Lost Leaders | Page 3

a point at which civilization and production must begin
to respect the limits of the beautiful, on which they so constantly
encroach. Who is to settle the limit, and escape the charge of being
either a dilettante and a sentimentalist on the one hand, or a Philistine
on the other?

SALMON-FISHING.
Salmon-fishing for this season is over, and, in spite of the fresh and
open weather, most anglers will feel that the time has come to close the
fly-book, to wind up the reel, and to consign the rod to its winter
quarters. Salmon-fishing ceases to be very enjoyable when the snaw
broo, or melted snow from the hilltops, begins to mix with the brown
waters of Tweed or Tay; when the fallen leaves hamper the hook; and
when the fish are becoming sluggish, black, and the reverse of comely.

Now the season of retrospect commences, the time of the pleasures of
memory, and the delights of talking shop dear to anglers Most sporting
talk is dull to every one but the votaries of the particular amusement.
Few things can be drearier to the outsider than the conversation of
cricketers, unless it be the recondite lore which whist-players bring
forth from the depths of their extraordinary memories. But angling talk
has a variety, recounts an amount of incident and adventure, and
wakens a feeling of free air in a way with which the records of no other
sport, except perhaps deer-stalking, can compete. The salmon is,
beyond all rivalry, the strongest and most beautiful, and most cautious
and artful, of fresh-water fishes. To capture him is not a task for slack
muscles or an uncertain eye. There is even a slight amount of personal
risk in the sport. The fisher must often wade till the water reaches
above the waist in cold and rushing streams, where his feet are apt to
slip on the smooth stones or trip on the rough rocks beneath him. When
the salmon takes the fly, there is no time for picking steps. The line
rushes out so swiftly as to cut the fingers if it touches them, and then is
the moment when the angler must follow the fish at the top of his speed.
To stand still, or to go cautiously in pursuit, is to allow the salmon to
run out with an enormous length of line; the line is
submerged--technically speaking, _drowned_--in the water, the strain
of the supple rod is removed from the fish, who finds the hook loose in
his mouth, and rubs it off against the bottom of the river. Thus speed of
foot, in water or over rocks, is a necessary quality in the angler; at least
in the northern angler. By the banks of the Usk a contemplative man
who likes to take things easily may find pretty sure footing on grassy
slopes, or on a gravelly bottom. But it is a different thing to hook a
large salmon where the Tweed foams under the bridge of Yair down to
the narrows and linns below. If the angler hesitates there, he is lost.
Does he stand still and give the fish line? The astute creature cuts it
against the sharp rocks below the bridge, and the rod, relieved of the
weight, leaps straight in the fisher's hand, and in his heart there is a
sense of emptiness and sudden desolation. Does he try to follow, the
chances are that his feet slip; after one or two wild struggles he is on
his back in the water, and nearly strangled with his fishing-basket. In
either case the fish goes on his way rejoicing, and, after the manner of
his kind, leaps out of the water once or twice--a maddening sight.

Adventures like this are among the bitter memories of the angler. The
fish that break away are monstrous animals; imagination increases their
bulk, and fond desire paints them clean-run and bright as silver. There
are other chances of the angler's life scarcely less sad than this. When a
hook breaks just as the salmon was losing strength, was ceasing to
struggle, and beginning to sway with the mere force of the stream, and
to show his shining sides--when a hook breaks at such a moment, it is
very hard to bear. The oath of Ernulphus seems all too weak to express
the feelings of the sportsman and his wrath against the wretched
tackle-maker. Again, when the fish is actually conquered; when he is
being towed gently into some little harbour among the tall slim water-
grasses, or into a pebbly cove, or up to a green bank; when the
bitterness of struggle is past, and he seems resigned and almost happy;
when at this crisis the clumsy gilly with the gaff scratches him, rouses
him to a last exertion, and