[Illustration: Memory is a capricious and arbitrary creature.]
Memory is a capricious and arbitrary creature. You never can tell what
pebble she will pick up from the shore of life to keep among her
treasures, or what inconspicuous flower of the field she will preserve
as the symbol of
“_Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears._”
She has her own scale of values for these mementos, and knows nothing of
the market price of precious stones or the costly splendour of rare
orchids. The thing that pleases her is the thing that she will hold
fast. And yet I do not doubt that the most important things are always
the best remembered; only we must learn that the real importance of what
we see and hear in the world is to be measured at last by its meaning,
its significance, its intimacy with the heart of our heart and the life
of our life. And when we find a little token of the past very safely and
imperishably kept among our recollections, we must believe that memory
has made no mistake. It is because that little thing has entered into
our experience most deeply, that it stays with us and we cannot lose it.
You have half forgotten many a famous scene that you travelled far to
look upon. You cannot clearly recall the sublime peak of Mont Blanc, the
roaring curve of Niagara, the vast dome of St. Peter’s. The music of
Patti’s crystalline voice has left no distinct echo in your remembrance,
and the blossoming of the century-plant is dimmer than the shadow of a
dream. But there is a nameless valley among the hills where you can
still trace every curve of the stream, and see the foam-bells floating
on the pool below the bridge, and the long moss wavering in the current.
There is a rustic song of a girl passing through the fields at sunset,
that still repeats its far-off cadence in your listening ears. There is
a small flower trembling on its stem in some hidden nook beneath the
open sky, that never withers through all the changing years; the wind
passes over it, but it is not gone—it abides forever in your soul, an
amaranthine blossom of beauty and truth.
White heather is not an easy flower to find. You may look for it among
the highlands for a day without success. And when it is discovered,
there is little outward charm to commend it. It lacks the grace of the
dainty bells that hang so abundantly from the _Erica Tetralix_, and the
pink glow of the innumerable blossoms of the common heather. But then it
is a symbol. It is the Scotch _Edelweiss_. It means sincere affection,
and unselfish love, and tender wishes as pure as prayers. I shall always
remember the evening when I found the white heather on the moorland
above Glen Ericht. Or, rather, it was not I that found it (for I have
little luck in the discovery of good omens, and have never plucked a
four-leaved clover in my life), but my companion, the gentle Mistress of
the Glen, whose hair was as white as the tiny blossoms, and yet whose
eyes were far quicker than mine to see and name every flower that
bloomed in those lofty, widespread fields.
Ericht Water is formed by the marriage of two streams, one flowing out
of Strath Ardle and the other descending from Cairn Gowar through the
long, lonely Pass of Glenshee. The Ericht begins at the bridge of Cally,
and its placid, beautiful glen, unmarred by railway or factory, reaches
almost down to Blairgowrie. On the southern bank, but far above the
water, runs the high road to Braemar and the Linn of Dee. On the other
side of the river, nestling among the trees, is the low white
manor-house,
“_An ancient home of peace._”
It is a place where one who had been wearied and perchance sore wounded
in the battle of life might well desire to be carried, as Arthur to the
island valley of Avilion, for rest and healing.
I have no thought of renewing the conflicts and cares that filled that
summer with sorrow. There were fightings without and fears within; there
was the surrender of an enterprise that had been cherished since
boyhood, and the bitter sense of irremediable weakness that follows such
a reverse; there was a touch of that wrath with those we love, which, as
Coleridge says,
“_Doth work like madness in the brain;_”
flying across the sea from these troubles, I had found my old comrade of
merrier days sentenced to death, and caught but a brief glimpse of his
pale, brave face as he went away into exile. At such a time the sun and
the light and the moon and the stars are darkened, and the clouds return
after rain. But through those clouds the Mistress of the Glen came to
meet me—a stranger till then, but an appointed friend, a minister of
needed grace, an angel of quiet comfort. The thick mists of rebellion,
mistrust, and despair have long since rolled away, and against the
background of the hills her figure stands out clearly, dressed in the
fashion of fifty years ago, with the snowy hair gathered close beneath
her widow’s cap, and a spray of white heather in her outstretched hand.
There were no other guests in the house by the river during those still
days in the noontide hush of midsummer. Every morning, while the
Mistress was busied with her household cares and letters, I would be out
in the fields hearing the lark sing, and watching the rabbits as they
ran to and fro, scattering the dew from the grass in a glittering spray.
