A writer in _The Angler_, I think, apologized for giving his personal
experiences, in that they savored of egotism. To my mind he should not
have done so. What a world this would be if every man kept his personal
experience to himself.
Egotism may not perhaps be a cardinal virtue; but good may come out of
Nazareth. One’s personal experiences are more novel than romances; the
egotist need not necessarily be a follower of Des Cartes. If my egotism
affords a brother a few moments’ pleasure, or he is in any way profited,
then my life has not been a total failure.
Then, again, what is the use of apologizing for a universal weakness. If
we do not talk about ourselves, we are always tickled to have others
talk of us, and many would rather be abused than not be noticed at all.
Doubtless vanity and egotism are at the bottom of most of the good
things of this life, just as discontent is the father of perfected
things.
De Quincey would make a martyr of Judas; looked at from the De Quincey
stand-point, Judas was a broad-gauge man. If so eminent a scholar may
make a nobleman but of the King of Traitors, as we have been taught to
regard him, certainly one, even so poor as I, may take up the cudgels in
defense of mine own and my brother’s folly. I flatter myself, too, that
I should be more successful in carrying conviction than the learned
author of “murder considered as a fine art.” He combated a prejudice; I
should tickle the tender side of nine out of ten—if the nine would only
confess.
The pronoun I is the straightest letter in the alphabet; the only one
independent of curves or angles for support; for this reason it is
entitled to every man’s respect.
But I do not intend to enter into a defense of egotism at this writing;
this is only to express a willingness to enter the lists should occasion
demand, and to admonish the man who would deprecate egotism that he
himself is full of that commendable weakness. I wish to give my
experience, a very limited one, with rods.
An immediate change from a three pound plum bush pole to an esthetic
split bamboo rod of a few ounces would drive a man crazy. It would be
like putting a delicately turned Kirby into the hands of a pot hunter of
the stone age. As the Kirby would compare with a bone sharpened at the
ends, and a hole in the middle for the raw hide line, so the little
bamboo with the plum bush. No doubt the prehistoric angler and his
descendant of the nineteenth century would look, if they could, each
upon the implements of the other with curiosity and utter lack of faith.
But faith comes with education, and when the labor of learning is a
labor of love, education becomes easy.
My experience with the plum bush was not satisfactory. Early in the
“sixties,” depending on ox teams for bacon and flour, fishing rods were
not counted as merchandise or articles of freight. Necessity therefore
required, that, to indulge my liking, I must exert my skill, so that
when I got back from Bear creek and my memorable first trouting, I made
a rod; my first rod.
A piece of pine for the butt, cedar, straight grained and without flaw,
for the second joint. A well selected hickory whip handle furnished the
timber for a tip. A jack knife, glass and sand paper served for tools;
and excellent tools they are with patience for capital.
I shall not say how many days I exhausted in working up those three
sticks into satisfactory shape.
As to mounting, I had neither tools or metal, nor the genius of Tubal
Cain, so I applied to a tinker of watches, made known my difficulty, and
he fitted me out with two sets of ferrules and half a dozen guide rings
for the modest sum of seven dollars in gold dust.
Drug stores and whisky shops get to the frontier with equal facility, so
there was no scarcity of oil, shellac and alcohol. The wrapping of the
rings was followed by the oil and shellac, and when I strung that rod
together, and, in the privacy of our cabin, submitted it to the
inspection of the madam, it was pronounced “just perfect.”
The verdict was no less delightful than the rod and the jury of one.
During the winter that marvel of excellence and beauty was subjected to
weekly examinations and comment. The anticipated pleasures of the coming
summer, because we were “both going,” were the prime subjects of evening
conversations over the kitchen stove. There never had been, nor could
there ever be, vouchsafed to any other couple the amount of enjoyment
banked up and ready to draw upon, than was stored away during that
memorable winter, and the rod was the pole star, so to speak. Everything
pointed to that. But disappointments make life worth living; while they
are sometimes severe, there is yet a genuine pleasure in setting one’s
foot on their necks.
I never flourished my master-piece of mechanical skill over anything
save the weeds and the few straggling vegetables that decorated our back
yard. The rod was too good to keep. I lost it early, just as the good
children die.
I had, and yet have, a friend, whom I’ll call Sam, because that is his
name. About a month before the time fixed for our departure to the
hills, Sam came over and told me I had a fishing rod, as though I had
been the only man in town unacquainted with the fact. He said he wanted
to borrow it for a few days, he wanted to go fishing and hoped I’d
accommodate him! Think of loaning your watch to a two-year-old for a day
or so. He promised, of course, to bring it back in good order; I
expected no less—than the promise, I mean, and cheerfully allowed him
to walk off with it. I never saw it again, but I am glad to say I saw
Sam. He came back in about a week; there was nothing the matter with
him, his bones were whole, he hadn’t got drowned, nor been bitten by
rattlesnakes, nor chased by bears, nor clawed by mountain lions, nor
lost his scalp. The mosquitoes had been a little troublesome; there was
some comfort in that, but not enough to speak of. He had come over to
see me, he said, about “that fishing rod.”
“Yes, the fact is, I found an old friend on South Boulder, and he took
such a fancy to that rod, that I could do no less than make him a
present of it. It’s a splendid rod, that’s a fact, and I don’t know
exactly how I can replace it, just now; I’m sorry you’re disappointed at
my not returning it, but I don’t see—”
We were not a very ceremonious community in those days, though kindly
disposed. At the outset I was on the point of telling Sam to say his
shortest prayer, if he had more than one, but changed my mind and told
him not to say any more about it. It was some time before he would be
convinced that I was not mad.
That summer I fished with a clear conscience and a plum bush pole and
had a good time.
By the time the season was over Sam came round again. He brought with
him a rod; it had four joints and an extra tip; it was of ash and lance
wood. Sam had sent to the states for the treasure by ox team, and had
ordered a reel in addition. These he informally turned over to me, still
doubtful of my condition of mind. I tried to make him understand that
from the first I had felt that his love for me had prompted him to treat
my property as his own. He finally caught the idea, and the first trout
I caught on that rod was twenty inches long.
I have the rod yet, with one of the original tips; I have used it every
summer since; if no accident happens it may last forever. A few years
since I changed the reel seat, put the whole concern through a
whip-wrapping machine, and think I have improved it. I have never
weighed it, and I do not intend to say how many pounds of trout it has
been fatal to. In accordance with the frontier rule “she” has a name:
“the old reliable.”
Since the rod has been put into shape for this summer’s trip I have been
made happy—No! it’s not a new baby, but the next thing to it—a split
bamboo. I have it in my mind, that an old fellow capable of being made
the recipient of a split bamboo, a genuine split bamboo (the donor for
my guaranty), with the name of the maker upon it as a warrant to all the
world, will be elevated in your estimation. I am that he. With this poem
in my hand I yet felt as of the stone age. I have not been educated up
to this standard. I don’t know what to do with it. I never felt just
exactly the same way but once before, that was a little short of a year
after I was married, and I thought I had got used to that sensation, but
when my generous friend put into my hands this miracle of grace and
artistic skill, the old feeling came back, and I was “two inches
taller.” That, I believe, is the orthodox expression for such occasions.
It is said that hope ends in fruition; except in the matter of babies
and split bamboos, I believe this to be true.
If you are bored with this effusion, lay it to my split bamboo, upon
that hint I spake; for the rod, you know, is an emblem of affliction,
save in your own hand.
[Illustration]