night; but why should I exhaust his wallet? +To be sure, it seemed very full of tales; these offered here may be +but the legends which came first to his hand. The boatman is not +himself a believer in the fairy world, or not more than all sensible +men ought to be. The supernatural is too pleasant a thing for +us to discard in an earnest, scientific manner like Mr. Kipling’s +Aurelian McGubben. Perhaps I am more superstitious than the boatman, +and the yarns I swopped with him about ghosts I have met would seem +even more mendacious to possessors of pocket microscopes and of the +modern spirit. But I would rather have one banshee story than +fifteen pages of proof that “life, which began as a cell, with +a c, is to end as a sell, with an s.” It should be added +that the boatman has given his consent to the printing of his yarns. +On being offered a moiety of the profits, he observed that he had no +objection to these, but that he entirely declined to be responsible +for any share of the expenses. Would that all authors were as +sagacious, for then the amateur novelist and the minor poet would vex +us no more.</p> +<p>Perhaps I should note that I have not made the boatman say “whateffer,” +because he doesn’t. The occasional use of the imperfect +is almost his only Gaelic idiom. It is a great comfort and pleasure, +when the trout do not rise, to meet a skilled and unaffected narrator +of the old beliefs, old legends, as ancient as the hills that girdle +and guard the loch, or as antique, at least, as man’s dwelling +among the mountains—the Yellow Hill, the Calf Hill, the Hill of +the Stack. The beauty of the scene, the pleasant talk, the daffodils +on the green isle among the Celtic graves, compensate for a certain +“dourness” among the fishes of Loch Awe. On the occasions +when they are not dour they rise very pleasant and free, but, in these +brief moments, it is not of legends and folklore that you are thinking, +but of the landing-net. The boatman, by the way, was either not +well acquainted with <i>Märchen</i>—Celtic nursery-tales +such as Campbell of Islay collected, or was not much interested in them, +or, perhaps, had the shyness about narrating this particular sort of +old wives’ fables which is so common. People who do know +them seldom tell them in Sassenach.</p> +<h2>LOCH-FISHING</h2> +<h3>LITTLE LOCH BEG</h3> +<p>There is something mysterious in loch-fishing, in the tastes and +habits of the fish which inhabit the innumerable lakes and tarns of +Scotland. It is not always easy to account either for their presence +or their absence, for their numbers or scarcity, their eagerness to +take or their “dourness.” For example, there is Loch +Borlan, close to the well-known little inn of Alt-na-geal-gach in Sutherland. +Unless that piece of water is greatly changed, it is simply full of +fish of about a quarter of a pound, which will rise at almost any time +to almost any fly. There is not much pleasure in catching such +tiny and eager trout, but in the season complacent anglers capture and +boast of their many dozens. On the other hand, a year or two ago, +a beginner took a four-pound trout there with the fly. If such +trout exist in Borlan, it is hard to explain the presence of the innumerable +fry. One would expect the giants of the deep to keep down their +population. Not far off is another small lake, Loch Awe, which +has invisible advantages over Loch Borlan, yet there the trout are, +or were, “fat and fair of flesh,” like Tamlane in the ballad. +Wherefore are the trout in Loch Tummell so big and strong, from one +to five pounds, and so scarce, while those in Loch Awe are numerous +and small? One occasionally sees examples of how quickly trout +will increase in weight, and what curious habits they will adopt. +In a county of south-western Scotland there is a large village, populated +by a keenly devoted set of anglers, who miss no opportunity. Within +a quarter of a mile of the village is a small tarn, very picturesquely +situated among low hills, and provided with the very tiniest feeder +and outflow. There is a sluice at the outflow, and, for some reason, +the farmer used to let most of the water out, in the summer of every +year. In winter the tarn is used by the curling club. It +is not deep, has rather a marshy bottom, and many ducks, snipe, and +wild-fowl generally dwell among the reeds and marish plants of its sides. +Nobody ever dreamed of fishing here, but one day a rustic, “glowering” +idly over the wall of the adjacent road, saw fish rising. He mentioned +his discovery to an angler, who is said to have caught some large trout, +but tradition varies about everything, except that the fish are very +“dour.” One evening in August, a warm, still evening, +I happened to visit the tarn. As soon as the sun fell below the +hills, it was literally alive with large trout rising. As far +as one could estimate from the brief view of heads and shoulders, they +were sometimes two or three pounds in weight. I got my rod, of +course, as did a rural friend. Mine was a small cane rod, his +a salmon-rod. I fished with one Test-fly; he with three large +loch-flies. The fish were rising actually at our feet, but they +seemed to move about very much, never, or seldom, rising twice exactly +at the same place. The hypothesis was started that there were +but few of them, and that they ran round and round, like a stage army, +to give an appearance of multitude. But this appears improbable. +What is certain was our utter inability ever to get a rise from the +provoking creatures. The dry fly is difficult to use on a loch, +as there is no stream to move it, and however gently you draw it it +makes a “wake”—a trail behind it. Wet or dry, +or “twixt wet and dry,” like the convivial person in the +song, we could none of us raise them. I did catch a small but +beautifully proportioned and pink-fleshed trout with the alder, but +everything else, silver sedge and all, everything from midge to May-fly, +in the late twilight, was offered to them in vain. In windy or +cloudy weather it was just as useless; indeed, I never saw them rise, +except in a warm summer stillness, at and after sunset. Probably +they would have taken a small red worm, pitched into the ripple of a +rise; but we did not try that. After a few evenings, they seemed +to give up rising altogether. I don’t feel certain that +they had not been netted: yet no trout seemed to be on sale in the village. +Their presence in the water may perhaps be accounted for thus: they +may have come into the loch from the river, by way of the tiny feeder; +but the river-trout are both scarce and small. A new farmer had +given up letting the water off, and probably there must have been very +rich feeding, water-shrimps or snails, which might partly account for +the refusal to rise at the artificial fly. Or they may have been +ottered by the villagers, though that would rather have made them rise +short than not rise at all.</p> +<p>There is another loch on an extremely remote hillside, eight miles +from the smallest town, in a pastoral country. There are trout +enough in the loch, and of excellent size and flavour, but you scarcely +ever get them. They rise freely, but they <i>always</i> rise short. +It is, I think, the most provoking loch I ever fished. You raise +them; they come up freely, showing broad sides of a ruddy gold, like +the handsomest Test trout, but they almost invariably miss the hook. +You do not land one out of twenty. The reason is, apparently, +that people from the nearest town use the otter in the summer evenings, +when these trout rise best. In a Sutherland loch, Mr. Edward Moss +tells us (in “A Season in Sutherland”), that he once found +an elegant otter, a well-made engine of some unscrupulous tourist, lying +in the bottom of the water on a sunny day. At Loch Skene, on the +top of a hill, twenty miles from any town, otters are occasionally found +by the keeper or the shepherds, concealed near the shore. The +practice of ottering can give little pleasure to any but a depraved +mind, and nothing educates trout so rapidly into “rising short”; +why they are not to be had when they are rising most vehemently, “to +themselves,” is another mystery. A few rises are encouraging, +but when the water is all splashing with rises, as a rule the angler +is only tantalised. A windy day, a day with a large ripple, but +without white waves breaking, is, as a rule, best for a loch. +In some lochs the sea-trout prefer such a hurricane that a boat can +hardly be kept on the water. I have known a strong north wind +in autumn put down the sea-trout, whereas the salmon rose, with unusual +eagerness, just in the shallows where the waves broke in foam on the +shore. The best day I ever had with sea-trout was muggy and grey, +and the fish were most eager when the water was still, except for a +tremendously heavy shower of rain, “a singing shower,” as +George Chapman has it. On that day two rods caught thirty-nine +sea-trout, weighing forty pounds. But it is difficult to say beforehand +what day will do well, except that sunshine is bad, a north wind worse, +and no wind at all usually means an empty basket. Even to this +rule there are exceptions, and one of these is in the case of a tarn +which I shall call, pleonastically, Little Loch Beg.</p> +<p>This is not the real name of the loch—quite enough people know +its real name already. Nor does it seem necessary to mention the +district where the loch lies hidden; suffice it to say that a land of +more streams and scarcer trout you will hardly find. We had tried +all the rivers and burns to no purpose, and the lochs are capricious +and overfished. One loch we had not tried, Loch Beg. You +walk, or drive, a few miles from any village, then you climb a few hundred +yards of hill, and from the ridge you see, on one hand a great amphitheatre +of green and purple mountain-sides, in the west; on the east, within +a hundred yards under a slope, is Loch Beg. It is not a mile in +circumference, and all but some eighty yards of shore is defended against +the angler by wide beds of water-lilies, with their pretty white floating +lamps, or by tall sedges and reeds. Nor is the wading easy. +Four steps you make with safety, at the fifth your foremost leg sinks +in mud apparently bottomless. Most people fish only the eastern +side, whereof a few score yards are open, with a rocky and gravelly +bottom.</p> +<p>Now, all lochs have their humours. In some trout like a big +fly, in some a small one, but almost all do best with a rough wind or +rain. I knew enough of Loch Beg to approach it at noon on a blazing +day of sunshine, when the surface was like glass. It was like +that when first I saw it, and a shepherd warned us that we “would +dae naething”; we did little, indeed, but I rose nearly every +rising fish I cast over, losing them all, too, and in some cases being +broken, as I was using very fine gut, and the fish were heavy. +Another trial seemed desirable, and the number of rising trout was most +tempting. All over it trout were rising to the natural fly, with +big circles like those you see in the Test at twilight; while in the +centre, where no artificial fly can be cast for want of a boat, a big +fish would throw himself out of the water in his eagerness. One +such I saw which could not have weighed under three pounds, a short, +thick, dark-yellow fish.</p> +<p>I was using a light two-handed rod, and fancied that a single Test-fly +on very fine tackle would be the best lure. It certainly rose +the trout, if one threw into the circle they made; but they never were +hooked. One fish of about a pound and a half threw himself out +of the water at it, hit it, and broke the fine tackle. So I went +on raising them, but never getting them. As long as the sun blazed +and no breeze ruffled the water, they rose bravely, but a cloud or even +a ripple seemed to send them down.</p> +<p>At last I tried a big alder, and with that I actually touched a few, +and even landed several on the shelving bank. Their average weight, +as we proved on several occasions, was exactly three-quarters of a pound; +but we never succeeded in landing any of the really big ones.</p> +<p>A local angler told me he had caught one of two pounds, and lost +another “like a young grilse,” after he had drawn it on +to the bank. I can easily believe it, for in no loch, but one, +have I ever seen so many really big and handsome fish feeding. +Loch Beg is within a mile of a larger and famous loch, but it is infinitely +better, though the other looks much more favourable in all ways for +sport. The only place where fishing is easy, as I have said, is +a mere strip of coast under the hill, where there is some gravel, and +the mouth of a very tiny feeder, usually dry. Off this place the +trout rose freely, but not near so freely as in a certain corner, quite +out of reach without a boat, where the leviathans lived and sported.</p> +<p>After the little expanse of open shore had been fished over a few +times, the trout there seemed to grow more shy, and there was a certain +monotony in walking this tiny quarter-deck of space. So I went +round to the west side, where the water-lilies are. Fish were +rising about three yards beyond the weedy beds, and I foolishly thought +I would try for them. Now, you cannot overestimate the difficulty +of casting a fly across yards of water-lilies. You catch in the +weeds as you lift your line for a fresh cast, and then you have to extricate +it laboriously, shortening line, and then to let it out again, and probably +come to grief once more.</p> +<p>I saw a trout rise, with a huge sullen circle dimpling round him, +cast over him, raised him, and missed him. The water was perfectly +still, and the “plop” made by these fish was very exciting +and tantalising. The next that rose took the alder, and, of course, +ran right into the broad band of lilies. I tried all the dodges +I could think of, and all that Mr. Halford suggests. I dragged +at him hard. I gave him line. I sat down and endeavoured +to disengage my thoughts, but I never got a glimpse of him, and finally +had to wade as far in as I dared, and save as much of the casting line +as I could; it was very little.</p> +<p>There was one thing to be said for the trout on this side: they meant +business. They did not rise shyly, like the others, but went for +the fly if it came at all near them, and then, down they rushed, and +bolted into the lily-roots.</p> +<p>A new plan occurred to me. I put on about eighteen inches of +the stoutest gut I had, to the end I knotted the biggest sea-trout fly +I possessed, and, hooking the next fish that rose, I turned my back +on the loch and ran uphill with the rod. Looking back I saw a +trout well over a pound flying across the lilies; but alas! the hold +was not strong enough, and he fell back. Again and again I tried +this method, invariably hooking the trout, though the heavy short casting-line +and the big fly fell very awkwardly in the dead stillness of the water. +I had some exciting runs with them, for they came eagerly to the big +fly, and did not miss it, as they had missed the Red Quill, or Whitchurch +Dun, with which at first I tried to beguile them. One, of only +the average weight, I did drag out over the lilies; the others fell +off in mid-journey, but they never broke the uncompromising stout tackle.</p> +<p>With the first chill of evening they ceased rising, and I left them, +not ungrateful for their very peculiar manners and customs. The +chances are that the trout beyond the band of weeds never see an artificial +fly, and they are, therefore, the more guileless—at least, late +in the season. In spring, I believe, the lilies are less in the +way, and I fear some one has put a Berthon boat on the loch in April. +But it is not so much what one catches in Loch Beg, as the monsters +which one might catch that make the tarn so desirable.