Or perhaps I would be angling down the river, with the swift pressure of
the water around my knees, and an inarticulate current of cooling
thoughts flowing on and on through my brain like the murmur of the
stream. Every afternoon there were long walks with the Mistress in the
old-fashioned garden, where wonderful roses were blooming; or through
the dark, fir-shaded den where the wild burn dropped down to join the
river; or out upon the high moor under the waning orange sunset. Every
night there were luminous and restful talks beside the open fire in the
library, when the words came clear and calm from the heart, unperturbed
by the vain desire of saying brilliant things, which turns so much of
our conversation into a combat of wits instead of an interchange of
thoughts. Talk like this is possible only between two. The arrival of a
third person sets the lists for a tournament, and offers the prize for a
verbal victory. But where there are only two, the armour is laid aside,
and there is no call to thrust and parry.
One of the two should be a good listener, sympathetic, but not silent,
giving confidence in order to attract it—and of this art a woman is the
best master. But its finest secrets do not come to her until she has
passed beyond the uncertain season of compliments and conquests, and
entered into the serenity of a tranquil age.
What is this foolish thing that men say about the impossibility of true
intimacy and converse between the young and the old? Hamerton, for
example, in his book on _Human Intercourse_, would have us believe that
a difference in years is a barrier between hearts. For my part, I have
more often found it an open door, and a security of generous and
tolerant welcome for the young soldier, who comes in tired and dusty
from the battle-field, to tell his story of defeat or victory in the
garden of still thoughts where old age is resting in the peace of
honourable discharge. I like what Robert Louis Stevenson says about it
in his essay on _Talk and Talkers_.
“Not only is the presence of the aged in itself remedial, but their
minds are stored with antidotes, wisdom’s simples, plain considerations
overlooked by youth. They have matter to communicate, be they never so
stupid. Their talk is not merely literature, it is great literature;
classic by virtue of the speaker’s detachment; studded, like a book of
travel, with things we should not otherwise have learnt.... Where youth
agrees with age, not where they differ, wisdom lies; and it is when the
young disciple finds his heart to beat in tune with his gray-haired
teacher’s that a lesson may be learned.”
The conversation of the Mistress of the Glen shone like the light and
distilled like the dew, not only by virtue of what she said, but still
more by virtue of what she was. Her face was a good counsel against
discouragement; and the cheerful quietude of her demeanour was a rebuke
to all rebellious, cowardly, and discontented thoughts. It was not the
striking novelty or profundity of her commentary on life that made it
memorable, it was simply the truth of what she said and the gentleness
with which she said it. Epigrams are worth little for guidance to the
perplexed, and less for comfort to the wounded. But the plain, homely
sayings which come from a soul that has learned the lesson of patient
courage in the school of real experience, fall upon the wound like drops
of balsam, and like a soothing lotion upon the eyes smarting and blinded
with passion.
She spoke of those who had walked with her long ago in her garden, and
for whose sake, now that they had all gone into the world of light,
every flower was doubly dear. Would it be a true proof of loyalty to
them if she lived gloomily or despondently because they were away? She
spoke of the duty of being ready to welcome happiness as well as to
endure pain, and of the strength that endurance wins by being grateful
for small daily joys, like the evening light, and the smell of roses,
and the singing of birds. She spoke of the faith that rests on the
Unseen Wisdom and Love like a child on its mother’s breast, and of the
melting away of doubts in the warmth of an effort to do some good in the
world. And if that effort has conflict, and adventure, and confused
noise, and mistakes, and even defeats mingled with it, in the stormy
years of youth, is not that to be expected? The burn roars and leaps in
the den; the stream chafes and frets through the rapids of the glen; the
river does not grow calm and smooth until it nears the sea. Courage is a
virtue that the young cannot spare; to lose it is to grow old before the
time; it is better to make a thousand mistakes and suffer a thousand
reverses than to refuse the battle. Resignation is the final courage of
old age; it arrives in its own season; and it is a good day when it
comes to us. Then there are no more disappointments; for we have learned
that it is even better to desire the things that we have than to have
the things that we desire. And is not the best of all our hopes—the hope
of immortality—always before us? How can we be dull or heavy while we
have that new experience to look forward to? It will be the most joyful
of all our travels and adventures. It will bring us our best
acquaintances and friendships. But there is only one way to get ready
for immortality, and that is to love this life, and live it as bravely
and cheerfully and faithfully as we can.
