The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon

by Washington Irving

  THE 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 hisfamily and betake himself to a seafaring life from reading the historyof Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect that, in like manner, many of thoseworthy gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streamswith angle-rods in hand may trace the origin of their passion tothe seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying hisComplete Angler several years since in company with a knot of friendsin America, and moreover that we were all completely bitten with theangling mania. It was early in the year, but as soon as the weather wasauspicious, 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 wasever 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-skirtedfustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets; a pair of stoutshoes and leathern gaiters; a basket slung on one side for fish; apatent rod, a landing net, and a score of other inconveniences only tobe found in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, hewas 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 LaMancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena.

  Our first essay was along a mountain brook among the Highlands of theHudson--a most unfortunate place for the execution of those piscatorytactics which had been invented along the velvet margins of quietEnglish rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that lavish, amongour romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties enough to fill the sketch-bookof a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rockyshelves, making small cascades, over which the trees threw their broadbalancing sprays and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from theimpending banks, dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawland fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a forest, filling it withmurmurs, and after this termagant career would steal forth into openday with the most placid, demure face imaginable, as I have seen somepestilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her home with uproarand ill-humor, come dimpling out of doors, swimming and curtseying andsmiling upon all the world.

  How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide at such times through somebosom of green meadowland among the mountains, where the quiet was onlyinterrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattleamong the clover or the sound of a woodcutter's axe from the neighboringforest!

  For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that requiredeither patience or adroitness, and had not angled above half an hourbefore I had completely "satisfied the sentiment," and convinced myselfof the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is something likepoetry--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 gaveup the attempt in despair, and passed the day under the trees readingold Izaak, satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honestsimplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the passionfor angling. My companions, however, were more persevering in theirdelusion. I have them at this moment before eyes, stealing along theborder of the brook where it lay open to the day or was merely fringedby shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream asthey break in upon his rarely-invaded haunt; the kingfisher watchingthem suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep blackmillpond in the gorge of the hills; the tortoise letting himself slipsideways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning himself;and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, andspreading an alarm throughout the watery world around.

  I recollect also that, after toiling and watching and creeping about forthe greater part of a day, with scarcely any success in spite of all ouradmirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin came down from the hillswith a rod made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, and, asHeaven shall help me! I believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with avile earthworm, and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibblesthroughout the day!

  But, above all, I recollect the "good, honest, wholesome, hungry" repastwhich we made under a beech tree just by a spring of pure sweet waterthat stole out of the side of a hill, and how, when it was over, one ofthe party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I layon the grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds until I fellasleep. All this may appear like mere egotism, yet I cannot refrain fromuttering these recollections, which are passing like a strain of musicover my mind and have been called up by an agreeable scene which Iwitnessed not long since.

  In the morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beautiful littlestream which flows down from the Welsh hills and throws itself intothe 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 rusticdisciples. The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothesvery much but very carefully patched, betokening poverty honestly comeby and decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms,but present fair weather, its furrows had been worn into an habitualsmile, his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had altogetherthe good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed totake the world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight withthe skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could findhis way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkestnight. The other was a tall, awkward country lad, with a lounginggait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busy inexamining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover byits contents what insects were seasonable for bait, and was lecturingon the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with infinitedeference. 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 increasedsince I met with an old Tretyse of fishing with the Angle, in which areset forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. "Takegood hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, "that in going about yourdisportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also yeshall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to theencreasing and sparing of your money only, but principally for yoursolace, and to cause the helth of your body and specyally of yoursoule."*

  I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before mean exemplification of what I had read; and there was a cheerfulcontentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. I could notbut remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part ofthe brook to another, waving his rod in the air to keep the line fromdragging on the ground or catching among the bushes, and the adroitnesswith which he would throw his fly to any particular place, sometimesskimming it lightly along a little rapid, sometimes casting it into oneof those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank inwhich the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he was givinginstructions to his two disciples, showing them the manner in whichthey should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them along thesurface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the instructionsof the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of thatpastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of thegreat plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford,and just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from amongfresh-smelling meadows. The day too, like that recorded in his work, wasmild and sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping shower that sowedthe 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 muchentertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions in his art, Ikept company with him almost the whole day, wandering along the banks ofthe stream and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, havingall the easy garrulity of cheerful old age, and I fancy was a littleflattered by having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore, forwho 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 ofhis youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where he had enteredinto trade and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He hadafterwards experienced many ups and downs in life until he got into thenavy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon-ball at the battle ofCamperdown. This was the only stroke of real good-fortune he had everexperienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some smallpaternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds.On this he retired to his native village, where he lived quietly andindependently, and devoted the remainder of his life to the "noble artof angling."

