HALFORD AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES
The story of Halford's life has been well told by himself in the
_Autobiography_, published in 1903, and it would be with a pained
amazement that the wide circle of readers who knew him and of him
received the shock of his announced death in the daily papers. They
will, I am sure, be sadly interested in the brief story of the close of
that life under circumstances that were unspeakably pathetic. Mr.
Halford was in the habit of escaping our English winter by going to the
sunshine of resorts like the Riviera, Egypt, or Algiers, and this year
went to Tunis with his only son Ernest, his inseparable companion on
all such voyages. They had a good holiday, and Halford was in
excellent health, full of life and energy, keenly enjoying the
Orientalism of the place, and very busy with his camera.
"Tunis is a remarkably busy, bustling sort of place"--he says in a
letter to me dated February 13 from the Majestic Hotel--"very Eastern,
with the usual accompanying stinks, and most interesting to us. I have
taken a good many photos, but am a bit doubtful about them, and do not
know why. But--well, we shall see. They have made Ernest an hon.
member of the Lawn Tennis Club (he is now Colonel Halford), so he gets
plenty of exercise, and the other members are great sportsmen. Indeed,
this is the most manifest development I notice amongst the French of
today."
The Halfords left Tunis for home on February 24 in bad weather, and a
wretched boat, and F. M. H., always a good sailor, was the only
gentleman aboard who could appear at meals. At Marseilles, reached on
the 26th, Ernest and his father separated, the former to make a
business call at Paris, the latter to finish the voyage to London on
the P. and O. _Morea_, which sailed on the 28th, arriving at Gibraltar
on March 2 (Monday). Halford had found an old friend, Dr. Nicholson,
amongst the _Morea_ passengers, and was greatly enjoying his voyage;
that day took part in a game of quoits, and cabled from Gibraltar,
"Excellent voyage. All well. Best love." After leaving Gibraltar he
felt out of sorts, and the ship's doctor and Dr. Nicholson, acting
together, found him somewhat feverish. Symptoms of a chill developed,
and on Tuesday he was no better, but after a temporary improvement
became worse. Pneumonia succeeded, and so rapidly strengthened that on
Wednesday morning the patient dictated a message, and in the afternoon
the doctors, by wireless telegram, informed his family at home of his
condition, and asked them to meet the boat. Mr. and Mrs. Ernest
Halford, Dr. C. R. Box, and Mr. Bertie Brown accordingly caught the
midnight train to Plymouth, rushed on board a tender that was on the
point of starting, and boarded the _Morea_ at just before nine o'clock.
Mr. Halford was able to recognise his son and daughter, conversed a
little at intervals, but with difficulty, and became alarmingly worse
after a slight rally about one o'clock. He was passing away peacefully
during the afternoon as the ship came up the Thames, and died in his
son's arms as she was entering Tilbury Docks.
No man is perfect; many are perfect in parts; some are almost perfect.
But the broad fact faces us that we must not say of any man that he is
perfect. There is a word, however, that years ago I applied to my
friend when I had learned to know and form a loving estimate of him.
He was thorough--thorough in his likes and dislikes, in his work, in
his play, in great things, in small things, in his common sense, in the
things he knew, in the things he did, in his many merits, in the clear
mind that planned no less than the deft hand that executed, in the
privacy of the home, and in the brazen bustle of the world of business.
That is how I long looked at F. M. Halford. He was just a specimen of
a real man, the man you can respect, admire, and trust; and, should you
know him well enough, you may add your love without being foolish. I
grant you Halford was one of those men who require knowing, but that is
another matter. It was my good fortune to be an intimate friend of
over thirty years' standing. I was asked to supply the _Field_ with
this "appreciation"; for me, therefore, it is to justify my high
opinion, and to praise him. This I do with all my heart, keeping
myself in hand nevertheless the while, and not permitting the dolour of
Willesden Cemetery to act in favour of him there laid to his rest.
But a man may be thorough, and at the same time we should not object if
he kept his thoroughness all to himself. Halford was not of that kind.
He was a delightful companion--generous, big-hearted, amusing, a sayer
of good things in a human way, and finely opinionated, which, of
course, was not a serious matter when he expected and liked you to be
opinionated also. He was a dangerous man to tackle in argument if your
knowledge of the subject was rickety. He was emphatically what is
termed a well-informed man, for that thoroughness of his stamped his
knowledge, and ruled his memory. You might not always agree with him,
but could seldom floor him, the ground he stood upon being rock-solid.