So my gentle teacher with the silver hair showed me the treasures of her
ancient, simple faith; and I felt that no sermons, nor books, nor
arguments can strengthen the doubting heart so deeply as just to come
into touch with a soul which has proved the truth of that plain religion
whose highest philosophy is “Trust in the Lord and do good.” At the end
of the evening the household was gathered for prayers, and the Mistress
kneeled among her servants, leading them, in her soft Scottish accent,
through the old familiar petitions for pardon for the errors of the day,
and refreshing sleep through the night and strength for the morrow. It
is good to be in a land where the people are not ashamed to pray. I have
shared the blessing of Catholics at their table in lowly huts among the
mountains of the Tyrol, and knelt with Covenanters at their household
altar in the glens of Scotland; and all around the world, where the
spirit of prayer is, there is peace. The genius of the Scotch has made
many contributions to literature, but none I think, more precious, and
none that comes closer to the heart, than the prayer which Robert Louis
Stevenson wrote for his family in distant Samoa, the night before he
died:—
“_We beseech thee, Lord, to behold us with favour, folk of many
families and nations, gathered together in the peace of this
roof: weak men and women subsisting under the covert of thy
patience. Be patient still; suffer us yet a while longer—with
our broken promises of good, with our idle endeavours against
evil—suffer us a while longer to endure, and (if it may be) help
us to do better. Bless to us our extraordinary mercies; if the
day come when these must be taken, have us play the man under
affliction. Be with our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each
of us to rest; if any awake, temper to them the dark hours of
watching; and when the day returns to us—our sun and
comforter—call us with morning faces, eager to labour, eager to
be happy, if happiness shall be our portion, and, if the day be
marked to sorrow, strong to endure it. We thank thee and praise
thee; and, in the words of Him to whom this day is sacred, close
our oblation._”
The man who made that kindly human prayer knew the meaning of white
heather. And I dare to hope that I too have known something of its
meaning, since that evening when the Mistress of the Glen picked the
spray and gave it to me on the lonely moor. “And now,” she said, “you
will be going home across the sea; and you have been welcome here, but
it is time that you should go, for there is the place where your real
duties and troubles and joys are waiting for you. And if you have left
any misunderstandings behind you, you will try to clear them up; and if
there have been any quarrels, you will heal them. Carry this little
flower with you. It’s not the bonniest blossom in Scotland, but it’s the
dearest, for the message that it brings. And you will remember that love
is not getting, but giving; not a wild dream of pleasure, and a madness
of desire—oh no, love is not that—it is goodness, and honour, and peace,
and pure living—yes, love is that; and it is the best thing in the
world, and the thing that lives longest. And that is what I am wishing
for you and yours with this bit of white heather.”
1893.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE RISTIGOUCHE FROM A
HORSE-YACHT
“_Dr. Paley was ardently attached to this amusement; so much so,
that when the Bishop of Durham inquired of him when one of his
most important works would be finished, he said, with great
simplicity and good humour, ‘My Lord, I shall work steadily at
it when the fly-fishing season is over.’_”——
SIR HUMPHRY DAVY: _Salmonia_.
THE RISTIGOUCHE FROM A
HORSE-YACHT
The boundary line between the Province of Quebec and New Brunswick, for
a considerable part of its course, resembles the name of the poet Keats;
it is “writ in water.” But like his fame, it is water that never
fails,—the limpid current of the river Ristigouche.
The railway crawls over it on a long bridge at Metapedia, and you are
dropped in the darkness somewhere between midnight and dawn. When you
open your window-shutters the next morning, you see that the village is
a disconsolate hamlet, scattered along the track as if it had been
shaken by chance from an open freight-car; it consists of twenty houses,
three shops, and a discouraged church perched upon a little hillock like
a solitary mourner on the anxious seat. The one comfortable and
prosperous feature in the countenance of Metapedia is the house of the
Ristigouche Salmon Club—an old-fashioned mansion, with broad, white
piazza, looking over rich meadow-lands. Here it was that I found my
friend Favonius, president of solemn societies, pillar of church and
state, ingenuously arrayed in gray knickerbockers, a flannel shirt, and
a soft hat, waiting to take me on his horse-yacht for a voyage up the
river.
Have you ever seen a horse-yacht? Sometimes it is called a scow; but
that sounds common. Sometimes it is called a house-boat; but that is too
English. What does it profit a man to have a whole dictionary full of
language at his service, unless he can invent a new and suggestive name
for his friend’s pleasure-craft? The foundation of the horse-yacht—if a
thing that floats may be called fundamental—is a flat-bottomed boat,
some fifty feet long and ten feet wide, with a draft of about eight
inches. The deck is open for fifteen feet aft of the place where the
bowsprit ought to be; behind that it is completely covered by a house,
cabin, cottage, or whatever you choose to call it, with straight sides
and a peaked roof of a very early Gothic pattern. Looking in at the door
you see, first of all, two cots, one on either side of the passage; then
an open space with a dining-table, a stove, and some chairs; beyond that
a pantry with shelves, and a great chest for provisions. A door at the
back opens into the kitchen, and from that another door opens into a
sleeping-room for the boatmen. A huge wooden tiller curves over the
stern of the boat, and the helmsman stands upon the kitchen-roof. Two
canoes are floating behind, holding back, at the end of their long
tow-ropes, as if reluctant to follow so clumsy a leader. This is an
accurate description of the horse-yacht. If necessary it could be sworn
to before a notary public. But I am perfectly sure that you might read
this page through without skipping a word, and if you had never seen the
creature with your own eyes, you would have no idea how absurd it looks
and how comfortable it is.