</p> +<p>The loch seems to prove that any hill-tarn might be made a good place +for sport, if trout were introduced where they do not exist already. +But the size of these in Loch Beg puzzles me, nor can one see how they +breed, as breed they do: for twice or thrice I caught a fingerling, +and threw him in again. No burn runs out of the loch, and, even +in a flood, the feeder is so small, and its course so extremely steep, +that one cannot imagine where the fish manage to spawn. The only +loch known to me where the common trout are of equal size, is on the +Border. It is extremely deep, with very clear water, and with +scarce any spawning ground. On a summer evening the trout are +occasionally caught; three weighing seven pounds were taken one night, +a year or two ago. I have not tried the evening fishing, but at +all other times of day have found them the “dourest” of +trout, and they grow dourer. But one is always lured on by the +spectacle of the monsters which throw themselves out of water, with +a splash that echoes through all the circuit of the low green hills. +They probably reach at least four or five pounds, but it is unlikely +that the biggest take the fly, and one may doubt whether they propagate +their species, as small trout are never seen there.</p> +<p>There are two ways of enlarging the size of trout which should be +carefully avoided. Pike are supposed to keep down the population +and leave more food for the survivors, minnows are supposed to be nourishing +food. Both of these novelties are dangerous. Pike have been +introduced in that long lovely sheet of water, Loch Ken, and I have +never once seen the rise of a trout break that surface, so “hideously +serene.” Trout, in lochs which have become accustomed to +feeding on minnows, are apt to disdain fly altogether. Of course +there are lochs in which good trout coexist with minnows and with pike, +but these inmates are too dangerous to be introduced. The introduction, +too, of Loch Leven trout is often disappointing. Sometimes they +escape down the burn into the river in floods; sometimes, perhaps for +lack of proper food and sufficient, they dwindle terribly in size, and +become no better than “brownies.” In St. Mary’s +Loch, in Selkirkshire, some Canadian trout were introduced. Little +or nothing has been seen of them, unless some small creatures of a quarter +of a pound, extraordinarily silvery, and more often in the air than +in the water when hooked, are these children of the remote West. +If they grew up, and retained their beauty and sprightliness, they would +be excellent substitutes for sea-trout. Almost all experiments +in stocking lochs have their perils, except the simple experiment of +putting trout where there were no trout before. This can do no +harm, and they may increase in weight, let us hope not in wisdom, like +the curiously heavy and shy fish mentioned in the beginning of this +paper.</p> +<h3>LOCH LEVEN</h3> +<p>I had a friend once, an angler, who in winter was fond of another +sport. He liked to cast his <i>louis</i> into the green baize +pond at Monte Carlo, and, on the whole, he was generally “broken.” +He seldom landed the golden fish of the old man’s dream in Theocritus. +When the croupier had gaffed all his money he would repent and say, +“Now, that would have kept me at Loch Leven for a fortnight.” +One used to wonder whether a fortnight of Loch Leven was worth an afternoon +of the pleasure of losing at Monte Carlo. The loch has a name +for being cockneyfied, beset by whole fleets of competitive anglers +from various angling clubs in Scotland. That men should competitively +angle shows, indeed, a great want of true angling sentiment. To +fish in a crowd is odious, to work hard for prizes of flasks and creels +and fly-books is to mistake the true meaning of the pastime. However, +in this crowded age men are so constituted that they like to turn a +contemplative exercise into a kind of Bank Holiday. There is no +use in arguing with such persons; the worst of their pleasure is that +it tends to change a Scotch loch into something like the pond of the +Welsh Harp, at Hendon. It is always good news to read in the papers +how the Dundee Walton Society had a bad day, and how the first prize +was won by Mr. Macneesh, with five trout weighing three pounds and three +quarters. Loch Leven, then, is crowded and cockneyfied by competitions; +it has also no great name for beauty of landscape. Every one to +his own taste in natural beauty, but in this respect I think Loch Leven +is better than its reputation. It is certainly more pictorial, +so to speak, than some remote moor lochs up near Cape Wrath; Forsinard +in particular, where the scenery looks like one gigantic series of brown +“baps,” flat Scotch scones, all of low elevation, all precisely +similar to each other.</p> +<p>Loch Leven is not such a cockney place as the majority of men who +have not visited it imagine. It really is larger than the Welsh +Harp at Hendon, and the scenery, though not like that of Ben Cruachan +or Ben Mohr, excels the landscape of Middlesex. At the northern +end is a small town, grey, with some red roofs and one or two characteristic +Fifeshire church-towers, squat and strong. There are also a few +factory chimneys, which are not fair to outward view, nor appropriate +by a loch-side. On the west are ranges of distant hills, low but +not uncomely. On the east rises a beautiful moorland steep with +broken and graceful outlines. When the sun shines on the red tilled +land, in spring; when the smoke of burning gorse coils up all day long +into the sky, as if the Great Spirit were taking his pipe of peace on +the mountains; when the islands are mirrored on the glassy water, then +the artist rejoices, though the angler knows that he will waste his +day. As far as fishing goes, he is bound to be “clean,” +as the boatmen say—to catch nothing; but the solemn peace, and +the walls and ruined towers of Queen Mary’s prison, may partially +console the fisher. The accommodation is agreeable, there is a +pleasant inn—an old town-house, perhaps, of some great family, +when the great families did not rush up to London, but spent their winters +in such country towns as Dumfries and St. Andrews. The inn has +a great green garden at its doors, and if the talk is mainly of fishing, +and if every one tells of his monster trout that escaped the net, there +is much worse conversation than that.</p> +<p>When you reach Kinross, and, after excellent ham and eggs, begin +to make a start, the cockney element is most visible at the first. +Everybody’s name is registered in a book; each pays a considerable, +but not exorbitant, fee for the society—often well worth the money—and +the assistance of boatmen. These gentlemen are also well provided +with luncheon and beer, and, on the whole, there is more pleasure in +the life of a Loch Leven boatman than in most arts, crafts, or professions. +He takes the rod when his patron is lazy; it is said that he often catches +the trout; <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a> he sees +a good deal of good company, and, if his basket be heavy, who so content +as he? The first thing is to row out to a good bay, and which +will prove a good bay depends on the strength and direction of the wind. +Perhaps the best fishing is farthest off, at the end of a long row, +but the best scenery is not so distant. A good deal hangs on an +early start when there are many boats out.</p> +<p>Loch Leven is a rather shallow loch, seldom much over fifteen feet +deep, save where a long narrow rent or geological flaw runs through +the bottom. The water is of a queer glaucous green, olive-coloured, +or rather like the tint made when you wash out a box of water-colour +paints. This is not so pretty as the black wave of Loch Awe or +Loch Shin, but has a redeeming quality in the richness of the feeding +for trout. These are fabled to average about a pound, but are +probably a trifle under that weight, on the whole. They are famous, +and, according to Sir Walter Scott, were famous as long ago as in Queen +Mary’s time, for the bright silver of their sides, for their pink +flesh, and gameness when hooked. Theorists have explained all +this by saying that they are the descendants of land-locked salmon. +The flies used on the loch are smaller than those favoured in the Highlands; +they are sold attached to casts, and four flies are actually employed +at once. Probably two are quite enough at a time. If a veteran +trout is attracted by seeing four flies, all of different species, and +these like nothing in nature, all conspiring to descend on him at once, +he must be less cautious than we generally find him. The Hampshire +angler, of course, will sneer at the whole proceeding, the “chucking +and chancing it,” in the queer-coloured wave, and the use of so +many fanciful entomological specimens. But the Hampshire angler +is very welcome to try his arts, in a calm, and his natural-looking +cocked-up flies. He will probably be defeated by a grocer from +Greenock, sinking his four flies very deep, as is, by some experts, +recommended. The trout are capricious, perhaps as capricious as +any known to the angler, but they are believed to prefer a strong east +wind and a dark day. The east wind is nowhere, perhaps, so bad +as people fancy; it is certainly not so bad as the north wind, and on +Loch Leven it is the favourite. The man who is lucky enough to +hit on the right day, and to land a couple of dozen Loch Leven trout, +has very good reason to congratulate himself, and need envy nobody. +But such days and such takes are rare, and the summer of 1890 was much +more unfortunate than that of 1889.</p> +<p>One great mistake is made by the company which farms the Loch, stocks +it, supplies the boats, and regulates the fishing. They permit +trolling with angels, or phantoms, or the natural minnow. Now, +trolling may be comparatively legitimate, when the boat is being pulled +against the wind to its drift, but there is no more skill in it than +in sitting in an omnibus. But for trolling, many a boat would +come home “clean” in the evening, on days of calm, or when, +for other reasons of their own, the trout refuse to take the artificial +fly. Yet there are men at Loch Leven who troll all day, and poor +sport it must be, as a trout of a pound or so has no chance on a trolling-rod. +This method is inimical to fly-fishing, but is such a consolation to +the inefficient angler that one can hardly expect to see it abolished. +The unsuccessful clamour for trolling, instead of consoling themselves, +as sportsmen should do, with the conversation of the gillies, their +anecdotes of great trout, and their reminiscences of great anglers, +especially of the late Mr. Russell, the famed editor of the “Scotsman.” +This humourist is gradually “winning his way to the mythical.” +All fishing stories are attached to him; his eloquence is said (in the +language of the historian of the Buccaneers) to have been “florid”; +he is reported to have thrown his fly-book into Loch Leven on an unlucky +day, saying, “You brutes, take your choice,” and a rock, +which he once hooked and held on to, is named after him, on the Tweed. +In addition to the humane and varied conversation of the boatmen, there +is always the pure pleasure of simply gazing at the hillsides and at +the islands. They are as much associated with the memory of Mary +Stuart as Hermitage or even Holyrood. On that island was her prison; +here the rude Morton tried to bully her into signing away her rights; +hence she may often have watched the shore at night for the lighting +of a beacon, a sign that a rescue was at hand.</p> +<p>The hills, at least, are much as she may have seen them, and the +square towers and crumbling walls on the island met her eyes when they +were all too strong. The “quay” is no longer “rude,” +as when “The Abbot” was written, and is crowded with the +green boats of the Loch Leven Company. But you still land on her +island under “the huge old tree” which Scott saw, which +the unhappy Mary may herself have seen. The small garden and the +statues are gone, the garden whence Roland Graeme led Mary to the boat +and to brief liberty and hope unfulfilled. Only a kind of ground-plan +remains of the halls where Lindesay and Ruthven browbeat her forlorn +Majesty. But you may climb the staircase where Roland Graeme stood +sentinel, and feel a touch, of what Pepys felt when he kissed a dead +Queen—Katherine of Valois. Like Roland Graeme, the Queen +may have been “wearied to death of this Castle of Loch Leven,” +where, in spring, all seems so beautiful, the trees budding freshly +above the yellow celandine and among the grey prison walls. It +was a kindlier prison house than Fotheringay, and minds peaceful and +contented would gladly have taken “this for a hermitage.”</p> +<p>The Roman Emperors used to banish too powerful subjects to the lovely +isles that lie like lilies on the Ægean. Plutarch tried +to console these exiles, by showing them how fortunate they were, far +from the bustle of the Forum, the vices, the tortures, the noise and +smoke of Rome, happy, if they chose, in their gardens, with the blue +waters breaking on the rocks, and, as he is careful to add, <i>with +plenty of fishing</i>. Mr. Mahaffy calls this “rhetorical +consolation,” and the exiles may have been of his mind. +But the exiles would have been wise to listen to Plutarch, and, had +I enjoyed the luck of Mary Stuart, when Loch Leven was not overfished, +when the trout were uneducated, never would I have plunged into politics +again. She might have been very happy, with Ronsard’s latest +poems, with Italian romances, with a boat on the loch, and some Rizzio +to sing to her on the still summer days. From her Castle she would +hear how the politicians were squabbling, lying, raising a man to divinity +and stoning him next day, cutting each other’s heads off, swearing +and forswearing themselves, conspiring and caballing. <i>Suave +mari</i>, and the peace of Loch Leven and the island hermitage would +have been the sweeter for the din outside. A woman, a Queen, a +Stuart, could not attain, and perhaps ought not to have attained, this +epicureanism. Mary Stuart had her chance, and missed it; perhaps, +after all, her shrewish female gaoler made the passionless life impossible.</p> +<p>These, at Loch Leven, are natural reflections. The place has +a charm of its own, especially if you make up your mind not to be disappointed, +not to troll, and not to envy the more fortunate anglers who shout to +you the number of their victories across the wave. Even at Loch +Leven we may be contemplative, may be quiet, and go a-fishing. <a name="citation2"></a><a href="#footnote2">{2}</a></p> +<h2>THE BLOODY DOCTOR. (A BAD DAY ON CLEARBURN)</h2> +<p>Thou askest me, my brother, how first and where I met the Bloody +Doctor? The tale is weird, so weird that to a soul less proved +than thine I scarce dare speak of the adventure.