Part 13
By F. E. Pond.
It has been said that the angler, like the poet, is born, not made. This is a self-evident fact. Few men have risen to the dignity of anglers who did not in early youth feel the unbearable impulse to go a-fishing. There are, of course, noteworthy exceptions, but the rule holds good. It might be added, too, that the genuine angler is almost invariably a poet, although he may not be a jingler of rhymes—a ballad-monger. Though, perhaps, lacking the art of versification, his whole life is in itself a well-rounded poem, and he never misses the opportunity to “cast his lines in pleasant places.”
This is particularly true of the artistic fly-fisher, for with him each line is cast with the poetry of motion. Ned Locus, the inimitable character of J. Cypress’ “Fire Island Ana,” is made to aver that he “once threw his fly so far, so delicately, and suspendedly, that it took life and wings, and would have flown away, but that a four-pound trout, seeing it start, jumped a foot from the water and seized it, thus changing the course of the insect’s travel from the upper atmosphere to the bottom of his throat.” Being quoted from memory, these may not be the words exactly, as Toodles would say, but the sentiment is the same. There is the true poetical spirit pervading the very air, whispering from the leaves, murmuring in the brook, and thus the surroundings of the angler complete that which nature began, and make him a poet. In common with other sports of the field, though in greater degree:
“It is a mingled rapture, and we find
The bodily spirit mounting to the mind.”
Bards have sung its praises, traditions have hallowed it, and philosophers have revelled in the gentle pastime, from the days of Oppian and Homer down to Walton, Christopher North and Tennyson.
Although the art of fly-fishing was not known to the ancients, the poetry of angling has been enriched by the bards of ye-olden-time to a remarkable degree. In Pope’s translation of the Iliad, the following passage occurs:
“As from some rock that overhangs the flood,
The silent fisher casts the insidious food;
With fraudful care he waits the finny prize,
Then sudden lifts it quivering to the skies.”
One of the most familiar of Æsop’s fables, in rhyme, is that of the Fisherman and the Little Fish, while Theocritus, who flourished about the year 270 B. c., gives us a spirited idyl representing the life of a Greek fisherman. Oppian and Aristotle each prepared a classical volume on fish and fishing. Pliny in his “Historia Naturalis” treats at length of the finny tribes, and Ansonius in his poem, “Mostella,” describes the tench, salmon and other varieties of fish.
Among the early contributions to English literature on angling, the “Poeticæ,” generally attributed to a Scottish balladist known as Blind Harry, is conspicuous. Then the “Boke of St. Albans,” by Dame Juliana Berners, and quaint old Izaak Walton’s “Compleat Angler”—a brace of classic volumes dear to the heart of all who love the rod and reel.
In modern times the literature of angling has had scores of staunch and able supporters among the writers of Britain and our own land. Sir Humphry Davy’s “Salmonia”; Christopher North’s essays on angling, in “Noctes Ambrosianæ”; Stoddart’s Angling Songs; all these and a score of others are familiar to rodsters on both sides of the Atlantic. The clever poet and satirist, Tom Hood, discourses thus in praise of the gentle art:
“Of all sports ever sported, commend me to angling. It is the wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best; the safest, cheapest, and in all likelihood the oldest of pastimes. It is a one-handed game that would have suited Adam himself; and it was the only one by which Noah could have amused himself in the ark. Hunting and shooting come in second and third. The common phrase, ‘fish, flesh and fowl,’ clearly hints at this order of precedence. * * * To refer to my own experience, I certainly became acquainted with the angling rod soon after the birchen one, and long before I had any practical knowledge of ‘Nimrod’ or ‘Ramroch’ The truth is, angling comes by nature. It is _in the system_, as the doctors say.”