While we were stowing away our trunks and bags under the cots, and
making an equitable division of the hooks upon the walls, the motive
power of the yacht stood patiently upon the shore, stamping a hoof, now
and then, or shaking a shaggy head in mild protest against the flies.
Three more pessimistic-looking horses I never saw. They were harnessed
abreast, and fastened by a prodigious tow-rope to a short post in the
middle of the forward deck. Their driver was a truculent, brigandish,
bearded old fellow in long boots, a blue flannel shirt, and a black
sombrero. He sat upon the middle horse, and some wild instinct of colour
had made him tie a big red handkerchief around his shoulders, so that
the eye of the beholder took delight in him. He posed like a bold, bad
robber-chief. But in point of fact I believe he was the mildest and most
inoffensive of men. We never heard him say anything except at a
distance, to his horses, and we did not inquire what that was.
Well, as I have said, we were haggling courteously over those hooks in
the cabin, when the boat gave a lurch. The bow swung out into the
stream. There was a scrambling and clattering of iron horse-shoes on the
rough shingle of the bank; and when we looked out of doors, our house
was moving up the river with the boat under it.
The Ristigouche is a noble stream, stately and swift and strong. It
rises among the dense forests in the northern part of New Brunswick—a
moist upland region, of never-failing springs and innumerous lakes—and
pours a flood of clear, cold water one hundred and fifty miles northward
and eastward through the hills into the head of the Bay of Chaleurs.
There are no falls in its course, but rapids everywhere. It is steadfast
but not impetuous, quick but not turbulent, resolute and eager in its
desire to get to the sea, like the life of a man who has a purpose,
“_Too great for haste, too high for rivalry._”
The wonder is where all the water comes from. But the river is fed by
more than six thousand square miles of territory. From both sides the
little brooks come dashing in with their supply. At intervals a larger
stream, reaching away back among the mountains like a hand with many
fingers to gather
“_The filtered tribute of the rough woodland,_”
delivers its generous offering to the main current.
The names of the chief tributaries of the Ristigouche are curious. There
is the headstrong Metapedia, and the crooked Upsalquitch, and the
Patapedia, and the Quatawamkedgwick. These are words at which the tongue
balks at first, but you soon grow used to them and learn to take
anything of five syllables with a rush, as a hunter takes a five-barred
gate, trusting to fortune that you will come down with the accent in the
right place.
For six or seven miles above Metapedia the river has a breadth of about
two hundred yards, and the valley slopes back rather gently to the
mountains on either side. There is a good deal of cultivated land, and
scattered farm-houses appear. The soil is excellent. But it is like a
pearl cast before an obstinate, unfriendly climate. Late frosts prolong
the winter. Early frosts curtail the summer. The only safe crops are
grass, oats, and potatoes. And for half the year all the cattle must be
housed and fed to keep them alive. This lends a melancholy aspect to
agriculture. Most of the farmers look as if they had never seen better
days. With few exceptions they are what a New Englander would call
“slack-twisted and shiftless.” Their barns are pervious to the weather,
and their fences fail to connect. Sleds and ploughs rust together beside
the house, and chickens scratch up the front-door yard. In truth, the
people have been somewhat demoralised by the conflicting claims of
different occupations; hunting in the fall, lumbering in the winter and
spring, and working for the American sportsmen in the brief angling
season, are so much more attractive and offer so much larger returns of
ready money, that the tedious toil of farming is neglected. But for all
that, in the bright days of midsummer, these green fields sloping down
to the water, and pastures high up among the trees on the hillsides,
look pleasant from a distance, and give an inhabited air to the
landscape.
At the mouth of the Upsalquitch we passed the first of the
fishing-lodges. It belongs to a sage angler from Albany who saw the
beauty of the situation, years ago, and built a habitation to match it.
