Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 5/A day's fishing
President had sent out his appeal to the Northern States for support to the Government, when the citizen Astor of 1861 placed at the disposal of the Executive a million of dollars as a free gift, and as many more millions on loan as might be desired. One wonders whether the anecdote has reached the hamlet near Heidelberg, where the name of John Jacob Astor may be still remembered,—the boy who went away about a hundred years ago, confident that he should be a rich and great merchant some day.
Harriet Martineau.
A DAY’S FISHING.
Some ten years since it became necessary for the writer hereof to follow some amusement which would take him into the fresh air for a day at a time. The doctor, with disinterested candour, told me that, unless I made a break in my business occasionally, and went away from it, the chances were that I should be laid up for a long time, as rest for the mind, and not physic for the body was the treatment which I needed.
Hunting and shooting were too expensive for my means, and, having always been a great lover of Izaac Walton’s works, it suddenly struck me that, like “Venator” (in the good old man’s work on angling), I might, with a little instruction, become a fisherman. Having invested a few pounds in fishing paraphernalia, which included a waterproof coat, leggings, and fishing-boots, I started off on a fine October day for a fishing village in Hertfordshire, where, if I did not find “an honest alehouse where the beds smelt of lavender and the walls were hung with ballads,” I was lucky enough to light upon a snug little inn near the Lea, and, better still, found a goodly company of pleasant old fogeys—I use the word respectfully—who were discussing their day’s sport.
Having dispatched my mutton-chop and cup of tea, I asked leave to light my pipe.
“Sir,” said one of the company, “we were only waiting for you; we should have commenced half-an-hour ago, but we thought the smoke might not be agreeable whilst you were eating. Mary! four clean pipes and a jug of the old ale and some tobacco.”
Conversation soon became general, though somewhat tainted with fishing. Feeling that I should be out of my depth in two minutes if I joined in fishing-talk, I made a clean breast of my ignorance of the noble art, but expressed a hope that, with the aid of Izaac Walton and the “Jolly Angler” (which, by the bye, is an excellent practical treatise on fishing), I should make something of it.
It really seemed a realisation of a scene out of Izaac Walton, for a kind old boy, who was going jack-fishing on the following day, undertook to be my tutor, if I would be his pupil, and promised me, if I had a taste for the sport, that he would teach me the rudiments of it. I fear that my good-natured old tutor is either too old for fishing, or has gone to his last home, as I cannot hear of him in the neighbourhood of his old haunts, but I owe him a debt of gratitude to this day, which I would repay if I knew how. It is a very kind action in any man to undertake to teach a raw pupil any art which he has himself acquired. The keen whist-player does not care for playing a rubber with a novice, nor does the professed cricketer relish a match with a lot of country bumpkins, and I have myself experienced the miseries of initiating a youngster in the art of fishing (my pupil had not a fishing mind), so I value my Mentor’s exertions all the more.
I will not trouble the reader with a diary of my progress in fishing, nor will I attempt to teach him how to catch fish. There is Izaac Walton’s book for him, if he wishes to learn the haunts and habits of fish, and the “Jolly Angler” will teach him all he wants to know about tackle, though a day’s fishing with an old hand at the sport will teach him more. I simply wish to convince him that fishing is a recreation easily attainable if he feels disposed to follow it out.
To a man who appreciates the beauties of nature there is no sport which will introduce him to more pleasures than fishing; nor is there any pursuit better calculated to relieve the overworked brain. There is something glorious in finding oneself by the river-side on a fine autumn morning, and to feel that a long day of rest and quiet is before one. It matters not to the angler whether funds are rising or falling, or whether kings and princes are making war, provided that he has a clear faith that a pike or large perch is lying in the pool where his float is bobbing. The angler’s sole business in life pro tem, is to catch his fish, and to let the fresh morning air blow on his face, giving him health and appetite whilst he pursues his sport. He sees wild flowers which he never observed before, and marks many other beauties in nature which have hitherto remained unnoticed, for the simple reason that it would take a lifetime for a man to stand by a river-side and exhaust all that is worth marking or looking at. The actual fishing is simply the backbone of the recreation of fishing, as the real joys of the sport depend on the attendant incidents. Who would care to have an enormous tank filled with fish, and to sit between four brick walls and pull them out? Supposing that the tank was a mile wide even, who would care for the largest pike of the season if it came out of a colossal tub? The great charm is to wander by the river-side, to watch the currents and eddies, and try the depths; to calculate on the probable haunt of the kind of fish of which you are in pursuit, taking into consideration the season of the year, weather, and time of day; and having come to the best conclusion in your power, to prepare your tackle and go to work.
Salmon-fishing is a sport reserved for those who either live in mountainous countries, or who have time and money to go in quest of it. Trout-fishing, again, is generally a luxury only within reach of the Lord of the Manor, and the visitors at the great house, and of those who can spend a guinea a-day on their amusement; as all good club waters are mostly far away from London. Punt-fishing, again, comes expensive, unless two or three can form a party: but the solitary angler can for a little money get an occasional day’s fishing, if he is content with taking chub, jack, perch, roach and dace. There are many spots on the Thames where he can fish from the banks free of expense, though the best way of following his sport will be to subscribe to some water on the Lea, where, for a subscription varying in amount from 10s. to 2l., he can always ensure a quiet day in the meadows by the river-side.