It is no exaggeration to state that the real poetry of fly-fishing, as given in the grand old book of Nature, is appreciated to the fullest by American anglers. The breezy air of the forest leaves is found in the charming works of Bethune, of Herbert, Hawes, Norris, Dawson, Hallock and many other worthies, past and present. The modern Horace—he of the traditional white hat—never wrote a better essay than that descriptive of his early fishing days. The same is true of Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, and Charles Dudley Warner’s most graphic pen picture is his inimitable sketch, “A Fight with a Trout.” The number of really good books on American field sports is principally made up of angling works, a fact which goes far to establish the truth of Wm. T. Porter’s assertion, namely: “No man ever truly polished a book unless he were something of an angler, or at least loved the occupation. He who steals from the haunts of men into the green solitudes of Nature, by the banks of gliding, silvery streams, under the checkering lights of sun, leaf and cloud, may always hope to cast his lines, whether of the rod or the ‘record book,’ in pleasant places.”
This may be appropriately supplemented by the opinion, poetically expressed by the same author, with reference to the art of fishing with the artificial fly, thus: “Fly-fishing has been designated the royal and aristocratic branch of the angler’s craft, and unquestionably it is the most difficult, the most elegant, and to men of taste, by myriads of degrees the most pleasant and exciting mode of angling. To land a trout of three, four or five pounds weight, and sometimes heavier, with a hook almost invisible, with a gut line almost as delicate and beautiful as a single hair from the raven tresses of a mountain sylph, and with a rod not heavier than a tandem whip, is an achievement requiring no little presence of mind, united to consummate skill. If it be not so, and if it do not give you some very pretty palpitations of the heart in the performance, may we never, wet a line in Lake George, or raise a trout in the Susquehanna.”
Thomson, the much admired author of “The Seasons,” was in his youth a zealous angler, frequently casting his fly in the rippling waters of the Tweed, a trout-stream justly famous along the Scottish border. The poet has eulogized his favorite pastime of fly-fishing in the following elegant lines:
“Now, when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell’d with the vernal rains, is ebb’d away;
And, whitening, down their mossy tinctur’d stream
Descends the billowy foam, now is the time,
While yet the dark brown water aids the guile
To tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly—
The rod, fine tapering with elastic spring,
Snatch’d from the hoary stud the floating line.
And all thy slender wat’ry stores prepare;
But let not on thy hook the tortur’d worm
Convulsive twist in agonizing folds,
Which, by rapacious hunger swallow’d deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast
Of the weak, helpless, uncomplaining wretch,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.”
When, with his lively ray, the potent sun
Has pierc’d the streams, and rous’d the finny race,
Then, issuing cheerful to thy sport repair;
Chief should the western breezes curling play,
And light o’er ether bear the shadowy clouds,
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills
And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;
The next pursue their rocky-c-hannel’d maze
Down to the river, in whose ample wave
Their little Naiads love to sport at large.
Just in the dubious point, where with the pool
Is mix’d the trembling stream, or where it boils
Around the stone, or from the hollow’d bank
Reverted plays in undulating flow,
There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly;
And, as you lead it round the artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing game.
Straight as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rise, or, urged by hunger, leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook;
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow dragging some
With various hand proportion’d to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceiv’d,
A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod.’
Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space
He has enjoy’d the vital light of heaven,
Soft disengage, and back into the stream
The speckl’d captive throw; but, should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behooves you then to ply your finest art.
Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly,
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, while haply o’er the shaded sun
Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death
With sullen plunge: at once he darts along,
Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthen’d line,
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,
The cavern’d bank, his old secure above,
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,
That feels him still, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now,
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage,
Till floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandon’d, to the shore
You gayly drag your unresisting prize.”
Angling, like every other manly pastime, has had numerous assailants—some of them “men of mark,” as in the case of Lord Byron, whose “fine plirensy” in denouncing Walton and the gentle art failed not to draw down upon himself the laughter of a world. The plaint of Lord Byron runs thus:
“Then there were billiards; cards, too; but no dice,
Save in the clubs no man of honor plays—
Boats when’twas water, skating when’twas ice,
And the hard frost destroy’d the scenting days;
And angling, too, that solitary vice,
Whatever Izaac Walton sings or says;
The quaint old cruel coxcomb in his gullet,
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.”