  I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed to haveimbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent good-humor. Though he hadbeen sorely buffeted about the world, he was satisfied that the world,in itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used indifferent countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedgeand thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness,appearing to look only on the good side of things; and, above all, hewas almost the only man I had ever met with who had been an unfortunateadventurer in America and had honesty and magnanimity enough to take thefault to his own door, and not to curse the country. The lad that wasreceiving his instructions, I learnt, was the son and heir-apparent ofa fat old widow who kept the village inn, and of course a youth of someexpectation, and much courted by the idle gentleman-like personagesof the place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man hadprobably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room and an occasionalcup of cheerful ale free of expense.

  There is certainly something in angling--if we could forget, whichanglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted on wormsand insects--that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit and apure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical even in theirrecreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has beenreduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is anamusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cultivated sceneryof England, where every roughness has been softened away from thelandscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streamswhich wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom of thisbeautiful country, leading one through a diversity of small homescenery--sometimes winding through ornamented grounds; sometimesbrimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingledwith sweet-smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of villagesand hamlets, and then running capriciously away into shady retirements.The sweetness and serenity of Nature and the quiet watchfulness of thesport gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing, which are now and thenagreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of thepeasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish leaping out of the stillwater and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. "When I wouldbeget content," says Izaak Walton, "and increase confidence in the powerand wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows bysome gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care,and those very many other little living creatures that are not onlycreated, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God ofNature, and therefore trust in Him."

  I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those ancientchampions 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 eveningsafterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found him living ina small cottage containing only one room, but a perfect curiosity in itsmethod and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the village, on a greenbank a little back from the road, with a small garden in front stockedwith kitchen herbs and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front ofthe cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for aweathercock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, hisideas of comfort and convenience having been acquired on the berth-deckof a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling which in thedaytime was lashed up so as to take but little room. From the centre ofthe chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or threechairs, a table, and a large sea-chest formed the principal movables.About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as "Admiral Hosier'sGhost," "All in the Downs," and "Tom Bowling," intermingled withpictures of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown held adistinguished place. The mantelpiece was decorated with sea-shells, overwhich hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-lookingnaval commanders. His implements for angling were carefully disposedon 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, anodd 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 parrotwhich he had caught and tamed and educated himself in the course ofone of his voyages, and which uttered a variety of sea-phrases with thehoarse brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment remindedme 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 itbetween meals."

  I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe in thesoft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the threshold, andhis parrot describing some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swungin the centre of his cage. He had been angling all day, and gave me ahistory of his sport with as much minuteness as a general would talkover a campaign, being particularly animated in relating the manner inwhich he had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all hisskill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess ofthe inn.

  How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age, and tobehold 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! Hishappiness, however, sprung from within himself and was independent ofexternal circumstances, for he had that inexhaustible good-nature whichis the most precious gift of Heaven, spreading itself like oil over thetroubled sea of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in theroughest weather.

  On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he was a universalfavorite in the village and the oracle of the tap-room, where hedelighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sindbad, astonished themwith his stories of strange lands and shipwrecks and sea-fights. He wasmuch noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of
the neighborhood, had taughtseveral of them the art of angling, and was a privileged visitor totheir kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive,being principally passed about the neighboring streams when the weatherand season were favorable; and at other times he employed himselfat home, preparing his fishing-tackle for the next campaign ormanufacturing rods, nets, and flies for his patrons and pupils among thegentry.

  He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he generallyfell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his particular requestthat when he died he should be buried in a green spot which he could seefrom his seat in church, and which he had marked out ever since he wasa boy, and had thought of when far from home on the raging sea in dangerof being food for the fishes: it was the spot where his father andmother had been buried.

  I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary, but I could notrefrain 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 Ishall never be adroit in the practice, of his art; and I will concludethis rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving theblessing of St. Peter's Master upon my reader, "and upon all that aretrue lovers of virtue, and dare trust in His providence, and be quiet,and go a-angling."