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>This, perhaps, would be the right way of beginning a story (not that +it is a story exactly), with the title forced on me by the name and +nature of the hero. But I do not think I could keep up the style +without a lady-collaborator; besides, I have used the term “weird” +twice already, and thus played away the trumps of modern picturesque +diction. To return to our Doctor: many a bad day have I had on +Clearburn Loch, and never a good one. But one thing draws me always +to the loch when I have the luck to be within twenty miles of it. +There are trout in Clearburn! The Border angler knows that the +trout in his native waters is nearly as extinct as the dodo. Many +causes have combined to extirpate the shy and spirited fish. First, +there are too many anglers:</p> +<blockquote><p>Twixt Holy Lee and Clovenfords,<br /> +A tentier bit ye canna hae,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>sang that good old angler, now with God, Mr. Thomas Tod Stoddart. +But between Holy Lee and Clovenfords you may see half a dozen rods on +every pool and stream. There goes that leviathan, the angler from +London, who has been beguiled hither by the artless “Guide” +of Mr. Watson Lyall. There fishes the farmer’s lad, and +the schoolmaster, and the wandering weaver out of work or disinclined +to work. In his rags, with his thin face and red “goatee” +beard, with his hazel wand and his home-made reel, there is withal something +kindly about this poor fellow, this true sportsman. He loves better +to hear the lark sing than the mouse cheep; he wanders from depopulated +stream to depopulated burn, and all is fish that comes to his fly. +Fingerlings he keeps, and does not return to the water “as pitying +their youth.” Let us not grudge him his sport as long as +he fishes fair, and he is always good company. But he, with all +the other countless fishermen, make fish so rare and so wary that, except +after a flood in Meggat or the Douglas burn, trout are scarce to be +taken by ordinary skill. As for</p> +<blockquote><p>Thae reiving cheils<br /> +Frae Galashiels,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>who use nets, and salmon roe, and poisons, and dynamite, they are +miscreants indeed; they spoil the sport, not of the rich, but of their +own class, and of every man who would be quiet, and go angling in the +sacred streams of Christopher North and the Shepherd. The mills, +with their dyes and dirt, are also responsible for the dearth of trout.</p> +<blockquote><p>Untainted yet thy stream, fair Teviot, runs,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Leyden sang; but now the stream is very much tainted indeed below +Hawick, like Tweed in too many places. Thus, for a dozen reasons, +trout are nigh as rare as red deer. Clearburn alone remains full +of unsophisticated fishes, and I have the less hesitation in revealing +this, because I do not expect the wanderer who may read this page to +be at all more successful than myself. No doubt they are sometimes +to be had, by the basketful, but not often, nor by him who thinks twice +before risking his life by smothering in a peaty bottom.</p> +<p>To reach Clearburn Loch, if you start from the Teviot, you must pass +through much of Scott’s country and most of Leyden’s. +I am credibly informed that persons of culture have forgotten John Leyden. +He was a linguist and a poet, and the friend of Walter Scott, and knew</p> +<blockquote><p>The mind whose fearless frankness naught could move,<br /> +The friendship, like an elder brother’s love.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>We remember what distant and what deadly shore has Leyden’s +cold remains, and people who do not know may not care to be reminded.</p> +<p>Leaving Teviot, with Leyden for a guide, you walk, or drive,</p> +<blockquote><p>Where Bortha hoarse, that loads the meads with sand,<br /> +Rolls her red tide.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Not that it was red when we passed, but <i>electro purior</i>.</p> +<blockquote><p>Through slaty hills whose sides are shagged with thorn,<br /> +Where springs, in scattered tufts, the dark green corn,<br /> +Towers wood-girt Harden far above the vale.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And very dark green, almost blue, was the corn in September, 1888. +Upwards, always upwards, goes the road till you reach the crest, and +watch far below the wide champaign, like a sea, broken by the shapes +of hills, Windburg and Eildon, and Priesthaughswire, and “the +rough skirts of stormy Ruberslaw,” and Penchrise, and the twin +Maidens, shaped like the breasts of Helen. It is an old land, +of war, of Otterburn, and Ancrum, and the Raid of the Fair Dodhead; +but the plough has passed over all but the upper pastoral solitudes. +Turning again to the downward slope you see the loch of Alemoor, small +and sullen, with Alewater feeding it. Nobody knows much about +the trout in it. “It is reckoned the residence of the water-cow,” +a monster like the Australian bunyip. There was a water-cow in +Scott’s loch of Cauldshiels, above Abbotsford. The water-cow +has not lately emerged from Alemoor to attack the casual angler. +You climb again by gentle slopes till you reach a most desolate tableland. +Far beyond it is the round top of Whitecombe, which again looks down +on St. Mary’s Loch, and up the Moffat, and across the Meggat Water; +but none of these are within the view. Round are <i>pastorum loca +vasta</i>, lands of Buccleugh and Bellenden, Deloraine, Sinton, Headshaw, +and Glack. Deloraine, by the way, is pronounced “Delorran,” +and perhaps is named from Orran, the Celtic saint. On the right +lies, not far from the road, a grey sheet of water, and this is Clearburn, +where first I met the Doctor.</p> +<p>The loch, to be plain, is almost unfishable. It is nearly round, +and everywhere, except in a small segment on the eastern side, is begirt +with reeds of great height. These reeds, again, grow in a peculiarly +uncomfortable, quaggy bottom, which rises and falls, or rather which +jumps and sinks when you step on it, like the seat of a very luxurious +arm-chair. Moreover, the bottom is pierced with many springs, +wherein if you set foot you shall have thrown your last cast.</p> +<p>By watching the loch when it is frozen, a man might come to learn +something of the springs; but, even so, it is hard to keep clear of +them in summer. Now the wind almost always blows from the west, +dead against the little piece of gravelly shore at the eastern side, +so that casting against it is hard work and unprofitable. On this +day, by a rare chance, the wind blew from the east, though the sky at +first was a brilliant blue, and the sun hot and fierce. I walked +round to the east side, waded in, and caught two or three small fellows. +It was slow work, when suddenly there began the greatest rise of trout +I ever saw in my life. From the edge of the loch as far as one +could clearly see across it there was that endless plashing murmur, +of all sounds in this world the sweetest to the ear. Within the +view of the eye, on each cast, there were a dozen trout rising all about, +never leaping, but seriously and solemnly feeding. Now is my chance +at last, I fancied; but it was not so—far from it. I might +throw over the very noses of the beasts, but they seldom even glanced +at the (artificial) fly. I tried them with Greenwell’s Glory, +with a March brown, with “the woodcock wing and hare-lug,” +but it was almost to no purpose. If one did raise a fish, he meant +not business—all but “a casual brute,” which broke +the already weakened part of a small “glued-up” cane rod. +I had to twist a piece of paper round the broken end, wet it, and push +it into the joint, where it hung on somehow, but was not pleasant to +cast with. From twelve to half-past one the gorging went merrily +forward, and I saw what the fish were rising at. The whole surface +of the loch, at least on the east side, was absolutely peppered with +large, hideous insects. They had big grey-white wings, bodies +black as night, and brilliant crimson legs, or feelers, or whatever +naturalists call them. The trout seemed as if they could not have +too much of these abominable wretches, and the flies were blown across +the loch, not singly, but in populous groups. I had never seen +anything like them in any hook-book, nor could I deceive the trout by +the primitive dodge of tying a red thread round the shank of a dark +fly. So I waded out, and fell to munching a frugal sandwich and +watching Nature, not without a cigarette.</p> +<p>Now Nature is all very well. I have nothing to say against +her of a Sunday, or when trout are not rising. But she was no +comfort to me now. Smiling she gazed on my discomfiture. +The lovely lines of the hills, curving about the loch, and with their +deepest dip just opposite where I sat, were all of a golden autumn brown, +except in the violet distance. The grass of Parnassus grew thick +and white around me, with its moonlight tint of green in the veins. +On a hillside by a brook the countryfolk were winning their hay, and +their voices reached me softly from far off. On the loch the marsh-fowl +flashed and dipped, the wild ducks played and dived and rose; first +circling high and higher, then, marshalled in the shape of a V, they +made for Alemoor. A solitary heron came quite near me, and tried +his chance with the fish, but I think he had no luck. All this +is pleasant to remember, and I made rude sketches in the fly-leaves +of a copy of Hogg’s poems, where I kept my flies. But what +joy was there in this while the “take” grew fainter and +ceased at least near the shore? Out in the middle, where few flies +managed to float, the trout were at it till dark. But near shore +there was just one trout who never stopped gorging all day. He +lived exactly opposite the nick in the distant hills, and exactly a +yard farther out than I could throw a fly. He was a big one, and +I am inclined to think that he was the Devil. For, if I had stepped +in deeper, and the water had come over my wading boots, the odds are +that my frail days on earth would have been ended by a chill, and I +knew this, and yet that fish went on tempting me to my ruin. I +suppose I tried to reach him a dozen times, and cast a hundred, but +it was to no avail. At length, as the afternoon grew grey and +chill, I pitched a rock at him, by way of showing that I saw through +his fiendish guile, and I walked away.</p> +<p>There was no rise now, and the lake was leaden and gloomy. +When I reached the edge of the deep reeds I tried, once or twice, to +wade through them within casting distance of the water, but was always +driven off by the traitorous quagginess of the soil. At last, +taking my courage in both hands, I actually got so near that I could +throw a fly over the top of the tall reeds, and then came a heavy splash, +and the wretched little broken rod nearly doubled up. “Hooray, +here I am among the big ones!” I said, and held on. It was +now that I learned the nature of Nero’s diversion when he was +an angler in the Lake of Darkness. The loch really did deserve +the term “grim”; the water here was black, the sky was ashen, +the long green reeds closed cold about me, and beyond them there was +trout that I could not deal with. For when he tired of running, +which was soon, he was as far away as ever. Draw him through the +forest of reeds I could not. At last I did the fatal thing. +I took hold of the line, and then, “plop,” as the poet said. +He was off. A young sportsman on the bank who had joined me expressed +his artless disappointment. I cast over the confounded reeds once +more. “Splash!”—the old story! I stuck +to the fish, and got him into the watery wood, and then he went where +the lost trout go. No more came on, so I floundered a yard or +two farther, and climbed into a wild-fowl’s nest, a kind of platform +of matted reeds, all yellow and faded. The nest immediately sank +down deep into the water, but it stopped somewhere, and I made a cast. +The black water boiled, and the trout went straight down and sulked. +I merely held on, till at last it seemed “time for us to go,” +and by cautious tugging I got him through the reedy jungle, and “gruppit +him,” as the Shepherd would have said. He was simply but +decently wrapped round, from snout to tail, in very fine water-weeds, +as in a garment. Moreover, he was as black as your hat, quite +unlike the comely yellow trout who live on the gravel in Clearburn. +It hardly seemed sensible to get drowned in this gruesome kind of angling, +so, leaving the Lake of Darkness, we made for Buccleugh, passing the +cleugh where the buck was ta’en. Surely it is the deepest, +the steepest, and the greenest cleugh that is shone on by the sun! +Thereby we met an angler, an ancient man in hodden grey, strolling home +from the Rankle burn. And we told him of our bad day, and asked +him concerning that hideous fly, which had covered the loch and lured +the trout from our decent Greenwells and March browns. And the +ancient man listened to our description of the monster, and He said: +“Hoot, ay; ye’ve jest forgathered wi’ the Bloody Doctor.”</p> +<p>This, it appears, is the Border angler’s name for the horrible +insect, so much appreciated by trout. So we drove home, when all +the great tableland was touched with yellow light from a rift in the +west, and all the broken hills looked blue against the silvery grey. +God bless them! for man cannot spoil them, nor any revolution shape +them other than they are. We see them as the folk from Flodden +saw them, as Leyden knew them, as they looked to William of Deloraine, +as they showed in the eyes of Wat of Harden and of Jamie Telfer of the +Fair Dodhead. They have always girdled a land of warriors and +of people fond of song, from the oldest ballad-maker to that Scotch +Probationer who wrote,</p> +<blockquote><p>Lay me here, where I may see<br /> +Teviot round his meadows flowing,<br /> +And about and over me<br /> +Winds and clouds for ever going.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It was dark before we splashed through the ford of Borthwick Water, +and dined, and wrote to Mr. Anderson of Princes Street, Edinburgh, for +a supply of Bloody Doctors. But we never had a chance to try them. +I have since fished Clearburn from a boat, but it was not a day of rising +fish, and no big ones came to the landing-net. There are plenty +in the loch, but you need not make the weary journey; they are not for +you nor me.</p> +<h2>THE LADY OR THE SALMON?</h2> +<p>The circumstances which attended and caused the death of the Hon. +Houghton Grannom have not long been known to me, and it is only now +that, by the decease of his father, Lord Whitchurch, and the extinction +of his noble family, I am permitted to divulge the facts. That +the true tale of my unhappy friend will touch different chords in different +breasts, I am well aware. The sportsman, I think, will hesitate +to approve him; the fair, I hope, will absolve. Who are we, to +scrutinise human motives, and to award our blame to actions which, perhaps, +might have been our own, had opportunity beset and temptation beguiled +us? There is a certain point at which the keenest sense of honour, +the most chivalrous affection and devotion, cannot bear the strain, +but break like a salmon line under a masterful stress. That my +friend succumbed, I admit; that he was his own judge, the severest, +and passed and executed sentence on himself, I have now to show.</p> +<p>I shall never forget the shock with which I read in the “Scotsman,” +under “Angling,” the following paragraph:</p> +<p>“Tweed.—Strange Death of an Angler.—An unfortunate +event has cast a gloom over fishers in this district. As Mr. K---, +the keeper on the B--- water, was busy angling yesterday, his attention +was caught by some object floating on the stream. He cast his +flies over it, and landed a soft felt hat, the ribbon stuck full of +salmon-flies. Mr. K--- at once hurried up-stream, filled with +the most lively apprehensions. These were soon justified. +In a shallow, below the narrow, deep and dangerous rapids called ‘The +Trows,’ Mr. K--- saw a salmon leaping in a very curious manner. +On a closer examination, he found that the fish was attached to a line. +About seventy yards higher he found, in shallow water, the body of a +man, the hand still grasping in death the butt of the rod, to which +the salmon was fast, all the line being run out. Mr. K--- at once +rushed into the stream, and dragged out the body, in which he recognised +with horror the Hon. Houghton Grannom, to whom the water was lately +let. Life had been for some minutes extinct, and though Mr. K--- +instantly hurried for Dr. ---, that gentleman could only attest the +melancholy fact. The wading in ‘The Trows’ is extremely +dangerous and difficult, and Mr. Grannom, who was fond of fishing without +an attendant, must have lost his balance, slipped, and been dragged +down by the weight of his waders. The recent breaking off of the +hon. gentleman’s contemplated marriage on the very wedding-day +will be fresh in the memory of our readers.”