A SERMON ON VEXATIONS AND CONSOLATIONS
A happy heading for this chapter, as I thought, occurred to
me--"Spoiled days." But I retain something of a sense of the
ridiculous, and feared that the title might be capable of
misconstruction, for the amusing story rose to mind of the village
publican who had a spoiled day according to his own declaration. He
rode in a dismal mourning coach to his wife's funeral, accompanied by a
grown-up daughter, and she insisted upon having the window down. The
parent showing signs of uneasiness, the daughter ventured to hope that
he had no objection. "Oh! no," the bereaved husband replied, "keep it
down if you like, my gal, but you're quite spoiling my day."
My intention will, however, be clear, for every one of us must be
acquainted with angling brothers for whom everything seems to go wrong.
Nay, a pretty heavy percentage of even the very first rank have their
bad days, and believe in them with a species of fatalism that of course
helps on the result they dread. Endless are the angler's troubles if
he will but devote himself to developing them. The worst victim is the
man who does not take things patiently, who is ever turning the tap of
impetuosity on at the main, who begins the day with a rush, goes
through it in a flutter, and ends it in alternations of dejection and
rage.
What a charming man So-and-so is, but what a wet blanket he is to
himself and everybody from the common failing. The train is actually
moving, and, as usual, like a whirlwind, he is projected in by the
guard, panting and irritable. You know perfectly well how it has
happened; he got up too late, spluttered over the hot coffee, chivied
the cabman all the way, charged through the porters on the platform,
and here he is. Naturally he discovers that he left his waterproof in
the hansom; he searches in vain for his pipe; he fumes and frets, and
swears he is the most unfortunate wretch on earth. The song birds, the
flowers, the fields, the clear atmosphere touch him never a whit, and
the chances are that he continues through the livelong day as he began.
In running his line through at the waterside he will miss one or two
rings, and only find it out when the collar has been affixed. The
mistake remedied he essays a cast or two, and away goes half of his
rod; he neglected to tie the joints together, and attributes the mishap
to the tackle makers, who did not always provide patent ready-made
fasteners. These blunders, miscalled ill-luck, do not soothe the
temper, and they certainly do not assist him to joyousness and success.
As a matter of course our friend smacks hard at the first fish which
rises, and hails the returning collar, minus point and fly, with a
sarcastic grin, as if some evil genius outside himself had done the
deed. Henceforth he will be in the mood to invite all mishaps that are
possible and probable. In climbing a stile he will tickle the hawthorn
hedge with his rod top, swing his suspended landing net into the
thorns, and perhaps shake his fly-book out of his pocket in petulant
descent from the top bar. If there is a bramble thicket anywhere in
the parish, or a tall patch of meadow sweet in the rear, or a
convenient gorse clump handy, be sure his flies will find them out.
Another man would coolly proceed to extricate them; he pulls and hauls,
and swears, carrying away his gear, and is lucky if his rod is left
sound. In wading he goes in sooner or later over the tops of his
stockings, cracks off his flies through haste in returning the line,
and altogether fills his day full of small, unnecessary grievances.
That this is possible I know full well. I have done it all myself.
But the minor tribulations I had in my mind when I began to write this
modest essay were not precisely of this kind, which are the heritage of
those habitual unfortunates who are, in a measure, beyond hope of
redemption. I had the pleasure of curing one of them, however, by
pointing out to him the cause of his chronic irritation, producing
haste, and a long train of inevitable ills. Anything in the shape of a
burden about his body chafed him; and this being so, I need scarcely
add that his equipment was always on the largest scale. The obvious
suggestion was that he should hire a boy to carry his great creel,
superfluous clothes, spare rod, and landing net. By proving to him
that the expenses would be less than the amount of losses and breakages
of both tackle and temper, he was induced to take my advice, and he was
henceforth a converted character. My theme is, rather than palpably
preventable disasters, the small accidents that will happen to the most
careful anglers, especially if they put off their preparations to the
last moment. Provoking is scarcely the word for the calamity of
travelling a long distance by rail and road to realise that you have
brought everything, including odds and ends that you will never use,
but have left an important factor, say winch and line, behind you. To
have brought the winch that does not fit your rod may be got over by
binding on with a piece of your line; but the general variety of winch
fitting is certainly a common trouble for anglers. Nor is it any good
to boast of bringing your handle if you have overlooked the net; nor to
take gigantic pains to buy live baits in London only to find that the
water has leaked out long before you leave the train in Leicestershire.