Doubtless many of these subscription waters are over-fished, and the capture of a heavy jack is not an every day occurrence, but there is usually a quiet little inn connected with them which is supported by lovers of angling, and where for little cost the visitor can get a comfortable bed, good plain country fare, and the society of anglers.
Old Izaac Walton’s theory that fishermen are generally harmless, honest men, applies to these times as well as to his own days. I have mixed often with them at fishing inns, and my experience has been that a fast man would be much out of his element in their society. The evening talk runs mostly on gorge hooks, paternosters, hair lines, gut lines, and the like. Many a fish is killed over again, pending the enjoyment of solemn pipes, and occasionally in winter time a rubber at long whist for penny points, “with snuffed candles, a well swept hearth, and the rigour of the game” (as Charles Lamb says), varies the evening’s amusement. Then there are good old stories of wonderful fish which have been caught in days gone by, and we never think of doubting the assertion of steady-going, old-fashioned frequenters of the house, “that fifty years ago the water was the finest in England;” nor do we question the weight—quoted from memory—of a pike which was taken in the Waterloo year by the narrator of the incident, who deplores the removal of an old weir where he landed his prize.
The working men at the East-end of London are, many of them, enthusiastic fishermen. Roach-fishing is their particular hobby, probably owing to its being the least expensive. A very little money will buy a decent roach rod and line, and a few single hair or gut hooks can be procured for a penny each; a pennyworth of gentles and a little crumb bread and bran, for bait, complete the equipment.
In spite of the menaces of Little Bethel, or Ebenezer, I have often walked by the river-side on a fine Sunday afternoon, and seen with pleasure some poor man intent on his roach-fishing, and not unfrequently accompanied by his missus and two or three children, who were enjoying their al fresco dinner near him. I do not smell brimstone in the enthusiastic cry of “Father’s got another bite!” and when I think of the gaping gin palaces near the poor angler’s dwelling, which are always yawning to receive him, and that he has preferred saving a little money for weeks past for this Sunday treat, instead of investing it in gin, I, for one, won’t throw a stone at “that awful Sabbath breaker,” which ugly title some well-fed Mr. Stiggins is always applying to him.
I am not going to enter on the question of Sunday fishing, beyond remarking that the overworked artisan, not your underworked nine hours’ strike man, has a very good answer to any one who bullies him about Sunday fishing.
Let any one who wants to ascertain the value of a day’s fishing as a relief to the brain, keep a diary of his day by the river-side, and compare it with a page of his working diary. Possibly the two diaries would run somewhat in this way: Monday: attended Perks. Mem.: press Johnson for two hundred pounds. Smith versus Cod-liver Oil Company—filed bill. Wrote Brown, Jones, and Robinson, &c.
Tuesday: by the river at 6.30 a.m. Run with pike; lost him round a post. Caught perch—weight, 1½ lbs. Second run with pike; landed him—weight, 4¾ lbs. Breakfast at 8.30. Sun hot from 10 till 4. Saw lots of dragonflies and kingfishers. 5: out of bait; caught seven roach, &c.
Any one who feels disposed to expend a little ready money on an outfit, and can get a friend who understands the mysteries of the gentle art to go with him once or twice, will have no difficulty in acquiring sufficient knowledge of fishing to amuse himself; and although he will never be an Izaac Walton, he will, if he takes a fancy to the sport, provide himself with a new pleasure in life which is inexhaustible. It is not a bad expenditure of money for a novice to go once or twice with a Thames fisherman in a punt; and—taking care to furnish such a commissariat as will keep the puntman in good humour—get a thorough good lesson or two from him. Old Izaac must be his text-book for all information relating to the haunts and habits of fish, though of course he must study some modern practical book (the “Jolly Angler” my text book) for instructions about his tackle.
If I have failed in pleasantly putting my hobby before the readers of Once a Week, let me now make amends by ending with a quotation from the good old Izaac.
Venator (loquitur).—“And as a pious man advised his friend: that to beget mortification he should frequent churches, and view monuments, and charnel-houses, and then and there consider how many dead bodies Time had piled up at the gates of death: so when I would beget content, 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 have no care, and those—very many—other various little living creatures that are not only created, but fed, man knows not how, by the goodness of the God of nature; and therefore I will trust in him. This is my purpose, and so let everything that hath breath praise the Lord, and let the blessing of St. Peter’s[1] master be with mine—
Piscator (loq.).—“And upon all that are lovers of virtue and dare trust in his Providence, and be quiet, and go a-angling.”
F. G.
TANNHÄUSER.
In ancient days the gods were occasionally dethroned. Vulcan was literally kicked out of Olympus, and Apollo reduced for a time to tend the flocks of Admetus. But in the third century of our era, all the heathen deities were expelled together. Heine, in a charming essay
- ↑ St. Peter the Fisherman was the favourite Apostle of Izaac Walton.