</p> +<p>This was the story which I read in the newspaper during breakfast +one morning in November. I was deeply grieved, rather than astonished, +for I have often remonstrated with poor Grannom on the recklessness +of his wading. It was with some surprise that I received, in the +course of the day, a letter from him, in which he spoke only of indifferent +matters, of the fishing which he had taken, and so forth. The +letter was accompanied, however, by a parcel. Tearing off the +outer cover, I found a sealed document addressed to me, with the superscription, +“Not to be opened until after my father’s decease.” +This injunction, of course, I have scrupulously obeyed. The death +of Lord Whitchurch, the last of the Grannoms, now gives me liberty to +publish my friend’s <i>Apologia pro morte et vita sua</i>.</p> +<p>“Dear Smith” (the document begins), “Before you +read this—long before, I hope—I shall have solved the great +mystery—if, indeed, we solve it. If the water runs down +to-morrow, and there is every prospect that it will do so, I must have +the opportunity of making such an end as even malignity cannot suspect +of being voluntary. There are plenty of fish in the water; if +I hook one in ‘The Trows,’ I shall let myself go whither +the current takes me. Life has for weeks been odious to me; for +what is life without honour, without love, and coupled with shame and +remorse? Repentance I cannot call the emotion which gnaws me at +the heart, for in similar circumstances (unlikely as these are to occur) +I feel that I would do the same thing again.</p> +<p>“Are we but automata, worked by springs, moved by the stronger +impulse, and unable to choose for ourselves which impulse that shall +be? Even now, in decreeing my own destruction, do I exercise free-will, +or am I the sport of hereditary tendencies, of mistaken views of honour, +of a seeming self-sacrifice, which, perhaps, is but selfishness in disguise? +I blight my unfortunate father’s old age; I destroy the last of +an ancient house; but I remove from the path of Olive Dunne the shadow +that must rest upon the sunshine of what will eventually, I trust, be +a happy life, unvexed by memories of one who loved her passionately. +Dear Olive! how pure, how ardent was my devotion to her none knows better +than you. But Olive had, I will not say a fault, though I suffer +from it, but a quality, or rather two qualities, which have completed +my misery. Lightly as she floats on the stream of society, the +most casual observer, and even the enamoured beholder, can see that +Olive Dunne has great pride, and no sense of humour. Her dignity +is her idol. What makes her, even for a moment, the possible theme +of ridicule is in her eyes an unpardonable sin. This sin, I must +with penitence confess, I did indeed commit. Another woman might +have forgiven me. I know not how that may be; I throw myself on +the mercy of the court. But, if another could pity and pardon, +to Olive this was impossible. I have never seen her since that +fatal moment when, paler than her orange blossoms, she swept through +the porch of the church, while I, dishevelled, mud-stained, half-drowned—ah! +that memory will torture me if memory at all remains. And yet, +fool, maniac, that I was, I could not resist the wild, mad impulse to +laugh which shook the rustic spectators, and which in my case was due, +I trust, to hysterical but <i>not</i> unmanly emotion. If any +woman, any bride, could forgive such an apparent but most unintentional +insult, Olive Dunne, I knew, was not that woman. My abject letters +of explanation, my appeals for mercy, were returned unopened. +Her parents pitied me, perhaps had reasons for being on my side, but +Olive was of marble. It is not only myself that she cannot pardon, +she will never, I know, forgive herself while my existence reminds her +of what she had to endure. When she receives the intelligence +of my demise, no suspicion will occur to her; she will not say ‘He +is fitly punished;’ but her peace of mind will gradually return.</p> +<p>“It is for this, mainly, that I sacrifice myself, but also +because I cannot endure the dishonour of a laggard in love and a recreant +bridegroom.</p> +<p>“So much for my motives: now to my tale.</p> +<p>“The day before our wedding-day had been the happiest in my +life. Never had I felt so certain of Olive’s affections, +never so fortunate in my own. We parted in the soft moonlight; +she, no doubt, to finish her nuptial preparations; I, to seek my couch +in the little rural inn above the roaring waters of the Budon. <a name="citation3"></a><a href="#footnote3">{3}</a></p> +<blockquote><p>“Move eastward, happy earth, and leave<br /> + Yon orange sunset fading slow;<br /> +From fringes of the faded eve<br /> + Oh, happy planet, eastward go,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I murmured, though the atmospheric conditions were not really those +described by the poet.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne,<br /> +Dip forward under starry light,<br /> +And move me to my marriage morn,<br /> +And round again to—</p> +</blockquote> +<p>“‘River in grand order, sir,’ said the voice of +Robins, the keeper, who recognised me in the moonlight. ‘There’s +a regular monster in the Ashweil,’ he added, naming a favourite +cast; ‘never saw nor heard of such a fish in the water before.’</p> +<p>“‘Mr. Dick must catch him, Robins,’ I answered; +‘no fishing for me to-morrow.’</p> +<p>“‘No, sir,’ said Robins, affably. ‘Wish +you joy, sir, and Miss Olive, too. It’s a pity, though! +Master Dick, he throws a fine fly, but he gets flurried with a big fish, +being young. And this one is a topper.’</p> +<p>“With that he gave me good-night, and I went to bed, but not +to sleep. I was fevered with happiness; the past and future reeled +before my wakeful vision. I heard every clock strike; the sounds +of morning were astir, and still I could not sleep. The ceremony, +for reasons connected with our long journey to my father’s place +in Hampshire, was to be early—half-past ten was the hour. +I looked at my watch; it was seven of the clock, and then I looked out +of the window: it was a fine, soft grey morning, with a south wind tossing +the yellowing boughs. I got up, dressed in a hasty way, and thought +I would just take a look at the river. It was, indeed, in glorious +order, lapping over the top of the sharp stone which we regarded as +a measure of the due size of water.</p> +<p>“The morning was young, sleep was out of the question; I could +not settle my mind to read. Why should I not take a farewell cast, +alone, of course? I always disliked the attendance of a gillie. +I took my salmon rod out of its case, rigged it up, and started for +the stream, which flowed within a couple of hundred yards of my quarters. +There it raced under the ash tree, a pale delicate brown, perhaps a +little thing too coloured. I therefore put on a large Silver Doctor, +and began steadily fishing down the ash-tree cast. What if I should +wipe Dick’s eye, I thought, when, just where the rough and smooth +water meet, there boiled up a head and shoulders such as I had never +seen on any fish. My heart leaped and stood still, but there came +no sensation from the rod, and I finished the cast, my knees actually +trembling beneath me. Then I gently lifted the line, and very +elaborately tested every link of the powerful casting-line. Then +I gave him ten minutes by my watch; next, with unspeakable emotion, +I stepped into the stream and repeated the cast. Just at the same +spot he came up again; the huge rod bent like a switch, and the salmon +rushed straight down the pool, as if he meant to make for the sea. +I staggered on to dry land to follow him the easier, and dragged at +my watch to time the fish; a quarter to eight. But the slim chain +had broken, and the watch, as I hastily thrust it back, missed my pocket +and fell into the water. There was no time to stoop for it; the +fish started afresh, tore up the pool as fast as he had gone down it, +and, rushing behind the torrent, into the eddy at the top, leaped clean +out of the water. He was 70 lbs. if he was an ounce. Here +he slackened a little, dropping back, and I got in some line. +Now he sulked so intensely that I thought he had got the line round +a rock. It might be broken, might be holding fast to a sunken +stone, for aught that I could tell; and the time was passing, I knew +not how rapidly. I tried all known methods, tugging at him, tapping +the butt, and slackening line on him. At last the top of the rod +was slightly agitated, and then, back flew the long line in my face. +Gone! I reeled up with a sigh, but the line tightened again. +He had made a sudden rush under my bank, but there he lay again like +a stone. How long? Ah! I cannot tell how long! +I heard the church clock strike, but missed the number of the strokes. +Soon he started again down-stream into the shallows, leaping at the +end of his rush—the monster. Then he came slowly up, and +‘jiggered’ savagely at the line. It seemed impossible +that any tackle could stand these short violent jerks. Soon he +showed signs of weakening. Once his huge silver side appeared +for a moment near the surface, but he retreated to his old fastness. +I was in a tremor of delight and despair. I should have thrown +down my rod, and flown on the wings of love to Olive and the altar. +But I hoped that there was time still—that it was not so very +late! At length he was failing. I heard ten o’clock +strike. He came up and lumbered on the surface of the pool. +Gradually I drew him, plunging ponderously, to the gravelled beach, +where I meant to ‘tail’ him. He yielded to the strain, +he was in the shallows, the line was shortened. I stooped to seize +him. The frayed and overworn gut broke at a knot, and with a loose +roll he dropped back towards the deep. I sprang at him, stumbled, +fell on him, struggled with him, but he slipped from my arms. +In that moment I knew more than the anguish of Orpheus. Orpheus! +Had I, too, lost my Eurydice? I rushed from the stream, up the +steep bank, along to my rooms. I passed the church door. +Olive, pale as her orange-blossoms, was issuing from the porch. +The clock pointed to 10.45. I was ruined, I knew it, and I laughed. +I laughed like a lost spirit. She swept past me, and, amidst the +amazement of the gentle and simple, I sped wildly away. Ask me +no more. The rest is silence.”</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Thus ends my hapless friend’s narrative. I leave it to +the judgment of women and of men. Ladies, would you have acted +as Olive Dunne acted? Would pride, or pardon, or mirth have ridden +sparkling in your eyes? Men, my brethren, would ye have deserted +the salmon for the lady, or the lady for the salmon? I know what +I would have done had I been fair Olive Dunne. What I would have +done had I been Houghton Grannom I may not venture to divulge. +For this narrative, then, as for another, “Let every man read +it as he will, and every woman as the gods have given her wit.” +<a name="citation4"></a><a href="#footnote4">{4}</a></p> +<h2>A TWEEDSIDE SKETCH</h2> +<p>The story of the following adventure—this deplorable confession, +one may say—will not have been written in vain if it impresses +on young minds the supreme necessity of carefulness about details. +Let the “casual” and regardless who read it—the gatless, +as they say in Suffolk—ponder the lesson which it teaches: a lesson +which no amount of bitter experience has ever impressed on the unprincipled +narrator. Never do anything carelessly whether in fishing or in +golf, and carry this important maxim even into the most serious affairs +of life. Many a battle has been lost, no doubt, by lack of ammunition, +or by plenty of ammunition which did not happen to suit the guns; and +many a salmon has been lost, ay, and many a trout, for want of carefulness, +and through a culpable inattention to the soundness of your gut, and +tackle generally. What fiend is it that prompts a man just to +try a hopeless cast, in a low water, without testing his tackle? +As sure as you do that, up comes the fish, and with his first dash breaks +your casting line, and leaves you lamenting. This doctrine I preach, +being my own “awful example.” “Bad and careless +little boy,” my worthy master used to say at school; and he would +have provoked a smile in other circumstances. But Mr. Trotter, +of the Edinburgh Academy, had something about him (he usually carried +it in the tail-pocket of his coat) which inspired respect and discouraged +ribaldry. Would that I had listened to Mr. Trotter; would that +I had corrected, in early life, the happy-go-lucky disposition to scatter +my Greek accents, as it were, with a pepper-caster, to fish with worn +tackle, and, generally, to make free with the responsibilities of life +and literature. It is too late to amend, but others may learn +wisdom from this spectacle of deserved misfortune and absolute discomfiture.</p> +<p>I am not myself a salmon-fisher, though willing to try that art again, +and though this is a tale of salmon. To myself the difference +between angling for trout and angling for salmon is like the difference +between a drawing of Lionardo’s, in silver point, and a loaded +landscape by MacGilp, R.A. Trout-fishing is all an idyll, all +delicacy—that is, trout-fishing on the Test or on the Itchen. +You wander by clear water, beneath gracious poplar-trees, unencumbered +with anything but a slim rod of Messrs. Hardy’s make, and a light +toy-box of delicate flies. You need seldom wade, and the water +is shallow, the bottom is of silver gravel. You need not search +all day at random, but you select a rising trout, and endeavour to lay +the floating fly delicately over him. If you part with him, there +is always another feeding merrily:</p> +<blockquote><p>Invenies alium si te hic fastidit.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It is like an excursion into Corot’s country, it is rich in +memories of Walton and Cotton: it is a dream of peace, and they bring +you your tea by the riverside. In salmon-fishing, on the Tweed +at least, all is different. The rod, at all events the rod which +some one kindly lent me, is like a weaver’s beam. The high +heavy wading trousers and boots are even as the armour of the giant +of Gath. You have to plunge waist deep, or deeper, into roaring +torrents, and if the water be at all “drumly” you have not +an idea where your next step may fall. It may be on a hidden rock, +or on a round slippery boulder, or it may be into a deep “pot” +or hole. The inexperienced angler staggers like a drunken man, +is occasionally drowned, and more frequently is ducked. You have +to cast painfully, with steep precipitous banks behind you, all overgrown +with trees, with bracken, with bramble. It is a boy’s work +to disentangle the fly from the branches of ash and elm and pine. +There is no delicacy, and there is a great deal of exertion in all this. +You do not cast subtilely over a fish which you know is there, but you +swish, swish, all across the current, with a strong reluctance to lift +the line after each venture and try another. The small of the +back aches, and it is literally in the sweat of your brow that you take +your diversion. After all, there are many blank days, when the +salmon will look at no fly, or when you encounter the Salmo irritans, +who rises with every appearance of earnest good-will, but never touches +the hook, or, if he does touch it, runs out a couple of yards of line, +and vanishes for ever. What says the poet?</p> +<blockquote><p>There’s an accommodating fish,<br /> +In pool or stream, by rock or pot,<br /> +Who rises frequent as you wish,<br /> +At “Popham,” “Parson,” or “Jock Scott,”<br /> +Or almost any fly you’ve got<br /> +In all the furred and feathered clans.<br /> +You strike, but ah, you strike him not<br /> +He is the <i>Salmo irritans</i>!