Another famous satirist of the old school defines angling as “a stick and a string, with a fish at one end and a fool at the other,” while a third, the well-known Peter Pindar, in closing a “Ballad to a Fish in the Brook,” takes occasion to say:
“Enjoy thy stream, oh, harmless fish,
“And when an angler for his dish,
Through gluttony’s vile sin,
Attempts—a wretch—to pull thee out,
God give thee strength, oh, gentle trout,
To pull the rascal in.”
All who love to go a-fishing can well afford to smile at the malicious flings of morbid critics, and while recreating both mind and body in casting the mimic fly along the dashing mountain stream, think of the deluded satirists in pity rather than condemnation.
Let us, then, in unison with the quaint and charming poet, Gay:
“Mark well the various seasons of the year,
How the succeeding insect race appear,
In their revolving moon one color reigns,
Which in the next the fickle trout disdains;
Oft have I seen a skilful angler try
The various colors of the treach’rous fly;
When he “with fruitless pain hath skim’d the brook,
And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook.
He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,
Which o’er the stream a weaving forest throw;
When if an insect fall (his certain guide)
He gently takes him from the whirling tide;
Examines well his form with curious eyes,
His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, his size.
Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,
And on the back a speckled feather binds;
So just the colors shine through every part,
That nature seems to live again in art.”
A PERFECT DAY
By Geo. W. Van Siclen.
I take my rod this fair June morning, and go forth to be alone with nature. No business cares, no roar of the city, no recitals of others’ troubles and woes which make the lawyer a human hygrometer, no doubts nor fears to disturb me as, drinking in the clear, sweet air with blissful anticipation, I saunter through the wood-path toward the mountain lake. As I brush the dew from the bushes around me, I spy in a glade golden flowers glowing on a carpet of pure green, mingled with the snowy stars of white blossoms; with their fragrance comes the liquid, bell-like voice of the swamp-robin, hidden from curious eyes. Soon seated in my boat, I paddle to the shade of a tall, dark hemlock and rest there, lulled by the intense quiet. Ever and anon as I dreamily cast my ethereal fly, a thrill of pleasure electrifies me, as it is seized by a vigorous trout.
I have long classed trout with flowers and birds, and bright sunsets, and charming scenery, and beautiful women, as given for the rational enjoyment and delight of thoughtful men of aesthetic tastes. And if
“By deeds our lives shall measured be,
And not by length of days,”
then a perfect life has been lived by many a noble trout whose years have been few, but who, caught by the fisher’s lure (to which he was predestined, as aforesaid), has leaped into the air and shaken the sparkling drops from his purple, golden, crimson, graceful form and struggled to be free, to the intense delight of the artist who brought him to the basket, where he belonged.
Thus resting, and floating apparently between the translucent crystal and the blue ether, silent, I have felt the presence of a spirit who inspires one with pure thoughts of matters far above the affairs of daily life and toil, of the universe and what lies beyond the blue sky, and of the mind and soul of man, and his future after death.
I _love_ the mountains, and the meadows, and the woods.
Later satisfied, but not satiated, with fair provision of corn, and wine, and oil, and my creel well filled, the shadows lengthen and the day begins to die.
Some day I shall hear no more forever the birds sing in the sylvan shade. My eyes will no more behold the woods I love so well. For the last time my feet will slowly tread this woodland road, and I shall watch for the last time the changing shadows made by the clouds upon the hillsides.
There will come a time when the setting sun will paint the west as the bridegroom colors the cheek of the bride; but I shall not know it, and I shall never again share such hours of peace with the leafy trees. Then, with folded hands upon my quiet breast, my friends will briefly gaze upon my face and I shall be gone. In that last day, so full of deepest interest to me, may my soul be pure.
Filled with such thoughts, I regret that I cannot express them like the poet, whose name I know not, but whose words I will recall:
“Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!
