Lost Leaders | Page 4

entangles the line, so that the salmon breaks
free--that is an experience to which language cannot do justice. The
ancient painter drew his veil over the face of Agamemnon present at his
daughter's sacrifice. Silence and sympathy are all one can offer to the
angler who has toiled all day, and in this wise caught nothing. There is
yet another very bitter sorrow. It is a hard thing for a man to leave town
and hurry to a river in the west, a river that perhaps he has known since
he fished for minnows with a bent pin in happy childhood. The west is
not a dry land; effeminate tourists complain that the rain it raineth
every day. But the heavy soft rain is the very life of an angler. It keeps
the stream of that clear brown hue, between porter and amber, which he
loves; and it encourages the salmon to keep rushing from the estuary
and the sea right up to the mountain loch, where they rest. But suppose
there is a dry summer--and such things have been even in Argyleshire.
The heart of the tourist is glad within him, but as the river shrinks and
shrinks, a silver thread among slimy green mosses in the streams, a
sheet of clear water in the pools, the angler repines. Day after sultry day
goes by, and there is no hope. There is a cloud on the distant hill; it is
only the smoke from some moor that has caught fire. The river grows
so transparent that it is easy to watch the lazy fish sulking at the bottom.
Then comes a terrible temptation. Men, men calling themselves
sportsmen, have been known to fish in the innocent dewy morning,
with worm, with black lob worm. Worse remains behind. Persons of

ungoverned passions, maddened by the sight of the fish, are believed to
have poached with rake-hooks, a cruel apparatus made of three hooks
fastened back to back and loaded with lead. These are thrown over the
fish, and then struck into him with a jerk. But the mind willingly turns
away from the contemplation of such actions.
It is pleasanter to think of not unsuccessful days by lowland or highland
streams, when the sun was veiled, the sky pearly grey, the water, as the
people say, in grand order. There is the artistic excitement of choosing
the hook, gaudy for a heavy water, neat and modest for a clearer stream.
There is the feverish moment of adjusting rod and line, while you mark
a fish "rising to himself." You begin to cast well above him, and come
gradually down, till the fly lights on the place where he is lying. Then
there is a slow pull, a break in the water, a sudden strain at the line,
which flies through the rings of the rod. It is not well to give too much
line; best to follow his course, as he makes off as if for Berwick and the
sea. Once or twice he leaps clean into the air, a flying bar of silver.
Then he sulks at the bottom, a mere dead weight, attempting devices
only to be conjectured. A common plan now is to tighten the line, and
tap the butt end of the rod. This humane expedient produces effects not
unlike neuralgia, it may be supposed, for the fish is off in a new fury.
But rush after rush grows tamer, till he is drawn within reach of the gaff,
and so on to the grassy bed, where a tap on the head ends his sorrows,
and the colours on his shining side undulate in delicate and beautiful
radiance. It may be dreadfully cruel, as cruel as nature and human life;
but those who eat salmon or butcher's meat cannot justly protest, for
they, desiring the end, have willed the means. As the angler walks
home, and watches the purple Eildon grow grey in the twilight, or sees
the hills of Mull delicately outlined between the faint gold of sky and
sea, it is not probable that his conscience reproaches him very fiercely.
He has spent a day among the most shy and hidden beauties of nature,
surprising her here and there in places where, unless he had gone
a-fishing, he might never have penetrated. He has set his skill against
the strength and skill of the monarch of rivers, and has mastered him
among the haunts of fairies and beneath the ruined towers of feudalism.
These are some of the delights that to-day end for a season. {16}

WINTER SPORTS.
People to whom cold means misery, who hate to be braced, and
shudder at the word "seasonable," can have little difficulty in
accounting for the origin of the sports of winter. They need only adapt
to the circumstances