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>It may be different in Norway or on the lower casts of the Tweed, +as at Floors, or Makerstoun; but higher up the country, in Scott’s +own country, at Yair or Ashiesteil, there is often a terrible amount +of fruitless work to be done. And I doubt if, except in throwing +a very long line, and knowing the waters by old experience, there is +very much skill in salmon-fishing. It is all an affair of muscle +and patience. The choice of flies is almost a pure accident. +Every one believes in the fly with which he has been successful. +These strange combinations of blues, reds, golds, of tinsel and worsted, +of feathers and fur, are purely fantastic articles. They are like +nothing in nature, and are multiplied for the fanciful amusement of +anglers. Nobody knows why salmon rise at them; nobody knows why +they will bite on one day and not on another, or rather, on many others. +It is not even settled whether we should use a bright fly on a bright +day, and a dark fly on a dark day, as Dr. Hamilton advises, or reverse +the choice as others use. Muscles and patience, these, I repeat, +are the only ingredients of ultimate success.</p> +<p>However, one does do at Rome as the Romans do, and fishes for salmon +in Tweed when the nets are off in October, when the yellowing leaves +begin to fall, and when that beautiful reach of wooded valley from Elibank +to the meeting of Tweed and Ettrick is in the height of its autumnal +charm. Why has Yarrow been so much more besung than Tweed, in +spite of the greater stream’s far greater and more varied loveliness? +The fatal duel in the Dowie Dens of Yarrow and the lamented drowning +of Willie there have given the stream its ‘pastoral melancholy,’ +and engaged Wordsworth in the renown of the water. For the poetry +of Tweed we have chiefly, after Scott, to thank Mr. Stoddart, its loyal +minstrel. “Dearer than all these to me,” he says about +our other valleys, “is sylvan Tweed.”</p> +<blockquote><p>Let ither anglers choose their ain,<br /> +And ither waters tak’ the lead<br /> +O’ Hieland streams we covet nane,<br /> +But gie to us the bonny Tweed;<br /> +And gie to us the cheerfu’ burn,<br /> +That steals into its valley fair,<br /> +The streamlets that, at ilka turn,<br /> +Sae saftly meet and mingle there.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>He kept his promise, given in the following verse:</p> +<blockquote><p>And I, when to breathe is a labour, and joy<br /> +Forgets me, and life is no longer the boy,<br /> +On the labouring staff, and the tremorous knee,<br /> +Will wander, bright river, to thee!</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Life is always “the boy” when one is beside the Tweed. +Times change, and we change, for the worse. But the river changes +little. Still he courses through the keen and narrow rocks beneath +the bridge of Yair.</p> +<blockquote><p>From Yair, which hills so closely bind,<br /> +Scarce can the Tweed his passage find,<br /> +Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil,<br /> +Till all his eddying currents boil.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Still the water loiters by the long boat-pool of Yair, as though +loath to leave the drooping boughs of the elms. Still it courses +with a deep eddy through the Elm Wheel, and ripples under Fernilea, +where the author of the “Flowers of the Forest” lived in +that now mouldering and roofless hall, with the peaked turrets. +Still Neidpath is fair, Neidpath of the unhappy maid, and still we mark +the tiny burn at Ashiesteil, how in November,</p> +<blockquote><p>Murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen,<br /> +Through bush and briar, no longer green,<br /> +An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,<br /> +Brawls over rock and wild cascade,<br /> +And foaming brown, with doubled speed,<br /> +Hurries its waters to the Tweed.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Still the old tower of Elibank is black and strong in ruin; Elibank, +the home of that Muckle Mou’d Meg, who made Harden after all a +better bride than he would have found in the hanging ash-tree of her +father. These are unaltered, mainly, since Scott saw them last, +and little altered is the homely house of Ashiesteil, where he had been +so happy. And we, too, feel but little change among those scenes +of long ago, those best-beloved haunts of boyhood, where we have had +so many good days and bad, days of rising trout and success; days of +failure, and even of half-drowning.</p> +<p>One cannot reproduce the charm of the strong river in pool and stream, +of the steep rich bank that it rushes or lingers by, of the green and +heathery hills beyond, or the bare slopes where the blue slate breaks +through among the dark old thorn-trees, remnants of the forest. +It is all homely and all haunted, and, if a Tweedside fisher might have +his desire, he would sleep the long sleep in the little churchyard that +lies lonely above the pool of Caddon-foot, and hard by Christopher North’s +favourite quarters at Clovenfords.</p> +<p>However, while we are still on earth, Caddon-foot is more attractive +for her long sweep of salmon-pool—the home of sea-trout too—than +precisely for her kirk-yard. There will be time enough for that, +and time it is to recur to the sad story of the big fish and the careless +angler. It was about the first day of October, and we had enjoyed +a “spate.” Salmon-fishing is a mere child of the weather; +with rain almost anybody may raise fish, without it all art is apt to +be vain. We had been blessed with a spate. On Wednesday +the Tweed had been roaring red from bank to bank. Salmon-fishing +was wholly out of the question, and it is to be feared that the innumerable +trout-fishers, busy on every eddy, were baiting with salmon roe, an +illegal lure. On Thursday the red tinge had died out of the water, +but only a very strong wader would have ventured in; others had a good +chance, if they tried it, of being picked up at Berwick. Friday +was the luckless day of my own failure and broken heart. The water +was still very heavy and turbid, a frantic wind was lashing the woods, +heaps of dead leaves floated down, and several sheaves of corn were +drifted on the current. The long boat-pool at Yair, however, is +sheltered by wooded banks, and it was possible enough to cast, in spite +of the wind’s fury. We had driven from a place about five +miles distant, and we had not driven three hundred yards before I remembered +that we had forgotten the landing-net. But, as I expected nothing, +it did not seem worth while to go back for this indispensable implement. +We reached the waterside, and found that the trout were feeding below +the pendent branches of the trees and in the quiet, deep eddies of the +long boat-pool. One cannot see rising trout without casting over +them, in preference to labouring after salmon, so I put up a small rod +and diverted myself from the bank. It was to little purpose. +Tweed trout are now grown very shy and capricious; even a dry fly failed +to do any execution worth mentioning. Conscience compelled me, +as I had been sent out by kind hosts to fish for salmon, not to neglect +my orders. The armour—the ponderous gear of the fisher—was +put on with the enormous boots, and the gigantic rod was equipped. +Then came the beginning of sorrows. We had left the books of salmon +flies comfortably reposing at home. We had also forgotten the +whiskey flask. Everything, in fact, except cigarettes, had been +left behind. Unluckily, not quite everything: I had a trout fly-book, +and therein lay just one large salmon fly, not a Tweed fly, but a lure +that is used on the beautiful and hopeless waters of the distant Ken, +in Galloway. It had brown wings, a dark body, and a piece of jungle-cock +feather, and it was fastened to a sea-trout casting-line. Now, +if I had possessed no salmon flies at all, I must either have sent back +for some, or gone on innocently dallying with trout. But this +one wretched fly lured me to my ruin. I saw that the casting-line +had a link which seemed rather twisted. I tried it; but, in the +spirit of Don Quixote with his helmet, I did not try it hard. +I waded into the easiest-looking part of the pool, just above a huge +tree that dropped its boughs to the water, and began casting, merely +from a sense of duty. I had not cast a dozen times before there +was a heavy, slow plunge in the stream, and a glimpse of purple and +azure.</p> +<p>“That’s him,” cried a man who was trouting on the +opposite bank. Doubtless it was “him,” but he had +not touched the hook. I believe the correct thing would have been +to wait for half an hour, and then try the fish with a smaller fly. +But I had no smaller fly, no other fly at all. I stepped back +a few paces, and fished down again. In Major Traherne’s +work I have read that the heart leaps, or stands still, or otherwise +betrays an uncomfortable interest, when one casts for the second time +over a salmon which has risen. I cannot honestly say that I suffered +from this tumultuous emotion. “He will not come again,” +I said, when there was a long heavy drag at the line, followed by a +shrieking of the reel, as in Mr. William Black’s novels. +Let it be confessed that the first hooking of a salmon is an excitement +unparalleled in trout-fishing. There have been anglers who, when +the salmon was once on, handed him over to the gillie to play and land. +One would like to act as gillie to those lordly amateurs. My own +fish rushed down stream, where the big tree stands. I had no hope +of landing him if he took that course, because one could neither pass +the rod under the boughs, nor wade out beyond them. But he soon +came back, while one took in line, and discussed his probable size with +the trout-fisher opposite. His size, indeed! Nobody knows +what it was, for when he had come up to the point whence he had started, +he began a policy of violent short tugs—not “jiggering,” +as it is called, but plunging with all his weight on the line. +I had clean forgotten the slimness of the tackle, and, as he was clearly +well hooked, held him perhaps too hard. Only a very raw beginner +likes to take hours over landing a fish. Perhaps I held him too +tight: at all events, after a furious plunge, back came the line; the +casting line had snapped at the top link.</p> +<p>There was no more to be said or done, except to hunt for another +fly in the trout fly-book. Here there was no such thing, but a +local spectator offered me a huge fly, more like a gaff, and equipped +with a large iron eye for attaching the gut to. Withal I suspect +this weapon was meant, not for fair fishing, but for “sniggling.” +Now “sniggling” is a form of cold-blooded poaching. +In the open water, on the Ettrick, you may see half a dozen snigglers +busy. They all wear high wading trousers; they are all armed with +stiff salmon-rods and huge flies. They push the line and the top +joints of the rod deep into the water, drag it along, and then bring +the hook out with a jerk. Often it sticks in the side of a salmon, +and in this most unfair and unsportsmanlike way the free sport of honest +people is ruined, and fish are diminished in number. Now, the +big fly <i>may</i> have been an honest character, but he was sadly like +a rake-hook in disguise. He did not look as if an fish could fancy +him. I, therefore, sent a messenger across the river to beg, buy, +or borrow a fly at “The Nest.” But this pretty cottage +is no longer the home of the famous angling club, which has gone a mile +or two up the water and builded for itself a new dwelling. My +messenger came back with one small fatigued-looking fly, a Popham, I +think, which had been lent by some one at a farmhouse. The water +was so heavy that the small fly seemed useless; however, we fastened +it on as a dropper, using the sniggler as the trail fly; so exhausted +were our resources, that I had to cut a piece of gut off a minnow tackle +and attach the small fly to that. The tiny gut loop of the fly +was dreadfully frayed, and with a heavy heart I began fishing again. +My friend on the opposite side called out that big fish were rising +in the bend of the stream, so thither I went, stumbling over rocks, +and casting with much difficulty, as the high overgrown banks permit +no backward sweep of the line. You are obliged to cast by a kind +of forward thrust of the arms, a knack not to be acquired in a moment. +I splashed away awkwardly, but at last managed to make a straight, clean +cast. There was a slight pull, such as a trout gives in mid-stream +under water. I raised the point, and again the reel sang aloud +and gleefully as the salmon rushed down the stream farther and faster +than the first. It is a very pleasant thing to hook a salmon when +you are all alone, as I was then—alone with yourself and the Goddess +of Fishing. This salmon, just like the other, now came back, and +instantly began the old tactics of heavy plunging tugs. But I +knew the gut was sound this time, and as I fancied he had risen to the +sniggler, I had no anxiety about the tackle holding. One more +plunge, and back came the line as before. He was off. One +could have sat down and gnawed the reel. What had gone wrong? +Why, the brute had taken the old fly from the farmhouse and had snapped +the loop that attaches the gut. The little loop was still on the +fragment of minnow tackle which fastened it to the cast.</p> +<p>There was no more chance, for there were now no more flies, except +a small “cobbery,” a sea-trout fly from the Sound of Mull. +It was time for us to go, with a heavy heart and a basket empty, except +for two or three miserable trout. The loss of those two salmon, +whether big or little fish, was not the whole misfortune. All +the chances of the day were gone, and seldom have salmon risen so freely. +I had not been casting long enough to smoke half a cigarette, when I +hooked each of those fish. They rose at flies which were the exact +opposites of each other in size, character, and colour. They were +ready to rise at anything but the sniggler. And I had nothing +to offer them, absolutely nothing bigger than a small red-spinner from +the Test. On that day a fisher, not far off, hooked nine salmon +and landed four of them, in one pool, I never had such a chance before; +the heavy flood and high wind had made the salmon as “silly” +as perch. One might have caught half a dozen of the great sturdy +fellows, who make all trout, even sea-trout, seem despicable minnows. +Next day I fished again in the same water, with a friend. I rose +a fish, but did not hook it, and he landed a small one, five minutes +after we started, and we only had one other rise all the rest of the +day. Probably it was not dark and windy enough, but who can explain +the caprices of salmon? The only certain thing is, that carelessness +always brings misfortune; that if your tackle is weak fish will hook +themselves on days, and in parts of the water, where you expected nothing, +and then will go away with your fly and your casting-lines. Fortune +never forgives. He who is lazy, and takes no trouble because he +expects no fish, will always be meeting heart-breaking adventures. +One should never make a hopeless or careless cast; bad luck lies in +wait for that kind of performance. These are the experiences that +embitter a man, as they embittered Dean Swift, who, old and ill, neglected +and in Irish exile, still felt the pang of losing a great trout when +he was a boy. What pleasure is there in landscape and tradition +when such accidents befall you?</p> +<blockquote><p>The sun upon the Weirdlaw hill,<br /> +In Ettrick’s vale is sinking sweet.