Angling Sketches

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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.

Scotus.--Here is your hook, but, marry, my fingers tingle shrewdly with
the nettles; also I marked the fish hasting up stream.

Anglus.--Nay, come, we shall even look for another.

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.

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--

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.

Anglus.--Why then, _pazienza_, Scholar, or listen while I sing that sweet
ditty of country contentment and an angler's life, writ by worthy Master
Hackle long ago.

SONG

The Angler hath a jolly life
Who by the rail runs down,
And leaves his business and his wife,
And all the din of town.
The wind down stream is blowing straight,
And nowhere cast can he;
Then lo, he doth but sit and wait
In kindly company.

Or else men turn the water off,
Or folk be cutting weed,
While he doth at misfortune scoff,
From every trouble freed.
Or else he waiteth for a rise,
And ne'er a rise may see;
For why, there are not any flies
To bear him company.

Or, if he mark a rising trout,
He straightway is caught up,
And then he takes his flasket out,
And drinks a rousing cup.
Or if a trout he chance to hook,
Weeded and broke is he,
And then be finds a goodly book
Instructive company.

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!

[Exit singing.



SCENE II.--A BRIDGE


Enter ANGLUS

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.

[He ensconces himself in the middle of a thorn bush.

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!

[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.

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.

[ANGLUS steals off, and gingerly takes up his position.

Anglus.--Marry, that is a good trout under the burdock!

[He is caught up in the burdock, and breaks his tackle.

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.

[Enter twenty-four callow young ducks, swimming up stream. The ducks
chevy the flies, taking them out of the very mouths of the trout.

Anglus.--Oh, mercy. I have hooked a young duck! Where is my landing-
net? Nay, I have left it under yonder elm!

[He struggles with the young duck. By the conclusion of the fray the
Rise is over.

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?

Scotus.--Not ill. Here be my spoils, great ones; but how faint-hearted
are your southern trout!

Anglus.--That fat fellow is a good three pounds by the scales. But,
Scholar, with what fly caught ye these, and where?

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?

Anglus.--Begone, sirrah. I took thee for an angler, and thou art but a
poaching knave!

Scotus.--Knave thyself! I will break thy head!

Anglus.--Softly, Scholar. Here comes good Master Hedgely, who will see
fair play. Now lie there, my coat, and have at you!

[They fight, SCOTUS is knocked down.

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.

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.

Anglus.--Gladly will I fall to, but first say me a grace--Benedictus
benedicat! Where is thine usquebaugh? Marry, 'tis the right Talisker!

Scotus.--And now, Master, wherefore wert thou wroth with me? Came we not
forth to catch fish?

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.

Scotus.--And light baskets!

Anglus.--Ay, it may be so.




FOOTNOTES


{1} Too true, alas!

{2} 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.

{3} From motives of delicacy I suppress the true name of the river.

{4} 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.