As both a giver and taker of chaff he was an adept. He had the courage
of his opinions, and none wiser than he when it was best to keep
opinions an unknown quantity. In travelling or by the waterside he was
wonderfully helpful if help was good for you--perhaps, if anything, too
helpful, though I cannot conceive a more pardonable fault than that.
Aye, Halford was verily a fine fellow.
An important note to register in thinking of Halford is that he was one
upon whom fortune smiled. That makes a vast difference probably in the
shape a man will assume as he gets over the dividing range and goes
down the other side towards the cold river. In this respect, H. had
every reason to be grateful for blessings bestowed, and freely said so.
He had, of course, his ups and downs, and his part in life's battle;
but while still in the prime of life he had, so far as one could see,
achieved all that a reasonable man could desire. He could go from a
happy home in the West End to his club; as, per wish or mood, could
wander on Swiss mountains or by Italian lakes; and, above everything,
could have and hold his choice bit of fishing. In his younger days he
was a great opera-goer, and never lost his fondness for music; he was
an officer in the City Artillery Volunteers, and was thorough in that,
and there is a silver cup that notifies his prowess at the rifle butts.
Need it be said that Halford's ante-chamber to paradise was his
fisheries? He was not himself a hard fisher, being content with two or
three hours in the forenoon (ten to one, as a rule) and the evening
rise. It might be wondered how the time could be passed in that case.
There need not be wonderment. He was not under the necessity, like so
many of us, of crowding a maximum of fishing into a minimum of time.
His fishing visits signified taking quarters and fishing the season
through, a succession of friends sharing the pleasure. The host would
be looking patiently after his water, collecting insects, carrying out
experiments, making notes, concerning himself with banks and
weeds--filling the days to the full with useful occupation, which, of
course, gave a zest to his actual fishing when he took it. Within a
fortnight of his death he was to take up his quarters at Dunbridge for
the season; all arrangements were made, and Coxon, the faithful keeper,
was ready to point out what had been done during the winter. And Coxon
was one of the mourners at the Saturday's funeral in the Jewish
Cemetery at Willesden.
It will be of interest and useful here to announce that Mr. Ernest
Halford, after long consideration of what his father's wish would be,
decided to maintain the fishery in all respects as it had been
maintained since the beginning of the tenancy. Mr. Halford was
immensely popular in the Mottisfont district, and I may mention that
they had given a great ovation to his son and grandson on occasions
when they attended or presided at the annual dinners to the tenants and
workpeople on the fishery. That grandson, Halford always believed,
would by and by develop the family fishing traditions. The young
gentleman was meanwhile at Clifton College, and had already killed his
brace of rainbow trout, which his father had preserved for the
collection in the gallery at Pembridge Place; and these, at my last
visit to him at home, F. M. H. showed me, beaming with pride. His
pride also took the form of setting the head of the firm of Hardy
Brothers to the making of a special rod to fit the young Cliftonian's
hand.
To the advantage of ample means should be added in happy sequence that
Halford had, on the whole, robust health to enjoy his fishing. His
regular habits of living, and common sense in food and matters of
hygiene kept him in excellent condition. Early rising and early
bed-going were his rule at home and abroad. Truly, he was in these
matters captain of both soul and body. Then his good fortune shone in
his happy home life. After the death of Mrs. Halford a few years ago,
it was feared the effect upon her husband would be abiding cause for
anxiety. As time went on, however, a new era dawned; the son had
married a lady who was, from the first, "puppetty's" best chum; bonnie
grandchildren arrived to make much of "puppetty," a charming house was
taken for the united home, and there was sunshine again. It was sweet
to see the contented grandfather in the midst of it and witness the
devotion of the young people to him.
Amongst anglers in the English-speaking world Halford has been long
known as the apostle--nay, the Gamaliel of what is called "The Dry Fly
School." It is said that he reduced dry-fly fishing to a science. By
some he is ranked as the arch-type of the dry-fly purist, by which
word, I suppose, is meant the pushing of a theory to an extreme.