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>There is a fire of autumn colour in the tufted woods that embosom +Fernilea. “Bother the setting sun,” we say, and the +Maid of Neidpath, and the “Flowers of the Forest,” and the +memories of Scott at Ashiesteil, and of Muckle Mou’d Meg, at Elibank. +These are filmy, shadowy pleasures of the fancy, these cannot minister +to the mind of him who has been “broken” twice, who cannot +resume the contest for want of ammunition, and who has not even brought +the creature-comfort of a flask. Since that woful day I have lain +on the bank and watched excellent anglers skilfully flogging the best +of water, and that water full of fish, without hooking one. Salmon-fishing, +then, is a matter of chance, or of plodding patience. They will +rise on one day at almost any fly (but the sniggler), however ill-presented +to them. On a dozen other days no fly and no skill will avail +to tempt them. The salmon is a brainless brute and the grapes +are sour!</p> +<p>If only the gut had held, this sketch would have ended with sentiment, +and a sunset, and the music of Ettrick, the melody of Tweed. In +the gloaming we’d be roaming homeward, telling, perhaps, the story +of the ghost seen by Sir Walter Scott near Ashiesteil, or discussing +the Roman treasure still buried near Oakwood Tower, under an inscribed +stone which men saw fifty years ago. Or was it a treasure of Michael +Scott’s, who lived at Oakwood, says tradition? Let Harden +dig for Harden’s gear, it is not for me to give hints as to its +whereabouts. After all that ill-luck, to be brief, one is not +in the vein for legendary lore, nor memories of boyhood, nor poetry, +nor sunsets. I do not believe that one ever thinks of the landscape +or of anything else, while there is a chance for a fish, and no abundance +of local romance can atone for an empty creel. Poetical fishers +try to make people believe these fallacies; perhaps they impose on themselves; +but if one would really enjoy landscape, one should leave, not only +the fly-book and the landing-net, but the rod and reel at home. +And so farewell to the dearest and fairest of all rivers that go on +earth, fairer than Eurotas or Sicilian Anapus with its sea-trout; farewell—for +who knows how long?—to the red-fringed Gleddis-wheel, the rock +of the Righ-wheel, the rushing foam of the Gullets, the woodland banks +of Caddon-foot.</p> +<blockquote><p>The valleys of England are wide,<br /> +Her rivers rejoice every one,<br /> +In grace and in beauty they glide,<br /> +And water-flowers float at their side,<br /> +As they gleam in the rays of the sun.</p> +<p>But where are the speed and the spray—<br /> +The dark lakes that welter them forth,<br /> +Tree and heath nodding over their way—<br /> +The rock and the precipice grey,<br /> +That bind the wild streams of the North?</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Well, both, are good, the streams of north and south, but he who +has given his heart to the Tweed, as did Tyro, in Homer, to the Enipeus +will never change his love.</p> +<p>P.S.—That Galloway fly—“The Butcher and Lang”—has +been avenged. A copy of him, on the line of a friend, has proved +deadly on the Tweed, killing, among other victims, a sea-trout of thirteen +pounds.</p> +<h2>THE DOUBLE ALIBI</h2> +<p>Glen Aline is probably the loneliest place in the lone moorlands +of Western Galloway. The country is entirely pastoral, and I fancy +that the very pasture is bad enough. Stretches of deer-grass and +ling, rolling endlessly to the feet of Cairnsmure and the circle of +the eastern hills, cannot be good feeding for the least Epicurean of +sheep, and sheep do not care for the lank and sour herbage by the sides +of the “lanes,” as the half-stagnant, black, deep, and weedy +burns are called in this part of the country. The scenery is not +unattractive, but tourists never wander to these wastes where no inns +are, and even the angler seldom visits them. Indeed, the fishing +is not to be called good, and the “lanes,” which “seep,” +as the Scotch say, through marshes and beneath low hillsides, are not +such excellent company as the garrulous and brawling brooks of the Border +or of the Highlands. As the lanes flow, however, from far-away +lochs, it happens that large trout make their way into them—trout +which, if hooked, offer a gallant resistance before they can be hauled +over the weeds that usually line the watercourses.</p> +<p>Partly for the sake of trying this kind of angling, partly from a +temporary distaste for the presence of men and women, partly for the +purpose of finishing a work styled “A History of the Unexplained,” +I once spent a month in the solitudes of Glen Aline. I stayed +at the house of a shepherd who, though not an unintelligent man was +by no means possessed of the modern spirit. He and his brother +swains had sturdily and successfully resisted an attempt made by the +schoolmaster at a village some seven miles off to get a postal service +in the glen more frequently than once a week. A post once a week +was often enough for lucky people who did not get letters twice a year. +It was not my shepherd, but another, who once came with his wife to +the village, after a twelve miles’ walk across the hills, to ask +“what the day of the week was?” They had lost count, +and the man had attended to his work on a day which the dame averred +to be the Sabbath. He denied that it <i>was</i> the Sabbath, and +I believe that it turned out to be a Tuesday. This little incident +gives some idea of the delightful absence of population in Glen Aline. +But no words can paint the utter loneliness, which could actually be +felt—the empty moors, the empty sky. The heaps of stones +by a burnside, here and there, showed that a cottage had once existed +where now was no habitation. One such spot was rather to be shunned +by the superstitious, for here, about 1698, a cottar family had been +evicted by endless unaccountable disturbances in the house. Stones +were thrown by invisible hands—though occasionally, by the way, +a white hand, with no apparent body attached to it, <i>was</i> viewed +by the curious who came to the spot. Heavy objects of all sorts +floated in the air; rappings and voices were heard; the end wall was +pulled down by an unknown agency. The story is extant in a pious +old pamphlet called “Sadducees Defeated,” and a great deal +more to the same effect—a masterpiece by the parish minister, +signed and attested by the other ministers of the Glen Kens. The +Edinburgh edition of the pamphlet is rare; the London edition may be +procured without much difficulty.</p> +<p>The site of this ruined cottage, however, had no terrors for the +neighbours, or rather for the neighbour, my shepherd. In fact, +he seemed to have forgotten the legend till I reminded him of it, for +I had come across the tale in my researches into the Unexplained. +The shepherd and his family, indeed, were quite devoid of superstition, +and in this respect very unlike the northern Highlanders. However, +the fallen cottage had nothing to do with my own little adventure in +Glen Aline, and I mention it merely as the most notable of the tiny +ruins which attest the presence, in the past, of a larger population. +One cannot marvel that the people “flitted” from the moors +and morasses of Glen Aline into less melancholy neighbourhoods. +The very sheep seemed scarcer here than elsewhere; grouse-disease had +devastated the moors, sportsmen consequently did not visit them; and +only a few barren pairs, with crow-picked skeletons of dead birds in +the heather now and then, showed that the shootings had once perhaps +been marketable. My shepherd’s cottage was four miles from +the little-travelled road to Dalmellington; long bad miles they were, +across bog and heather. Consequently I seldom saw any face of +man, except in or about the cottage. My work went on rapidly enough +in such an undisturbed life. Empires might fall, parties might +break like bursting shells, and banks might break also: I plodded on +with my labour, and went a-fishing when the day promised well. +There was a hill loch (Loch Nan) about five miles away, which I favoured +a good deal. The trout were large and fair of flesh, and in proper +weather they rose pretty freely, and could be taken by an angler wading +from the shore. There was no boat. The wading, however, +was difficult and dangerous, owing to the boggy nature of the bottom, +which quaked like a quicksand in some places. The black water, +never stirred by duck or moorhen, the dry rustling reeds, the noisome +smell of decaying vegetable-matter when you stirred it up in wading, +the occasional presence of a dead sheep by the sullen margin of the +tarn, were all opposed to cheerfulness. Still, the fish were there, +and the “lane,” which sulkily glided from the loch towards +the distant river, contained some monsters, which took worm after a +flood. One misty morning, as I had just topped the low ridge from +which the loch became visible, I saw a man fishing from my favourite +bench. Never had I noticed a human being there before, and I was +not well pleased to think that some emissary of Mr. Watson Lyall was +making experiments in Loch Nan, and would describe it in “The +Sportsman’s Guide.” The mist blew white and thick +for a minute or two over the loch-side, as it often does at Loch Skene; +so white and thick and sudden that the bewildered angler there is apt +to lose his way, and fall over the precipice of the Grey Mare’s +Tail. When the curtain of cloud rose again, the loch was lonely: +the angler had disappeared. I went on rejoicing, and made a pretty +good basket, as the weather improved and grew warmer—a change +which gives an appetite to trout in some hill lochs. Among the +sands between the stones on the farther bank I found traces of the angler’s +footsteps; he was not a phantom, at all events, for phantoms do not +wear heavily nailed boots, as he evidently did. The traces, which +were soon lost, of course, inclined me to think that he had retreated +up a narrow green burnside, with rather high banks, through which, in +rainy weather, a small feeder fell into the loch. I guessed that +he had been frightened away by the descent of the mist, which usually +“puts down” the trout and prevents them from feeding. +In that case his alarm was premature. I marched homewards, happy +with the unaccustomed weight of my basket, the contents of which were +a welcome change from the usual porridge and potatoes, tea (without +milk), jam, and scones of the shepherd’s table. But, as +I reached the height above the loch on my westward path, and looked +back to see if rising fish were dimpling the still waters, all flushed +as they were with sunset, behold, there was the Other Man at work again!</p> +<p>I should have thought no more about him had I not twice afterwards +seen him at a distance, fishing up a “lane” ahead of me, +in the loneliest regions, and thereby, of course, spoiling my sport. +I knew him by his peculiar stoop, which seemed not unfamiliar to me, +and by his hat, which was of the clerical pattern once known, perhaps +still known, as “a Bible-reader’s”—a low, soft, +slouched black felt. The second time that I found him thus anticipating +me, I left off fishing and walked rather briskly towards him, to satisfy +my curiosity, and ask the usual questions, “What sport?” +and “What flies?” But as soon as he observed me coming +he strode off across the heather. Uncourteous as it seems, I felt +so inquisitive that I followed him. But he walked so rapidly, +and was so manifestly anxious to shake me off, that I gave up the pursuit. +Even if he were a poacher whose conscience smote him for using salmon-roe, +I was not “my brother’s keeper,” nor anybody’s +keeper. He might “otter” the loch, but how could I +prevent him?</p> +<p>It was no affair of mine, and yet—where had I seen him before? +His gait, his stoop, the carriage of his head, all seemed familiar—but +a short-sighted man is accustomed to this kind of puzzle: he is always +recognising the wrong person, when he does not fail to recognise the +right one.</p> +<p>I am rather short-sighted, but science has its resources. Two +or three days after my encounter with this very shy sportsman, I went +again to Loch Nan. But this time I took with me a strong field-glass. +As I neared the crest of the low heathery slope immediately above the +loch, whence the water first comes into view, I lay down on the ground +and crawled like a deer-stalker to the skyline.</p> +<p>Then I got out the glass and reconnoitred. There was my friend, +sure enough; moreover, he was playing a very respectable trout. +But he was fishing on the near side of the loch, and though I had quite +a distinct view of his back, and indeed of all his attenuated form, +I was as far as ever from recognising him, or guessing where, if anywhere, +I had seen him before. I now determined to stalk him; but this +was not too easy, as there is literally no cover on the hillside except +a long march dyke of the usual loose stones, which ran down to the loch-side, +and indeed three or four feet into the loch, reaching it at a short +distance to the right of the angler. Behind this I skulked, in +an eagerly undignified manner, and was just about to climb the wall +unobserved, when two grouse got up, with their wild “cluck cluck” +of alarm, and flew down past the angler and over the loch. He +did not even look round, but jerked his line out of the water, reeled +it up, and set off walking along the loch-side. He was making, +no doubt, for the little glen up which I fancied that he must have retreated +on the first occasion when saw him. I set off walking round the +tarn on my own side—the left side—expecting to anticipate +him, and that he must pass me on his way up the little burnside. +But I had miscalculated the distance, or the pace. He was first +at the burnside; and now I cast courtesy and everything but curiosity +to the winds, and deliberately followed him. He was a few score +of yards ahead of me, walking rapidly, when he suddenly climbed the +burnside to the left, and was lost to my eyes for a few moments. +I reached the place, ascended the steep green declivity and found myself +on the open undulating moor, with no human being in sight!</p> +<p>The grass and heather were short. I saw no bush, no hollow, +where he could by any possibility have hidden himself. Had he +met a Boojum he could not have more “softly and suddenly vanished +away.”</p> +<p>I make no pretence of being more courageous than my neighbours, and, +in this juncture, perhaps I was less so. The long days of loneliness +in waste Glen Aline, and too many solitary cigarettes, had probably +injured my nerve. So, when I suddenly heard a sigh and the half-smothered +sound of a convulsive cough-hollow, if ever a cough was hollow—hard +by me, at my side as it were, and yet could behold no man, nor any place +where a man might conceal himself—nothing but moor and sky and +tufts of rushes—then I turned away, and walked down the glen: +not slowly. I shall not deny that I often looked over my shoulder +as I went, and that, when I reached the loch, I did not angle without +many a backward glance. Such an appearance and disappearance as +this, I remembered, were in the experience of Sir Walter Scott. +Lockhart does not tell the anecdote, which is in a little anonymous +volume, “Recollections of Sir Walter Scott,” published before +Lockhart’s book. Sir Walter reports that he was once riding +across the moor to Ashiesteil, in the clear brown summer twilight, after +sunset. He saw a man a little way ahead of him, but, just before +he reached the spot, the man disappeared. Scott rode about and +about, searching the low heather as I had done, but to no purpose. +He rode on, and, glancing back, saw the same man at the same place. +He turned his horse, galloped to the spot, and again—nothing! +“Then,” says Sir Walter, “neither the mare nor I cared +to wait any longer.” Neither had I cared to wait, and if +there is any shame in the confession, on my head be it!