Since that time a number of gentlemen have bought land fronting on good
pools, and put up little cottages of a less classical style than Charles
Cotton’s “Fisherman’s Retreat” on the banks of the river Dove, but
better suited to this wild scenery, and more convenient to live in. The
prevailing pattern is a very simple one; it consists of a broad piazza
with a small house in the middle of it. The house bears about the same
proportion to the piazza that the crown of a Gainsborough hat does to
the brim. And the cost of the edifice is to the cost of the land as the
first price of a share in a bankrupt railway is to the assessments which
follow the reorganisation. All the best points have been sold, and real
estate on the Ristigouche has been bid up to an absurd figure. In fact,
the river is over-populated and probably over-fished. But we could
hardly find it in our hearts to regret this, for it made the upward trip
a very sociable one. At every lodge that was open, Favonius (who knows
everybody) had a friend, and we must slip ashore in a canoe to leave the
mail and refresh the inner man.
An angler, like an Arab, regards hospitality as a religious duty. There
seems to be something in the craft which inclines the heart to kindness
and good-fellowship. Few anglers have I seen who were not pleasant to
meet, and ready to do a good turn to a fellow-fisherman with the gift of
a killing fly or the loan of a rod. Not their own particular and
well-proved favourite, of course, for that is a treasure which no decent
man would borrow; but with that exception the best in their store is at
the service of an accredited brother. One of the Ristigouche proprietors
I remember, whose name bespoke him a descendant of Caledonia’s patron
saint. He was fishing in front of his own door when we came up, with our
splashing horses, through the pool; but nothing would do but he must up
anchor and have us away with him into the house to taste his good cheer.
And there were his daughters with their books and needlework, and the
photographs which they had taken pinned up on the wooden walls, among
Japanese fans and bits of bright-coloured stuff in which the soul of
woman delights, and, in a passive, silent way, the soul of man also.
Then, after we had discussed the year’s fishing, and the mysteries of
the camera, and the deep question of what makes some negatives too thin
and others too thick, we must go out to see the big salmon which one of
the ladies had caught a few days before, and the large trout swimming
about in their cold spring. It seemed to me, as we went on our way, that
there could hardly be a more wholesome and pleasant summer-life for
well-bred young women than this, or two amusements more innocent and
sensible than photography and fly-fishing.
It must be confessed that the horse-yacht as a vehicle of travel is not
remarkable in point of speed. Three miles an hour is not a very rapid
rate of motion. But then, if you are not in a hurry, why should you care
to make haste?
The wild desire to be forever racing against old Father Time is one of
the kill-joys of modern life. That ancient traveller is sure to beat you
in the long run, and as long as you are trying to rival him, he will
make your life a burden. But if you will only acknowledge his
superiority and profess that you do not approve of racing after all, he
will settle down quietly beside you and jog along like the most
companionable of creatures. That is a pleasant pilgrimage in which the
journey itself is part of the destination.
As soon as one learns to regard the horse-yacht as a sort of moving
house, it appears admirable. There is no dust or smoke, no rumble of
wheels, or shriek of whistles. You are gliding along steadily through an
ever-green world; skirting the silent hills; passing from one side of
the river to the other when the horses have to swim the current to find
a good foothold on the bank. You are on the water, but not at its mercy,
for your craft is not disturbed by the heaving of rude waves, and the
serene inhabitants do not say “I am sick.” There is room enough to move
about without falling overboard. You may sleep, or read, or write in
your cabin, or sit upon the floating piazza in an arm-chair and smoke
the pipe of peace, while the cool breeze blows in your face and the
musical waves go singing down to the sea.
There was one feature about the boat, which commended itself very
strongly to my mind. It was possible to stand upon the forward deck and
do a little trout-fishing in motion. By watching your chance, when the
corner of a good pool was within easy reach, you could send out a hasty
line and cajole a sea-trout from his hiding-place. It is true that the
tow-ropes and the post made the back cast a little awkward; and the wind
sometimes blew the flies up on the roof of the cabin; but then, with
patience and a short line the thing could be done. I remember a pair of
good trout that rose together just as we were going through a boiling
rapid; and it tried the strength of my split-bamboo rod to bring those
fish to the net against the current and the motion of the boat.
When nightfall approached we let go the anchor (to wit, a rope tied to a
large stone on the shore), ate our dinner “with gladness and singleness
of heart” like the early Christians, and slept the sleep of the just,
lulled by the murmuring of the waters, and defended from the insidious
attacks of the mosquito by the breeze blowing down the river and the
impregnable curtains over our beds. At daybreak, long before Favonius
and I had finished our dreams, we were under way again; and when the
trampling of the horses on some rocky shore wakened us, we could see the
steep hills gliding past the windows and hear the rapids dashing against
the side of the boat, and it seemed as if we were still dreaming.
