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Angler
This day Dame Nature seem'd in love,
The lusty sap began to move,
Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines.
The jealous trout that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled flie.
There stood my friend, with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.
SIR H. WOTTON.
IT is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away
from his family and betake himself to a seafaring life from
reading the history of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect that, in
like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to
haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle-rods in hand may
trace the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of
honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying his Complete Angler
several years since in company with a knot of friends in America,
and moreover that we were all completely bitten with the angling
mania. It was early in the year, but as soon as the weather was
auspicious, and that the spring began to melt into the verge of
summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the country, as
stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry.
One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of his
equipments, being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore a
broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred
pockets; a pair of stout shoes and leathern gaiters; a basket
slung on one side for fish; a patent rod, a landing net, and a
score of other inconveniences only to be found in the true
angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a
matter of stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had
never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La
Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena.
Our first essay was along a mountain brook among the Highlands of
the Hudson--a most unfortunate place for the execution of those
piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet
margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild
streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded
beauties enough to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the
picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky shelves, making
small cascades, over which the trees threw their broad balancing
sprays and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from the impending
banks, dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and
fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it
with murmurs, and after this termagant career would steal forth
into open day with the most placid, demure face imaginable, as I
have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her
home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out of doors,
swimming and curtseying and smiling upon all the world.
How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide at such times through
some bosom of green meadowland among the mountains, where the
quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell
from the lazy cattle among the clover or the sound of a
woodcutter's axe from the neighboring forest!
For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that
required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above
half an hour before I had completely "satisfied the sentiment,"
and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that
angling is something like poetry--a man must be born to it. I
hooked myself instead of the fish, tangled my line in every tree,
lost my bait, broke my rod, until I gave up the attempt in
despair, and passed the day under the trees reading old Izaak,
satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest simplicity
and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the passion for
angling. My companions, however, were more persevering in their
delusion. I have them at this moment before eyes, stealing along
the border of the brook where it lay open to the day or was
merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising
with hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely-invaded
haunt; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously from his dry
tree that overhangs the deep black millpond in the gorge of the
hills; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off the
stone or log on which he is sunning himself; and the panic-struck
frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and spreading an
alarm throughout the watery world around.
I recollect also that, after toiling and watching and creeping
about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success in
spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin
came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a tree,
a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me! I believe a
crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm, and in half
an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day!
But, above all, I recollect the "good, honest, wholesome, hungry"
repast which we made under a beech tree just by a spring of pure
sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill, and how, when
it was over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with
the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a
bright pile of clouds until I fell asleep. All this may appear
like mere egotism, yet I cannot refrain from uttering these
recollections, which are passing like a strain of music over my
mind and have been called up by an agreeable scene which I
witnessed not long since.
In the morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beautiful
little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and throws
itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated
on the margin. On approaching I found it to consist of a veteran
angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow
with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully
patched, betokening poverty honestly come by and decently
maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, but present
fair weather, its furrows had been worn into an habitual smile,
his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether
the good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher who was
disposed to take the world as it went. One of his companions was
a ragged wight with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and
I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in
the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other was a tall,
awkward country lad, with a lounging gait, and apparently
somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busy in examining the
maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its
contents what insects were seasonable for bait, and was lecturing
on the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with
infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all "brothers
of the angle" ever since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he
affirms, of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit;" and my esteem
for them has been increased since I met with an old Tretyse of
fishing with the Angle, in which are set forth many of the maxims
of their inoffensive fraternity. "Take good hede," sayeth this
honest little tretyse, "that in going about your disportes ye
open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall
not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to the
encreasing and sparing of your money only, but principally for
your solace, and to cause the helth of your body and specyally of
your soule."*
I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before me
an exemplification of what I had read; and there was a cheerful
contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. I
could not but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from
one part of the brook to another, waving his rod in the air to
keep the line from dragging on the ground or catching among the
bushes, and the adroitness with which he would throw his fly to
any particular place, sometimes skimming it lightly along a
little rapid, sometimes casting it into one of those dark holes
made by a twisted root or overhanging bank in which the large
trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was giving
instructions to his two disciples, showing them the manner in
which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play
them along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my
mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The
country around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of
describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close
by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior
Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows.
The day too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and
sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower that sowed the
whole earth with diamonds.
* From this same treatise it would appear that angling is a more
industrious and devout employment than it is generally
considered: "For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in
fishynge ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which
might let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in
saying effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye
shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydelness, which is
principall cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is
right well known."
I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so
much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions in
his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day, wandering
along the banks of the stream and listening to his talk. He was
very communicative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old
age, and I fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity
of displaying his piscatory lore, for who does not like now and
then to play the sage?