I have so loved thee, but I cannot hold thee;
Departing like a dream the shadows fold thee.
Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away;
Good-bye, sweet day.
“Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!
Dear were the golden hours of tranquil splendor.
Sadly thou yieldest to the evening tender,
Who wert so fair from thy first morning ray.
Good-bye, sweet day.
“Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!
Thy glow and charm, thy smiles and tones and glances
Vanish at last and solemn night advances.
Ah! couldst thou yet a little longer stay.
Good-bye, sweet day.
“Good-bye, sweet day, good-bye!
All thy rich gifts my grateful heart remembers,
The while I watched thy sunset’s smouldering embers
Die in the west beneath the twilight gray.
Good-bye, sweet day.”
As the balsam-breathing night wind begins to blow, I turn my back upon the silver glancing of the moonlight on the rippling waves of the fairy lake, and step bravely into the darkness of the woods, where I cannot see the places where my foot shall fall, but I know that others have safely passed it before, and that I shall find comfort and home at the end.
Note.—“Description of a day on Balsam Lake (headwaters of the Beaverkill) where no house was ever built. From the lake it is two miles through the woods (about ten miles in the dark) to the nearest house,”—Extract from letter accompanying article.
“I handle this ‘brown hackle’ as gently as a relic, not alone because it is the memento of an unusual achievement, but because the sight of it brings up vividly before me the beautiful lake where the trout lay; its crystal waters; the glinting of its ruffled surface as the bright sun fell upon it; the densely wooded hills which encircled it; the soughing of the tall pines as the summer’s breeze swept through their branches; and the thrill which coursed through every nerve as trout after trout leaped to the cast, and, after such manipulation and ‘play’ as only those who have had personal experience can comprehend, were duly captured.”—_George Dawson._
“Don’t be in too great a hurry to change your flies.”—_Francis Francis._
1. Brown Hackle.
2. Scarlet Hackle.
3. White Hackle.
4. Yellow Hackle.
5. Ginger Hackle.
6. Gray Hackle.
7. Black Hackle.
8. Coch-y-Bouddr.
9. Gray Hackle.
1. Emerald Gnat.
2. Black C.
3. Soldier Gnat.
1. Brown Pennell. Pennell Hackles.
2. Yellow Pennell.
3. Green Pennell.
“And now we have got through the poetry of the art. Hitherto things have gone happy as a marriage bell. I unhesitatingly declare, and I confidently appeal to my brother Angler, whether he, a fly fisherman, does not feel similarly. To me fly-fishing is a labor of love; the other is labor—alone. But notwithstanding such are my feelings, it by no means follows that every one else so fancies it. Every one to his taste.”—_Capt. Peel (“Dinks”)_
“When Spring comes round, look to your tackle with careful inspection, and see that all are in perfect order. Above all, look well to your flies; reject all specimens that have been injured by use, and all frayed gut lengths. It is better to throw away a handful now, than to lose flies and heavy fish together the first time you fasten to a rise.”—_Charles Hallock_.
“That hook is for a very little fly, and you must make your wings accordingly; for as the case stands it must be a little fly, and a very little one too, that must do your business.”—_Charles Cotton._
“For some reason which I have not succeeded in fathoming, the yellow fly always seems to kill best in the position of dropper, or bob-fly, and the green when employed as the stretcher, or tail-fly. The brown can be used in either position.”—_H. Gholmon-deley-Pennell._
“Note that usually, the smallest flies are best; and note also, that the light flie does usually make most sport in a dark day; and the darkest and least flie in a bright or clear day.”—_Izaak Walton_.
“No description with pen or tongue can teach you how to cast a fly. Accompany an expert and watch him.”—_T. S. Up de Graff, M. D._
“There is no more graceful and healthful accomplishment for a lady than fly-fishing, and there is no reason why a lady should not in every respect rival a gentleman in the gentle art.”—_W. C. Prime._
“Everything which makes deception more alluring should be resorted to by an Angler; for, let his experience be ever so great, he will always find opportunities to regret his deficiencies.”—_Parker Gilmore._
SUGGESTIONS
By Charles F. Orvis.