At Cross Point, where the river makes a long loop around a narrow
mountain, thin as a saw and crowned on its jagged edge by a rude wooden
cross, we stopped for an hour to try the fishing. It was here that I
hooked two mysterious creatures, each of which took the fly when it was
below the surface, pulled for a few moments in a sullen way and then
apparently melted into nothingness. It will always be a source of regret
to me that the nature of these fish must remain unknown. While they were
on the line it was the general opinion that they were heavy trout; but
no sooner had they departed, than I became firmly convinced, in
accordance with a psychological law which holds good all over the world,
that they were both enormous salmon. Even the Turks have a proverb which
says, “Every fish that escapes appears larger than it is.” No one can
alter that conviction, because no one can logically refute it. Our best
blessings, like our largest fish, always depart before we have time to
measure them.
The Slide Pool is in the wildest and most picturesque part of the river,
about thirty-five miles above Metapedia. The stream, flowing swiftly
down a stretch of rapids between forest-clad hills, runs straight toward
the base of an eminence so precipitous that the trees can hardly find a
foothold upon it, and seem to be climbing up in haste on either side of
the long slide which leads to the summit. The current, barred by the
wall of rock, takes a great sweep to the right, dashing up at first in
angry waves, then falling away in oily curves and eddies, until at last
it sleeps in a black deep, apparently almost motionless, at the foot of
the hill. It was here, on the upper edge of the stream, opposite to the
slide, that we brought our floating camp to anchor for some days. What
does one do in such a watering-place?
Let us take a “specimen day.” It is early morning, or to be more
precise, about eight of the clock, and the white fog is just beginning
to curl and drift away from the surface of the river. Sooner than this
it would be idle to go out. The preternaturally early bird in his greedy
haste may catch the worm; but the salmon never take the fly until the
fog has lifted; and in this the scientific angler sees, with gratitude,
a remarkable adaptation of the laws of nature to the tastes of man. The
canoes are waiting at the front door. We step into them and push off,
Favonius going up the stream a couple of miles to the mouth of the
Patapedia, and I down, a little shorter distance, to the famous Indian
House Pool. The slim boat glides easily on the current, with a smooth
buoyant motion, quickened by the strokes of the paddles in the bow and
the stern. We pass around two curves in the river and find ourselves at
the head of the pool. Here the man in the stern drops the anchor, just
on the edge of the bar where the rapid breaks over into the deeper
water. The long rod is lifted; the fly unhooked from the reel; a few
feet of line pulled through the rings, and the fishing begins.
First cast,—to the right, straight across the stream, about twenty feet:
the current carries the fly down with a semicircular sweep, until it
comes in line with the bow of the canoe. Second cast,—to the left,
straight across the stream, with the same motion: the semicircle is
completed, and the fly hangs quivering for a few seconds at the lowest
point of the arc. Three or four feet of line are drawn from the reel.
Third cast to the right; fourth cast to the left. Then a little more
line. And so, with widening half-circles, the water is covered,
gradually and very carefully, until at length the angler has as much
line out as his two-handed rod can lift and swing. Then the first “drop”
is finished; the man in the stern quietly pulls up the anchor and lets
the boat drift down a few yards; the same process is repeated on the
second drop; and so on, until the end of the run is reached and the fly
has passed over all the good water. This seems like a very regular and
somewhat mechanical proceeding as one describes it, but in the
performance it is rendered intensely interesting by the knowledge that
at any moment it is liable to be interrupted.
This morning the interruption comes early. At the first cast of the
second drop, before the fly has fairly lit, a great flash of silver
darts from the waves close by the boat. Usually a salmon takes the fly
rather slowly, carrying it under water before he seizes it in his mouth.
But this one is in no mood for deliberation. He has hooked himself with
a rush, and the line goes whirring madly from the reel as he races down
the pool. Keep the point of the rod low; he must have his own way now.
Up with the anchor quickly, and send the canoe after him, bowman and
sternman paddling with swift strokes. He has reached the deepest water;
he stops to think what has happened to him; we have passed around and
below him; and now, with the current to help us, we can begin to reel
in. Lift the point of the rod, with a strong, steady pull. Put the force
of both arms into it. The tough wood will stand the strain. The fish
must be moved; he must come to the boat if he is ever to be landed. He
gives a little and yields slowly to the pressure. Then suddenly he gives
too much, and runs straight toward us. Reel in now as swiftly as
possible, or else he will get a slack on the line and escape. Now he
stops, shakes his head from side to side, and darts away again across
the pool, leaping high out of water. Don’t touch the reel! Drop the
point of the rod quickly, for if he falls on the leader he will surely
break it. Another leap, and another! Truly he is “a merry one,” and it
will go hard with us to hold him. But those great leaps have exhausted
his strength, and now he follows the rod more easily. The men push the
boat back to the shallow side of the pool until it touches lightly on
the shore. The fish comes slowly in, fighting a little and making a few
short runs; he is tired and turns slightly on his side; but even yet he
is a heavy weight on the line, and it seems a wonder that so slight a
thing as the leader can guide and draw him. Now he is close to the boat.