I have known a fly-fisher wretched for a whole day because he had not
brought the bit of indiarubber with which he was in the habit of
straightening out his cast; and a roach-fisher refuse to be comforted
because his plummet was not.
You cannot, however, control the wind and weather; yet some men seem to
be under a climatic curse. Any landowners whose crops require rain
have only to invite them down for a day's fishing; there will be rain
enough and to spare. No hankerer after an east wind should be without
them. It shall breathe southwest balm when they start for the fishing;
they will be met at the waterside by a blustering Boreas with
out-puffed cheeks. Yesterday the wind would take the fly where wanted;
to-morrow it will do the same; to-day it is dead down-stream or in the
angler's face. This is no doubt inveterate ill-luck, and the victim is
to be commiserated. You can quite believe him when he says that if he
takes a fishing for August there will be no water; if for September,
perpetual flood; and when, the week after his return to town, he greets
you with a sickly smile and volunteers the information that the day
succeeding his departure the river at once got into ply, you deal
gently with the young man, for this verily is tribulation major, and it
may be your turn to meet it round a corner next year. I suppose there
are men in all grades of sport, as in all grades of work, to whom the
cards invariably fall awry, and the worst of the case is that there is
only one piece of advice to tender--forswear the cards, or grin and
bear. The angler ought to hold by the latter clause. The retrieving
chances that may happen; the many useful objects turned up even when
the philosopher's stone is never reached; the assets to the right if
there are deficits to the left--these may be philosophically set off in
the general account.
How many acquaintances, are there not, who burden themselves by over
much comfort, or, what comes to the same thing from my point of view,
with too much fuss and fad as to their impedimenta? Some anglers whom
I meet really never appear to be happy unless staggering along like
Issachar "couching down between two burdens." Half of the gear is mere
ballast, never produced for actual service from one year's end to the
other, but always carried with patience most instructive to behold.
Not a month since I remonstrated with a comrade upon the unnecessary
exertion he was undergoing from the mere weight of his useless baggage.
He said he preferred it; he considered that he was not properly
equipped without that enormous sack--big as that which the "Pilgrim's
Progress" man shuffled off when he scrambled out on the right side of
the Slough of Despond. I think he regarded the trip to the
river--though we drove comfortably to it, and drove home again the same
evening--as a serious expedition into unknown wilds, and was buoyed up
throughout with the fancy that he ranked with the eminent explorers who
go forth with their lives in their hands.
Once upon a time I habitually made a toil of pleasure in much the same
way, scorning assistance, deeming it unworthy of a British sportsman to
accept help from boy or man in any shape or form. But the golden days
all too soon become the bronze, and maybe iron, and then we naturally
pay more attention to trifling comforts and easements than in the happy
period of unchastened exuberance. The stage is eventually reached when
you will never sling creel or bag to shoulder if another can be found
to carry them; never gaff or net a fish unless obliged in your own
interests to do so, or in rendering friendly help to a comrade; never
bow your shoulders to a load which another will bear; and when, as a
matter of course, you will hand over your rod for the keeper to carry
as you pass from pool to pool.
But though you may avoid superfluities, and entertain an instinctive
horror of effeminate luxuries, there are some things quite necessary.
Food comes first. The view of angling taken by comic men in the
papers, and satirists out of them, is that eating and drinking are the
principal amusement of anglers. The citizen party in a Thames punt on
a hot summer day makes it so, very often, no doubt; and hence the
caricatures of anglers who get a very small amount of fishing to an
intolerable amount of sack. This is of course a cockney view of what,
without offence, I will term a cockney proceeding. In the real angling
of the ordinary river districts, I find that as many men wholly neglect
their food as think too much about it. This, as I know from culpable
personal experience, is a fault. It is, however, a greater fault to
waste time in a set meal in the middle of a fishing day. Fortunately a
kindred spirit will sympathise with us when the hospitable invitation
to come up to the house to lunch is declined with thanks; but there are
times when the duty has to be done, and it often happens that the
summons comes at the precise time when sport is hot and high.