He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed some
years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where he
had entered into trade and had been ruined by the indiscretion of
a partner. He had afterwards experienced many ups and downs in
life until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away
by a cannon-ball at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only
stroke of real good-fortune he had ever experienced, for it got
him a pension, which, together with some small paternal property,
brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he
retired to his native village, where he lived quietly and
independently, and devoted the remainder of his life to the
"noble art of angling."
I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed
to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent
good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the world,
he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and
beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different
countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and
thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness,
appearing to look only on the good side of things; and, above
all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with who had been
an unfortunate adventurer in America and had honesty and
magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to
curse the country. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I
learnt, was the son and heir-apparent of a fat old widow who kept
the village inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and
much courted by the idle gentleman-like personages of the place.
In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had probably
an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room and an occasional
cup of cheerful ale free of expense.
There is certainly something in angling--if we could forget,
which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted
on worms and insects--that tends to produce a gentleness of
spirit and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical
even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of
sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and
system. Indeed, it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild
and highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every roughness
has been softened away from the landscape. It is delightful to
saunter along those limpid streams which wander, like veins of
silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country, leading one
through a diversity of small home scenery--sometimes winding
through ornamented grounds; sometimes brimming along through rich
pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling
flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of villages and hamlets,
and then running capriciously away into shady retirements. The
sweetness and serenity of Nature and the quiet watchfulness of
the sport gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing, which are
now and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the
distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some
fish leaping out of the still water and skimming transiently
about its glassy surface. "When I would beget content," says
Izaak Walton, "and increase confidence in the power and wisdom
and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some
gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no
care, and those very many other little living creatures that are
not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of
the God of Nature, and therefore trust in Him."
I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those
ancient champions of angling which breathes the same innocent and
happy spirit:
Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink
Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place:
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink
With eager bite- of Pike, or Bleak, or Dace;
And on the world and my Creator think:
Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace:
And others spend their time in base excess
Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness.
Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue,
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill;
So I the fields and meadows green may view,
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,
Among the daisies and the violets blue,
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.*
On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of
abode, and, happening to be in the neighborhood of the village a
few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I
found him living in a small cottage containing only one room, but
a perfect curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was on the
skirts of the village, on a green bank a little back from the
road, with a small garden in front stocked with kitchen herbs and
adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the cottage was
overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a
weathercock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical
style, his ideas of comfort and convenience having been acquired
on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from the
ceiling which in the daytime was lashed up so as to take but
little room. From the centre of the chamber hung a model of a
ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a
large sea-chest formed the principal movables. About the wall
were stuck up naval ballads, such as "Admiral Hosier's Ghost,"
"All in the Downs," and "Tom Bowling," intermingled with pictures
of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown held a
distinguished place. The mantelpiece was decorated with
sea-shells, over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts
of most bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements for
angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the
room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a work on
angling, much worn, a Bible covered with canvas, an odd volume or
two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a book of songs.
* J. Davors.
His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a
parrot which he had caught and tamed and educated himself in the
course of one of his voyages, and which uttered a variety of
sea-phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran
boatswain. The establishment reminded me of that of the renowned
Robinson Crusoe; it was kept in neat order, everything being
"stowed away" with the regularity of a ship of war; and he
informed me that he "scoured the deck every morning and swept it
between meals."
I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe
in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the
threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in
an iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He had been
angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much
minuteness as a general would talk over a campaign, being
particularly animated in relating the manner in which he had
taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill
and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess
of the inn.
How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age, and
to behold a poor fellow like this, after being tempest-tost
through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the
evening of his days! His happiness, however, sprung from within
himself and was independent of external circumstances, for he had
that inexhaustible good-nature which is the most precious gift of
Heaven, spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of
thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in the roughest
weather.
On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he was a universal
favorite in the village and the oracle of the tap-room, where he
delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sindbad,
astonished them with his stories of strange lands and shipwrecks
and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of
the neighborhood, had taught several of them the art of angling,
and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor
of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed
about the neighboring streams when the weather and season were
favorable; and at other times he employed himself at home,
preparing his fishing-tackle for the next campaign or
manufacturing rods, nets, and flies for his patrons and pupils
among the gentry.
He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he
generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his
particular request that when he died he should be buried in a
green spot which he could see from his seat in church, and which
he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and had thought of
when far from home on the raging sea in danger of being food for
the fishes: it was the spot where his father and mother had been
buried.
I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary, but I
could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy
"brother of the angle," who has made me more than ever in love
with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the
practice, of his art; and I will conclude this rambling sketch in
the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St.
Peter's Master upon my reader, "and upon all that are true lovers
of virtue, and dare trust in His providence, and be quiet, and go
a-angling."
Angler [Washington Irving's short story from Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon]
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