The boatman steps out on a rock with his gaff. Steadily now and slowly,
lift the rod, bending it backward. A quick sure stroke of the steel! a
great splash! and the salmon is lifted upon the shore. How he flounces
about on the stones. Give him the _coup de grace_ at once, for his own
sake as well as for ours. And now look at him, as he lies there on the
green leaves. Broad back; small head tapering to a point; clean, shining
sides with a few black spots on them; it is a fish fresh-run from the
sea, in perfect condition, and that is the reason why he has given such
good sport.
We must try for another before we go back. Again fortune favours us, and
at eleven o’clock we pole up the river to the camp with two good salmon
in the canoe. Hardly have we laid them away in the ice-box, when
Favonius comes dropping down from Patapedia with three fish, one of them
a twenty-four pounder. And so the morning’s work is done.
In the evening, after dinner, it was our custom to sit out on the deck,
watching the moonlight as it fell softly over the black hills and
changed the river into a pale flood of rolling gold. The fragrant
wreaths of smoke floated lazily away on the faint breeze of night. There
was no sound save the rushing of the water and the crackling of the
camp-fire on the shore. We talked of many things in the heavens above,
and the earth beneath, and the waters under the earth; touching lightly
here and there as the spirit of vagrant converse led us. Favonius has
the good sense to talk about himself occasionally and tell his own
experience. The man who will not do that must always be a dull
companion. Modest egoism is the salt of conversation: you do not want
too much of it; but if it is altogether omitted, everything tastes flat.
I remember well the evening when he told me the story of the Sheep of
the Wilderness.
“I was ill that summer,” said he, “and the doctor had ordered me to go
into the woods, but on no account to go without plenty of fresh meat,
which was essential to my recovery. So we set out into the wild country
north of Georgian Bay, taking a live sheep with us in order to be sure
that the doctor’s prescription might be faithfully followed. It was a
young and innocent little beast, curling itself up at my feet in the
canoe, and following me about on shore like a dog. I gathered grass
every day to feed it, and carried it in my arms over the rough portages.
It ate out of my hand and rubbed its woolly head against my leggings. To
my dismay, I found that I was beginning to love it for its own sake and
without any ulterior motives. The thought of killing and eating it
became more and more painful to me, until at length the fatal
fascination was complete, and my trip became practically an exercise of
devotion to that sheep. I carried it everywhere and ministered fondly to
its wants. Not for the world would I have alluded to mutton in its
presence. And when we returned to civilisation I parted from the
creature with sincere regret and the consciousness that I had humoured
my affections at the expense of my digestion. The sheep did not give me
so much as a look of farewell, but fell to feeding on the grass beside
the farm-house with an air of placid triumph.”
After hearing this touching tale, I was glad that no great intimacy had
sprung up between Favonius and the chickens which we carried in a coop
on the forecastle head, for there is no telling what restrictions his
tender-heartedness might have laid upon our larder. But perhaps a
chicken would not have given such an opening for misplaced affection as
a sheep. There is a great difference in animals in this respect. I
certainly never heard of any one falling in love with a salmon in such a
way as to regard it as a fond companion. And this may be one reason why
no sensible person who has tried fishing has ever been able to see any
cruelty in it.
Suppose the fish is not caught by an angler, what is his alternative
fate? He will either perish miserably in the struggles of the crowded
net, or die of old age and starvation like the long, lean stragglers
which are sometimes found in the shallow pools, or be devoured by a
larger fish, or torn to pieces by a seal or an otter. Compared with any
of these miserable deaths, the fate of a salmon who is hooked in a clear
stream and after a glorious fight receives the happy despatch at the
moment when he touches the shore, is a sort of euthanasia. And, since
the fish was made to be man’s food, the angler who brings him to the
table of destiny in the cleanest, quickest, kindest way is, in fact, his
benefactor.
There were some days, however, when our benevolent intentions toward the
salmon were frustrated; mornings when they refused to rise, and evenings
when they escaped even the skilful endeavours of Favonius. In vain did
he try every fly in his book, from the smallest “Silver Doctor” to the
largest “Golden Eagle.” The “Black Dose” would not move them. The
“Durham Ranger” covered the pool in vain. On days like this, if a stray
fish rose, it was hard to land him, for he was usually but slightly
hooked.