Get a good breakfast before starting; secure an honest dinner at the
finish; but beware of heavy eating meanwhile. Keep going steadily with
the rod through the livelong day, taking a slight repast as it were on
the wing just to keep body and soul from premature separation. By this
method you will remain in condition for your work, and have all the
chances of sport that the time offers you. Sandwich boxes I have long
forsworn, for, after the contents (which are seldom satisfactory) are
gone, the awkward metal shell remains bulging out your pockets, or
banging about in your basket. Once I tried to fish upon a small silver
box filled with meat lozenges. It may have been as per prospectus of
the manufacturers that I carried the essence of a flock of Southdowns
in the waistcoat pocket, but the sheep after all did not seem to have a
satisfactory effect, and a sucked lunch was not at all up to my sense
of proportion. Then I tried cold chops, or sausages, carried in a fine
white napkin; and very capital they are for the five minutes you allow
yourselves on the bridge, or by the fallen log under the hedge, when
tired nature suggests rest and refreshment. Afterwards I pinned my
faith to a couple of home-made pasties, at the same time adhering to
the fine napkin, which comes in very handy for sundry purposes when the
fodder has disappeared. To anyone who likes the excitement of a
domestic breeze, as a wind up to a fine day's sport, I can recommend
nothing better than the steady use of the household serviette for
drying the hands after the capture of every fish.
As to drink, that is too delicate a subject. My friend Halford, until
he had a fishing box of his own, and could establish "regular meals,"
carried a flask of cold coffee without milk or sugar, and to this I
pretended to attribute his keen and valuable observations upon fish and
flies. One day I told him that it was all very well to imagine that
his second edition was due to his own genius, or the consummate art of
the lithographer; it was simply cold coffee neat that did it! Smoking
you may indulge in to any extent while fishing if your habit lies that
way, since the wind helps you materially in lessening the weight of the
tobacco pouch. To smoke cigars, however, is a sinful waste of good
material and of time, and cigarettes are a nuisance. Hence the
proverbial love of the angler for the pipe, and the d--n--ble iteration
of references to smoking in sporting literature.
Some of us, I fear, will never learn the lesson of care in the matter
of clothes and boots. We make a boast of roughing it, of getting wet
in the feet, of letting the rain work its will, until one morning we go
grunting to our doctor to know what that twinge in the knee-joint or
wandering sensation across the shoulders may mean. If you must get wet
through, as will occasionally happen, do it manfully and even
thoroughly while you are about it, taking due care to keep moving and
to change everything at the earliest moment. The danger need, however,
seldom be incurred. For uncertain weather have the waterproofs near;
but a suit of really good cloth should be enough for passing showers.
The angling authors of the last generation invariably elaborated
sumptuary laws in this respect, enjoining upon you special suits of
different colours to tally with particular days. I would not recommend
staring white for a chalk stream, but otherwise the colour is a thing
of small consequence. A distinctive suit for fishing is money well
spent; and the fly-fisher especially requires something more than the
commonplace cut of jacket. For years a small paragraph at the bottom
of one of the _Field_ columns advertised a certain fly-fishing jacket,
and I smiled at the notion that such an article could be anything
different from the ordinary shooting coat or Norfolk jacket. It was
said to have gusset sleeves, a fastening for the wrist, plenty of good
pockets for fly books, and it would not work up round the neck in
casting. Eventually I became the owner and wearer of one, and can say
that in fly-fishing or spinning I never previously knew what real
comfort in casting was.
Wading stockings and brogues are always worth using, either for
fly-fishing, even if you do not require to wade, or for winter angling
amongst the coarse fish. They keep you dry, and you can kneel on the
grass or potter about amongst wet osiers, nettles, and rushes with
impunity. The best hat for me has been one with a moderately soft and
wide brim that may be turned down like a roof, to shoot off the rain
behind, or to shelter the eyes from the sun in front. The felt
fly-band is a very serviceable affair, but, to avoid taking off the
hat, the user of eyed hooks may have a band of felt stitched round the
upper part of the left arm. Above all, let the angler wear the best
woollen underclothing, and in winter plenty of it.
Finally, brethren, and in conclusion, let me say that when fishing in
light marching order one has to dispense with many odds and ends that
are in themselves fisherman's comforts, though not precisely
essentials. The "priest" wherewith to knock your fish on the head, the
machine for weighing him on the spot, the spare boxes of tackle, the
second rod, or joints, may be done without. If you bring yourself to
study how little you require for a day's outing, it is astonishing how
much you will by and by leave behind. We are prone, of course, to make
arrangements for a great catch, both in numbers and weights; take a
23-lb. creel for bringing home a brace of pounders, enough tackle to
last the season through, and each article on scale as to solidity.
Once in a hundred times, and not more, will the result be equal to the
preparation. Still, there is a sort of pleasure in being equal to any
emergency, though at the cost of personal convenience.