</p> +<p>There came a week of blazing summer weather; tramping over moors +to lochs like sheets of burnished steel was out of the question, and +I worked at my book, which now was all but finished. At length +I wrote THE END, and “ô le bon ouff! que je poussais,” +as Flaubert says about one of his own laborious conclusions. The +weather broke, we had a deluge, and then came a soft cloudy day, with +a warm southern wind suggesting a final march on Loch Nan. I packed +some scones and marmalade into my creel, filled my flask with whiskey, +my cigarette-case with cigarettes, and started on the familiar track +with the happiest anticipations. The Lone Fisher was quite out +of my mind; the day was exhilarating—one of those true fishing-days +when you feel the presence of the sun without seeing him. Still, +I looked rather cautiously over the edge of the slope above the loch, +and, by Jove! there he was, fishing the near side, and wading deep among +the reeds! I did not stalk him this time, but set off running +down the hillside behind him, as quickly as my basket, with its load +of waders and boots, would permit. I was within forty yards of +him, when he gave a wild stagger, tried to recover himself, failed, +and, this time, disappeared in a perfectly legitimate and accountable +manner. The treacherous peaty bottom had given way, and his floating +hat, with a splash on the surface, and a few black bubbles, were all +that testified to his existence. There was a broken old paling +hard by; I tore off a long plank, waded in as near as I dared, and, +by help of the plank, after a good deal of slipping, which involved +an exemplary drenching, I succeeded in getting him on to dry land. +He was a distressing spectacle—his body and face all blackened +with the slimy peat-mud; and he fell half-fainting on the grass, convulsed +by a terrible cough. My first care was to give him whiskey, by +perhaps a mistaken impulse of humanity; my next, as he lay, exhausted, +was to bring water in my hat, and remove the black mud from his face.</p> +<p>Then I saw Percy Allen—Allen of St. Jude’s! His +face was wasted, his thin long beard (he had not worn a beard of old), +clogged as it was with peat-stains, showed flecks of grey.</p> +<p>“Allen—Percy!” I said; “what wind blew <i>you</i> +here?”</p> +<p>But he did not answer; and, as he coughed, it was too plain that +the shock of his accident had broken some vessel in the lungs. +I tended him as well as I knew how to do it. I sat beside him, +giving him what comfort I might, and all the time my memory flew back +to college days, and to our strange and most unhappy last meeting, and +his subsequent inevitable disgrace. Far away from here—Loch +Nan and the vacant moors—my memory wandered.</p> +<p>It was at Blocksby’s auction-room, in a street near the Strand, +on the eve of a great book-sale three years before, that we had met, +for almost the last time, as I believed, though it is true that we had +not spoken on that occasion. It is necessary that I should explain +what occurred, or what I and three other credible witnesses believed +to have occurred; for, upon my word, the more I see and hear of human +evidence of any event, the less do I regard it as establishing anything +better than an excessively probable hypothesis.</p> +<p>To make a long story as short as may be, I should say that Allen +and I had been acquainted when we were undergraduates; that, when fellows +of our respective colleges, our acquaintance had become intimate; that +we had once shared a little bit of fishing on the Test; and that we +were both book-collectors. I was a comparatively sane bibliomaniac, +but to Allen the time came when he grudged every penny that he did not +spend on rare books, and when he actually gave up his share of the water +we used to take together, that his contribution to the rent might go +for rare editions and bindings. After this deplorable change of +character we naturally saw each other less, but we were still friendly. +I went up to town to scribble; Allen stayed on at Oxford. One +day I chanced to go into Blocksby’s rooms; it was a Friday, I +remember—there was to be a great sale on the Monday. There +I met Allen in ecstasies over one of the books displayed in the little +side room on the right hand of the sale-room. He had taken out +of a glass case and was gloating over a book which, it seems, had long +been the Blue Rose of his fancy as a collector. He was crazed +about Longepierre, the old French amateur, whose volumes, you may remember, +were always bound in blue morocco, and tooled, on the centre and at +the corners, with his badge, the Golden Fleece. Now the tome which +so fascinated Allen was a Theocritus, published at Rome by Caliergus—a +Theocritus on blue paper, if you please, bound in Longepierre’s +morocco livery, <i>doublé</i> with red morocco, and, oh ecstasy! +with a copy of Longepierre’s version of one Idyll on the flyleaf, +signed with the translator’s initials, and headed “<i>à +Mon Roy</i>.” It is known to the curious that Louis XIV. +particularly admired and praised this little poem, calling it “a +model of honourable gallantry.” Clearly the grateful author +had presented his own copy to the king; and here it was, when king and +crown had gone down into dust.</p> +<p>Allen showed me the book; he could hardly let it leave his hands.</p> +<p>“Here is a pearl,” he had said, “a gem beyond price!”</p> +<p>“I’m afraid you’ll find it so,” I said; “that +is for a Paillet or Rothschild, not for you, my boy.”</p> +<p>“I fear so,” he had answered; “if I were to sell +my whole library to-morrow, I could hardly raise the money;” for +he was poor, and it was rumoured that his mania had already made him +acquainted with the Jews.</p> +<p>We parted. I went home to chambers; Allen stayed adoring the +unexampled Longepierre. That night I dined out, and happened to +sit next a young lady who possessed a great deal of taste, though that +was the least of her charms. The fashion for book-collecting was +among her innocent pleasures; she had seen Allen’s books at Oxford, +and I told her of his longings for the Theocritus. Miss Breton +at once was eager to see the book, and the other books, and I obtained +leave to go with her and Mrs. Breton to the auction-rooms next day. +The little side-room where the treasures were displayed was empty, except +for an attendant, when we went in; we looked at the things and made +learned remarks, but I admit that I was more concerned to look at Miss +Breton than at any work in leather by Derome or Bauzonnet. We +were thus a good deal occupied, perhaps, with each other; people came +and went, while our heads were bent over a case of volumes under the +window. When we <i>did</i> leave, on the appeal of Mrs. Breton, +we both—both I and Kate—Miss Breton, I mean—saw Allen—at +least I saw him, and believed <i>she</i> did—absorbed in gazing +at the Longepierre Theocritus. He held it rather near his face; +the gas, which had been lit, fell on the shining Golden Fleeces of the +cover, on his long thin hands and eager studious features. It +would have been a pity to disturb him in his ecstasy. I looked +at Miss Breton; we both smiled, and, of course, I presumed we smiled +for the same reason.</p> +<p>I happen to know, and unluckily did it happen, the very minute of +the hour when we left Blocksby’s. It was a quarter to four +o’clock—a church-tower was chiming the three-quarters in +the Strand, and I looked half mechanically at my own watch, which was +five minutes fast. On Sunday I went down to Oxford, and happened +to walk into Allen’s rooms. He was lying on a sofa reading +the “Spectator.” After chatting a little, I said, +“You took no notice of me, nor of the Bretons yesterday, Allen, +at Blocksby’s.”</p> +<p>“I didn’t see you,” he said; and as he was speaking +there came a knock at the door.</p> +<p>“Come in!” cried Allen, and a man entered who was a stranger +to me. You would not have called him a gentleman perhaps. +However, I admit that I am possibly no great judge of a gentleman.</p> +<p>Allen looked up.</p> +<p>“Hullo, Mr. Thomas,” he said, “have you come up +to see Mr. Mortby?” mentioning a well-known Oxford bibliophile. +“Wharton,” he went on, addressing me, “this is Mr. +Thomas from Blocksby’s.” I bowed. Mr. Thomas +seemed embarrassed. “Can I have a word alone with you, sir?” +he murmured to Allen.</p> +<p>“Certainly,” answered Allen, looking rather surprised. +“You’ll excuse me a moment, Wharton,” he said to me. +“Stop and lunch, won’t you? There’s the old +‘Spectator’ for you;” and he led Mr. Thomas into a +small den where he used to hear his pupils read their essays, and so +forth.</p> +<p>In a few minutes he came out, looking rather pale, and took an embarrassed +farewell of Mr. Thomas.</p> +<p>“Look here, Wharton,” he said to me, “here is a +curious business. That fellow from Blocksby’s tells me that +the Longepierre Theocritus disappeared yesterday afternoon; that I was +the last person in whose hand it was seen, and that not only the man +who always attends in the room but Lord Tarras and Mr. Wentworth, saw +it in <i>my</i> hands just before it was missed.”</p> +<p>“What a nuisance!” I answered. “You were +looking at it when Miss Breton and I saw you, and you didn’t notice +us; Does Thomas know <i>when</i>—I mean about what o’clock—the +book was first missed?”</p> +<p>“That’s the lucky part of the whole worry,” said +Allen. “I left the rooms at three exactly, and it was missed +about ten minutes to four; dozens of people must have handled it in +that interval of time. So interesting a book!”</p> +<p>“But,” I said, and paused—“are you sure your +watch was right?”</p> +<p>“Quite certain; besides, I looked at a church clock. +Why on earth do you ask?”</p> +<p>“Because—I am awfully sorry—there is some unlucky +muddle; but it was exactly a quarter, or perhaps seventeen minutes, +to four when both Miss Breton and I saw you absorbed in the Longepierre.”</p> +<p>“Oh, it’s quite <i>impossible</i>,” Allen answered; +“I was far enough away from Blocksby’s at a quarter to four.”</p> +<p>“That’s all right,” I said. “Of course +you can prove that; if it is necessary; though I dare say the book has +fallen behind a row of others, and has been found by this time. +Where were you at a quarter to four?”</p> +<p>“I really don’t feel obliged to stand a cross-examination +before my time,” answered Allen, flushing a little. Then +I remembered that I was engaged to lunch at All Souls’, which +was true enough; convenient too, for I do not quite see how the conversation +could have been carried on pleasantly much further. For I <i>had</i> +seen him—not a doubt about it. But there was one curious +thing. Next time I met Miss Breton I told her the story, and said, +“You remember how we saw Allen, at Blocksby’s, just as we +were going away?”</p> +<p>“No,” she said, “I did not see him; where was he?”</p> +<p>“Then why did you smile—don’t you remember? +I looked at him and at you, and I thought you smiled!”</p> +<p>“Because—well, I suppose because <i>you</i> smiled,” +she said. And the subject of the conversation was changed.</p> +<p>It was an excessively awkward affair. It did not come “before +the public,” except, of course, in the agreeably mythical gossip +of an evening paper. There was no more public scandal than that. +Allen was merely ruined. The matter was introduced to the notice +of the Wardens and the other Fellows of St. Jude’s. What +Lord Tarras saw, what Mr. Wentworth saw, what I saw, clearly proved +that Allen was in the auction-rooms, and had the confounded book in +his hand, at an hour when, as <i>he</i> asserted, he had left the place +for some time. It was admitted by one of the people employed at +the sale-rooms that Allen had been noticed (he was well known there) +leaving the house at three. But he must have come back again, +of course, as at least four people could have sworn to his presence +in the show-room at a quarter to four o’clock. When he was +asked in a private interview, by the Head of his College, to say where +he went after leaving Blocksby’s Allen refused to answer. +He merely said that he could not prove the facts; that his own word +would not be taken against that of so many unprejudiced and even friendly +witnesses. He simply threw up the game. He resigned his +fellowship; he took his name off the books; he disappeared.</p> +<p>There was a good deal of talk; people spoke about the unscrupulousness +of collectors, and repeated old anecdotes on that subject. Then +the business was forgotten. Next, in a year’s time or so, +the book—the confounded Longepierre’s Theocritus—was +found in a pawnbroker’s shop. The history of its adventures +was traced beyond a shadow of doubt. It had been very adroitly +stolen, and disposed of, by a notorious book-thief, a gentleman by birth—now +dead, but well remembered. Ask Mr. Quaritch!</p> +<p>Allen’s absolute innocence was thus demonstrated beyond cavil, +though nobody paid any particular attention to the demonstration. +As for Allen, he had vanished; he was heard of no more.</p> +<p>He was <i>here</i>; dying here, beside the black wave of lone Loch +Nan.</p> +<p>All this, so long in the telling, I had time enough to think over, +as I sat and watched him, and wiped his lips with water from the burn, +clearer and sweeter than the water of the loch.</p> +<p>At last his fit of coughing ceased, and a kind of peace came into +his face.</p> +<p>“Allen, my dear old boy,” I said—I don’t +often use the language of affection—“did you never hear +that all that stupid story was cleared up; that everyone knows you are +innocent?”</p> +<p>He only shook his head; he did not dare to speak, but he looked happier, +and he put his hand in mine.</p> +<p>I sat holding his hand, stroking it. I don’t know how +long I sat there; I had put my coat and waterproof under him. +He was “wet through,” of course; there was little use in +what I did. What could I do with him? how bring him to a warm +and dry place?</p> +<p>The idea seemed to strike him, for he half rose and pointed to the +little burnside, across the loch. A plan occurred to me; I tore +a leaf from my sketch-book, put the paper with pencil in his hand, and +said, “Where do you live? Don’t speak. Write.”</p> +<p>He wrote in a faint scrawl, “Help me to that burnside. +Then I can guide you.”</p> +<p>I hardly know how I got him there, for, light as he was, I am no +Hercules. However, with many a rest, we reached the little dell; +and then I carried him up its green side, and laid him on the heather +of the moor.</p> +<p>He wrote again:</p> +<p>“Go to that clump of rushes—the third from the little +hillock. Then look, but be careful. Then lift the big grass +tussock.”</p> +<p>The spot which Allen indicated was on the side of a rather steep +grassy slope. I approached it, dragged at the tussock of grass, +which came away easily enough, and revealed the entrance to no more +romantic hiding-place than an old secret whiskey “still.” +Private stills, not uncommon in Sutherland and some other northern shires, +are extinct in Galloway. Allen had probably found this one by +accident in his wanderings, and in his half-insane bitterness against +mankind had made it, for some time at least, his home. The smoke-blackened +walls, the recesses where the worm-tub and the still now stood, all +plainly enough betrayed the original user of the hiding-place. +There was a low bedstead, a shelf or two, whereon lay a few books—a +Shakespeare, a Homer, a Walton, Plutarch’s “Lives”; +very little else out of a library once so rich. There was a tub +of oatmeal, a heap of dry peat, two or three eggs in a plate, some bottles, +a keg of whiskey, some sardine-tins, a box with clothes—that was +nearly all the “plenishing” of this hermitage. It +was never likely to be discovered, except by the smoke, when the inmate +lit a fire. The local shepherd knew it, of course, but Allen had +bought his silence, not that there were many neighbours for the shepherd +to tattle with.</p> +<p>Allen had recovered strength enough by this time to reach his den +with little assistance. He made me beat up the white of one of +the eggs with a little turpentine, which was probably, under the circumstances, +the best styptic for his malady within his reach. I lit his fire +of peats, undressed him, put him to bed, and made him as comfortable +as might be in the den which he had chosen. Then I went back to +the shepherd’s, sent a messenger to the nearest doctor, and procured +a kind of sledge, generally used for dragging peat home, wherein, with +abundance of blankets for covering, I hoped to bring Allen back to the +shepherd’s cottage.