I remember one of these shy creatures which led me a pretty dance at the
mouth of Patapedia. He came to the fly just at dusk, rising very softly
and quietly, as if he did not really care for it but only wanted to see
what it was like. He went down at once into deep water, and began the
most dangerous and exasperating of all salmon-tactics, moving around in
slow circles and shaking his head from side to side, with sullen
pertinacity. This is called “jigging,” and unless it can be stopped, the
result is fatal.
I could not stop it. That salmon was determined to jig. He knew more
than I did.
The canoe followed him down the pool. He jigged away past all three of
the inlets of the Patapedia, and at last, in the still, deep water
below, after we had laboured with him for half an hour, and brought him
near enough to see that he was immense, he calmly opened his mouth and
the fly came back to me void. That was a sad evening, in which all the
consolations of philosophy were needed.
Sunday was a very peaceful day in our camp. In the Dominion of Canada,
the question “to fish or not to fish” on the first day of the week is
not left to the frailty of the individual conscience. The law on the
subject is quite explicit, and says that between six o’clock on Saturday
evening and six o’clock on Monday morning all nets shall be taken up and
no one shall wet a line. The Ristigouche Salmon Club has its guardians
stationed all along the river, and they are quite as inflexible in
seeing that their employers keep this law as the famous sentinel was in
refusing to let Napoleon pass without the countersign. But I do not
think that these keen sportsmen regard it as a hardship; they are quite
willing that the fish should have “an off day” in every week, and only
grumble because some of the net-owners down at the mouth of the river
have brought political influence to bear in their favour and obtained
exemption from the rule. For our part, we were nothing loath to hang up
our rods, and make the day different from other days.
In the morning we had a service in the cabin of the boat, gathering a
little congregation of guardians and boatmen, and people from a solitary
farm-house by the river. They came in _pirogues_—long, narrow boats
hollowed from the trunk of a tree; the black-eyed, brown-faced girls
sitting back to back in the middle of the boat, and the men standing up
bending to their poles. It seemed a picturesque way of travelling,
although none too safe.
In the afternoon we sat on deck and looked at the water. What a charm
there is in watching a swift stream! The eye never wearies of following
its curls and eddies, the shadow of the waves dancing over the stones,
the strange, crinkling lines of sunlight in the shallows. There is a
sort of fascination in it, lulling and soothing the mind into a quietude
which is even pleasanter than sleep, and making it almost possible to do
that of which we so often speak, but which we never quite
accomplish—“think about nothing.” Out on the edge of the pool, we could
see five or six huge salmon, moving slowly from side to side, or lying
motionless like gray shadows. There was nothing to break the silence
except the thin clear whistle of the white-throated sparrow far back in
the woods. This is almost the only bird-song that one hears on the
river, unless you count the metallic “_chr-r-r-r_” of the kingfisher as
a song.
[Illustration: Lulling and soothing the mind into a quietude.]
Every now and then one of the salmon in the pool would lazily roll out
of water, or spring high into the air and fall back with a heavy splash.
What is it that makes salmon leap? Is it pain or pleasure? Do they do it
to escape the attack of another fish, or to shake off a parasite that
clings to them, or to practise jumping so that they can ascend the falls
when they reach them, or simply and solely out of exuberant gladness and
joy of living? Any one of these reasons would be enough to account for
it on week-days. On Sunday I am quite sure they do it for the trial of
the fisherman’s faith.
But how should I tell all the little incidents which made that lazy
voyage so delightful? Favonius was the ideal host, for on water, as well
as on land, he knows how to provide for the liberty as well as for the
wants of his guests. He understands also the fine art of conversation,
which consists of silence as well as speech. And when it comes to
angling, Izaak Walton himself could not have been a more profitable
teacher by precept or example. Indeed, it is a curious thought, and one
full of sadness to a well-constituted mind, that on the Ristigouche “I.
W.” would have been at sea, for the beloved father of all fishermen
passed through this world without ever catching a salmon. So ill does
fortune match with merit here below.
At last the days of idleness were ended. We could not,
“_Fold our tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away;_”
but we took down the long rods, put away the heavy reels, made the
canoes fast to the side of the house, embarked the three horses on the
front deck, and then dropped down with the current, swinging along
through the rapids, and drifting slowly through the still places, now
grounding on a hidden rock, and now sweeping around a sharp curve, until
at length we saw the roofs of Metapedia and the ugly bridge of the
railway spanning the river. There we left our floating house, awkward
and helpless, like some strange relic of the flood, stranded on the
shore. And as we climbed the bank we looked back and wondered whether
Noah was sorry when he said good-bye to his ark.
1888.
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