During my long intercourse with the angling fraternity, I have always found its members very ready to receive and impart suggestions, in the most friendly manner. It appears to me that those who are devoted to “the gentle art,” are especially good-natured; and while very many have their own peculiar ideas as to this or that, yet they are always willing and anxious to hear the opinions of others. Believing this, I am prompted to make a few suggestions, in regard to fly-fishing for trout, and the tackle used for that purpose; and if I differ from any, which will be very likely, I trust that what appears erroneous will be regarded charitably; and if I shall be so fortunate as to make any suggestions that will add to the enjoyment of any “brother of the Angle,” I shall be content.
The rod, of course, is of the first importance in an outfit, as very much depends on its perfection.
For ordinary fly-fishing for trout, a rod from ten to twelve feet in length will be found most convenient.
I use a ten-foot rod, and find it meets all my requirements.
It is well to let your rod have weight enough to have some “back-bone” in it; _very_ light and _very_ limber rods are objectionable, because with them one cannot cast well against, or across the wind; and it is impossible to hook your fish with any certainty—especially with a long line out—or to handle one properly when hooked.
A _very_ limber rod will not re-act quickly enough, nor strongly enough to lift the line and fix the hook firmly; because, when the upward motion is made, in the act of striking, the point of the rod first goes down; and, unless it is as stiff as it will do to have it and cast well, it will not re-act until the fish has found out his mistake and rejected the fraud.
Rods ten to twelve feet long should weigh from seven and one-half to ten and one-half ounces, depending on the material and weight of mountings, size of handpiece, etc. Many, perhaps, would say, that eight to ten ounces, for a single-handed fly-rod, is too heavy; that such rods would prove tiresome to handle. Much depends on how the rod hangs. If a ten-ounce rod is properly balanced, it will be no harder work to use it than a poorly balanced seven-ounce rod—in fact, not as fatiguing. Some men can handle an eleven-foot rod with the same ease that another could one that was a foot shorter. Hence, the rod should be adapted to the person who is to use it.
The stiffness of a split bamboo rod is one of its great merits. When I say stiffness, I mean the steel-like elasticity which causes it to re-act with such quickness.
For material for fly-rods, bamboo ranks first, lance-wood next; after mentioning these, there is not much to say. Green-heart is too uncertain. Paddlewood is very fine, but as yet, extremely difficult to obtain in any quantity.
The balance, or “hang,” of a rod is of the greatest importance. Let it be never so well made otherwise, if not properly balanced it will be worthless.
The elasticity should be uniform, from tip to near the hand; a true taper will not give this, because the ferules interfere with the uniform spring of the rod. For this reason a little enlargement between the ferules should be made, to compensate for the non-elasticity of the metal. These enlargements cannot be located by measurements, as much depends on the material and the length of the joint.
Spliced rods can be made nearer a true taper, for obvious reasons; although there is no doubt that a spliced rod is stronger and much more perfect in casting qualities, yet they require such care to preserve the delicate ends of the splice, and are so troublesome in many ways, that few will use them.
The details of rod-making having been so often told, I do not purpose making any suggestions on that subject, but will say that, in order to make a good fly-rod, the maker ought to know how to handle it, when finished.
I believe in a very narrow reel, and use one that is only one-half inch between outside plates. As both outside and spool plates are perforated, my line never mildews or gets tender. Hence, it is unnecessary to take the line off to dry it, as should be done when solid reel plates are used.
With such a reel my line never tangles. If your reel be narrow between plates, and large in circumference, it will take up line rapidly, and obviate the use of a multiplier, which is objectionable for fly-fishing. A light click is desirable, just strong enough to hold the handle and keep the line from over-running. More friction is of no use, and may cause you the loss of many fish.