</p> +<p>Not to delay over details, this was managed at last, and the unhappy +fellow was under a substantial roof. But he was very ill; he became +delirious and raved of many things—talked of old college adventures, +bid recklessly for imaginary books, and practised other eccentricities +of fever.</p> +<p>When his fever left him he was able to converse in a way—I +talking, and he scrawling faintly with a pencil on paper. I told +him how his character had been cleared, how he had been hunted for, +advertised for, vainly enough. To the shepherds’ cottages +where he had lived till the beginning of that summer, newspapers rarely +came; to his den in the old secret still, of course they never came +at all.</p> +<p>His own story of what he had been doing at the fatal hour when so +many people saw him at the auction-rooms was brief. He had left +the rooms, as he said, at three o’clock, pondering how he might +raise money for the book on which his heart was set. His feet +had taken him, half unconsciously, to</p> +<blockquote><p>a dismal court,<br /> +Place of Israelite resort,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>where dwelt and dealt one Isaacs, from whom he had, at various times, +borrowed money on usury. The name of Isaacs was over a bell, one +of many at the door, and, when the bell was rung, the street door “opened +of his own accord,” like that of the little tobacco-and-talk club +which used to exist in an alley off Pall Mall. Allen rang the +bell, the outer door opened, and, as he was standing at the door of +Isaacs’ chambers, before he had knocked, <i>that</i> portal also +opened, and the office-boy, a young Jew, slunk cautiously out. +On seeing Allen, he had seemed at once surprised and alarmed. +Allen asked if his master was in; the lad answered “No” +in a hesitating way; but on second thoughts, averred that Isaacs “would +be back immediately,” and requested Allen to go in and wait. +He did so, but Isaacs never came, and Allen fell asleep. He had +a very distinct and singular dream, he said, of being in Messrs. Blocksy’s +rooms, of handling the Longepierre, and of seeing Wentworth there, and +Lord Tarras. When he wakened he was very cold, and, of course, +it was pitch dark. He did not remember where he was; he lit a +match and a candle on the chimney-piece. Then slowly his memory +came back to him, and not only his memory, but his consciousness of +what he had wholly forgotten—namely, that this was Saturday, the +Sabbath of the Jews, and that there was not the faintest chance of Isaacs’ +arrival at his place of business. In the same moment the embarrassment +and confusion of the young Israelite flashed vividly across his mind, +and he saw that he was in a very awkward position. If that fair +Hebrew boy had been robbing, or trying to rob, the till, then Allen’s +position was serious indeed, as here he was, alone, at an untimely hour, +in the office. So he blew the candle out, and went down the dingy +stairs as quietly as possible, took the first cab he met, drove to Paddington, +and went up to Oxford.</p> +<p>It is probable that the young child of Israel, if he had been attempting +any mischief, did not succeed in it. Had there been any trouble, +it is likely enough that he would have involved Allen in the grief. +Then Allen would have been in a, perhaps, unprecedented position. +He could have established an alibi, as far as the Jew’s affairs +went, by proving that he had been at Blocksby’s at the hour when +the boy would truthfully have sworn that he had let him into Isaacs’ +chambers. And, as far as the charge against him at Blocksby’s +went, the evidence of the young Jew would have gone to prove that he +was at Isaacs’, where he had no business to be, when we saw him +at Blocksby’s. But, unhappily, each alibi would have been +almost equally compromising. The difficulty never arose, but the +reason why Allen refused to give any account of what he had been doing, +and where he had been, at four o’clock on that Saturday afternoon—a +refusal that told so heavily against him—is now sufficiently clear. +His statement would, we may believe, never have been corroborated by +the youthful Hebrew, who certainly had his own excellent reasons for +silence, and who probably had carefully established an <i>alibi</i> +of his own elsewhere.</p> +<p>The true account of Allen’s appearance, or apparition, at Blocksby’s, +when I and Tarras, Wentworth and the attendant recognised him, and Miss +Breton did <i>not</i>, is thus part of the History of the Unexplained. +Allen might have appealed to precedents in the annals of the Psychical +Society, where they exist in scores, and are technically styled “collective +hallucinations.” But neither a jury, nor a judge, perhaps, +would accept the testimony of experts in Psychical Research if offered +in a criminal trial, nor acquit a wraith.</p> +<p>Possibly this scepticism has never yet injured the cause of an innocent +man. Yet I know, in my own personal experience, and have heard +from others, from men of age, sagacity, and acquaintance with the greatest +affairs, instances in which people have been distinctly seen by sane, +healthy, and honourable witnesses, in places and circumstances where +it was (as we say) “physically impossible” that they should +have been, and where they certainly were not themselves aware of having +been. That is why human testimony seems to me to establish no +more, in certain circumstances, than a highly probable working hypothesis—a +hypothesis on which, of course, we are bound to act.</p> +<p>There is little more to tell. By dint of careful nursing, poor +Allen was enabled to travel; he reached Mentone, and there the mistral +ended him. He was a lonely man, with no kinsfolk; his character +was cleared among the people who knew him best; the others have forgotten +him. Nobody can be injured by this explanation of his silence +when called on to prove his innocence, and of his unusually successful +vanishing from a society which had never tried very hard to discover +him in his retreat. He has lived and suffered and died, and left +behind him little but an incident in the History of the Unexplained.</p> +<h2>THE COMPLETE BUNGLER</h2> +<h3>SCENE I.—HAMPSHIRE</h3> +<p>PISCATOR ANGLUS. PISCATOR SCOTUS</p> +<p>Scotus.—Well, now let’s go to your sport of angling. +Where, Master, is your river?</p> +<p>Anglus.—Marry, ’tis here; mark you, this is the famous +Test.</p> +<p>Scotus.—What, Master, this dry ditch? There be scarce +three inches of water in it.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Patience, Scholar, the water is in the meadows, or +Master Oakley, the miller, is holding it up. Nay, let us wait +here some hour or so till the water is turned on. Or perchance, +Scholar, for the matter of five shillings, Master Oakley will even raise +his hatches, an you have a crown about you.</p> +<p>Scotus.—I like not to part with my substance, but, as needs +must, here, Master, is the coin.</p> +<p>[Exit ANGLUS to the Mill. He returns.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Now, Scholar, said I not so? The water is turned +on again, and, lo you, at the tail of yonder stream, a fair trout is +rising. You shall see a touch of our craft.</p> +<p>[ANGLUS crawls on his belly into a tuft of nettles, where he kneels +and flicks his fly for about ten minutes.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Alas, he has ceased rising, and I am grievously entangled +in these nettles. Come, Scholar, but warily, lest ye fright my +fish, and now, disentangle my hook.</p> +<p>Scotus.—Here is your hook, but, marry, my fingers tingle shrewdly +with the nettles; also I marked the fish hasting up stream.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Nay, come, we shall even look for another.</p> +<p>Scotus.—Oh, Master, what is this? That which but now +was dry ditch is presently salad bowl! Mark you how the green +vegetables cover the waters! We shall have no sport.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Patience, Scholar; ’tis but Master Hedgely’s +men, cutting the weeds above. We may rest us some hour or two, +till they go by. Or, perchance, for a matter of five shillings—</p> +<p>Scotus.—Nay, Master, this English angling is over costly. +The rent of your ditch is high, the expenses of travel are burdensome. +In crawling through your nettles and thistles I have scratched my face, +and torn my raiment, and I will not pay the labourer to cease labouring +in his industry.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Why then, <i>pazienza</i>, Scholar, or listen while +I sing that sweet ditty of country contentment and an angler’s +life, writ by worthy Master Hackle long ago.</p> +<p>SONG</p> +<p>The Angler hath a jolly life<br /> +Who by the rail runs down,<br /> +And leaves his business and his wife,<br /> +And all the din of town.<br /> +The wind down stream is blowing straight,<br /> +And nowhere cast can he;<br /> +Then lo, he doth but sit and wait<br /> +In kindly company.</p> +<p>Or else men turn the water off,<br /> +Or folk be cutting weed,<br /> +While he doth at misfortune scoff,<br /> +From every trouble freed.<br /> +Or else he waiteth for a rise,<br /> +And ne’er a rise may see;<br /> +For why, there are not any flies<br /> +To bear him company.</p> +<p>Or, if he mark a rising trout,<br /> +He straightway is caught up,<br /> +And then he takes his flasket out,<br /> +And drinks a rousing cup.<br /> +Or if a trout he chance to hook,<br /> +Weeded and broke is he,<br /> +And then he finds a goodly book<br /> +Instructive company.</p> +<p>What think you of my song, Scholar? ’Tis choicely musical. +What, he is gone! A pest on those Northerners; they have no manners. +Now, methinks I do remember a trout called George, a heavy fellow that +lies ever under the arch of yonder bridge, where there is shelter from +the wind. Ho for George!</p> +<p>[Exit singing.</p> +<h3>SCENE II.—A BRIDGE</h3> +<p>Enter ANGLUS</p> +<p>Anglus.—Now to creep like your Indian of Virginia on the prey, +and angle for George. I’faith, he is a lusty trout; many +a good Wickham have I lost in George.</p> +<p>[He ensconces himself in the middle of a thorn bush.</p> +<p>Anglus.—There he is, I mark his big back fin. Now speed +me, St. Peter, patron of all honest anglers! But first to dry +my fly!</p> +<p>[He flicks his fly for ten minutes. Enter BOY on Bridge. +ANGLUS makes his cast, too short. BOY heaves a great stone from +the Bridge. Exit GEORGE. Exit BOY.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Oh, Mass! verily the angler had need of patience! +Yonder boy hath spoiled my sport, and were it not that swearing frights +the fish, I could find it in my heart to say an oath or twain. +But, ha, here come the swallows, hawking low on the stream. Now, +were but my Scholar here, I could impart to him much honest lore concerning +the swallow, and other birds. But where she hawks, there fly must +be, and fish will rise, and, look you, I do mark the trout feeding in +yonder ford below the plank bridge.</p> +<p>[ANGLUS steals off, and gingerly takes up his position.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Marry, that is a good trout under the burdock!</p> +<p>[He is caught up in the burdock, and breaks his tackle.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Now to knot a fresh cast. Marry, but they are +feeding gaily! How kindly is the angler’s life; he harmeth +no fish that swims, yet the Spectator deemeth ours a cruel sport. +Ah, good Master Townsend and learned Master Hutton, little ye wot of +our country contents. So, I am ready again, and this Whitchurch +dun will beguile yonder fish, I doubt not. Marry, how thick the +flies come, and how the fish do revel in this merciful provender that +Heaven sendeth! Verily I know not at which of these great fellows +to make my essay.</p> +<p>[Enter twenty-four callow young ducks, swimming up stream. +The ducks chevy the flies, taking them out of the very mouths of the +trout.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Oh, mercy. I have hooked a young duck! +Where is my landing-net? Nay, I have left it under yonder elm!</p> +<p>[He struggles with the young duck. By the conclusion of the +fray the Rise is over.</p> +<p>Anglus.—I have saved my fly, but lo, the trout have ceased +to feed, and will rise no more till after sunset. Well, “a +merry heart goes all the way!” And lo, here comes my Scholar. +Ho, runaway, how have you sped?</p> +<p>Scotus.—Not ill. Here be my spoils, great ones; but how +faint-hearted are your southern trout!</p> +<p>Anglus.—That fat fellow is a good three pounds by the scales. +But, Scholar, with what fly caught ye these, and where?</p> +<p>Scotus.—Marry, Master, in a Mill-tail, where the water lagged +not, but ran free as it doth in bonny Scotland; nor with no fly did +I grip him, but with an artificial penk, or minnow. It was made +by a handsome woman that had a fine hand, and wrought for Master Brown, +of Aberdeen. The mould, or body of the minnow, is of parchment, +methinks, and he hath fins of copper, all so curiously dissembled that +it will beguile any sharp-sighted trout in a swift stream. Men +call it a Phantom, Master; wilt thou not try my Phantom?</p> +<p>Anglus.—Begone, sirrah. I took thee for an angler, and +thou art but a poaching knave!</p> +<p>Scotus.—Knave thyself! I will break thy head!</p> +<p>Anglus.—Softly, Scholar. Here comes good Master Hedgely, +who will see fair play. Now lie there, my coat, and have at you!</p> +<p>[They fight, SCOTUS is knocked down.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Half-minute time! Time is up! Master Hedgely, +in my dry fly box thou wilt find a little sponge for moistening of my +casting lines. Wilt thou, of thy courtesy, throw it up for my +Scholar? And now, Scholar, trust me, thy guard is too low. +I hope thou bearest no malice.</p> +<p>Scotus.—None, Master. But, lo! I am an hungered; +wilt thou taste my cates? Here I have bread slices and marmalade +of Dundee. This fishing is marvellous hungry work.</p> +<p>Anglus.—Gladly will I fall to, but first say me a grace—Benedictus +benedicat! Where is thine usquebaugh? Marry, ’tis +the right Talisker!</p> +<p>Scotus.—And now, Master, wherefore wert thou wroth with me? +Came we not forth to catch fish?</p> +<p>Anglus.—Nay, marry, Scholar, by no means to catch fish, but +to fish with the dry fly. Now this, humanly speaking, is impossible; +natheless it is rare sport. But for your fish, as they were ill +come by, let us even give them to good Master Hedgely here, and so be +merry till the sedges come on in the late twilight. And, trust +me, this is the rarest fishing, and the peacefulest; only see that thou +fish not with the wet fly, for that is Anathema. So shall we have +light consciences.</p> +<p>Scotus.—And light baskets!</p> +<p>Anglus.—Ay, it may be so.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> Too true, +alas!</p> +<p><a name="footnote2"></a><a href="#citation2">{2}</a> It should +be added that large trout, up to six pounds, are sometimes taken. +One boatman assured me that he had caught two three-pounders at one +cast.</p> +<p><a name="footnote3"></a><a href="#citation3">{3}</a> From motives +of delicacy I suppress the true name of the river.</p> +<p><a name="footnote4"></a><a href="#citation4">{4}</a> After +this paper was in print, an angler was actually drowned while engaged +in playing a salmon. This unfortunate circumstance followed, and +did not suggest the composition of the story.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANGLING SKETCHES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 2022-h.htm or 2022-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/0/2/2022 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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