Certainly of late years devotion to the fly-rod admitted of no
allurements in other directions, and henceforth Halford will be
generally known, as he has been known since he took rank as master, as
a first authority on the one branch of our sport. Yet he reached that
position through the love and practice of every kind of fishing--in
short, through his enthusiasm as an "all-round angler," as it is the
custom to formularise the general practitioner of our sport. Even as a
boy-angler, however, he showed his inherent tendency to inquire, and
understand, and improve; he worked out the mysteries of the Nottingham
style on the Thames, and the betterment of sea fishing tackle with the
same ingenuity, perseverance, and success as in after years attended
his studies of chalk stream insects, their artificial imitations, and
the perfecting of the tackle demanded by the highest class of
fly-fishing. Let it not, however, be forgotten that he was never out
of sympathy with any class of angler or angling. If he appeared
indifferent to forms of angling loved by others, it was simply that he
placed his own first. In angling, it was trout and grayling fishing
that mattered most. He adopted it as his choice, and clung to it.
People were just getting accustomed to the word "dry-fly" when Halford
began his career as a scientific exponent of the art to which he
devoted so many years of work and study. This was in the late sixties,
and he took trout fever on the pellucid Wandle, at that time a
beautiful stream with good store of singularly handsome trout, and a
regular company of gentlemen fly-fishers. The dry-fly men were,
however, few, for the eyed-hook was not in fashion, and the custom, not
only on the Wandle, but on other chalk streams, was to use the finest
gut attachments to flies that were dressed for floating.
It was so like Halford to listen with all his ears to the advice of the
few who urged the advantage of the dry fly. Anything in the shape of
an improvement upon something that existed was like red rag to a bull
to him, and he went for the new idea with all his heart. He also went
for the line which was the standard of perfection to our forefathers,
and I must confess that the love of the familiar silk and hair line,
with which we of the old guard learned how to cast a fly, abides with
me to this day, and with it I, for one, can associate the hair cast,
and a certain ancient pony up in Yorkshire who was famous for his
never-failing tail supply of the best white strands, which were
considered indispensable by the fishers of all Wharfedale. Halford,
however, objected to the line, which certainly was given to
waterlogging and sagging at inconvenient times, and eagerly he took up
the dressing of modern lines. He had a hand in all the developments of
the process, and only declared himself satisfied when the Hawksley line
was perfected, leaving others to this day who are aiming at still more
betterment.
How Halford accumulated his experience, building up a fabric so to
speak, brick by brick, is told in the _Autobiography_ and the other
books written by him; and I may, in passing, suggest that in reading
Halford in these volumes you must always read very carefully between
the lines. You never know when you will find a pearl. The apparently
prosaic statement often contains a valuable lesson, and what seems to
be a sentence merely recording the capture of a trout of given inches
and ounces will be found to have been written with the object of
sustaining an argument or enforcing a truth.
The story in the _Autobiography_ of the fishing on the Wandle in those
early years is an instance in point. It is quite a short narrative
destitute of embroidery, and seemingly a casual introduction to what
shall come after, but it is in reality a revelation of the practical
methods that governed him from first to last, and which I venture to
sum up in one word "thorough." There is a paragraph telling how he
overcame a difficulty in circumventing a certain trout that lay about
the mouth of a culvert, and habitually flouted the Wandle rods.
Halford made it a problem and solved it at the opening of his second
Wandle season. He studied the position, obtained the necessary
permission to put white paint on a patch of branches, have them cut
down during the winter, and next season went down with his plan of
campaign in his head. Of course, it succeeded. On the face of it you
here have just an ordinary incident with nothing much in it. But it
emphasises the value of the horizontal cast and something of its
secret, while the kernel of the nut is the fact that it illustrates the
efficiency of using the wrist and not the length of the arm in casting.
You will again and again find Halford's wisdom as if carelessly thrown
down upon a bald place. Some of the critics in the daily press were
fond of saying of his books, "Yes, yes: this is all very good no doubt,
but it does look as if page after page is simply a monotonous recital
of catching trout that are very much alike by processes that have a
strong family likeness." A careless surveyor of the page perhaps would
think in this way, and never for the life of him perceive the point
sought to be made by the writer of the book.
Halford was an angler from his youth upwards, and himself tells us that
by his family he was considered "fishing mad," which, as so many of my
readers may remember, is the orthodox manner in which the young
enthusiast is classified by the unbelievers of his family. He fished
often and in various places as a youth, but it was not till he became a
member of the Houghton Club water on the Test that he plunged into his
life-work for anglers. The date may be given as 1877, and the fire was
kindled by being on the river one April day, and witnessing one of
those marvellous rises of grannom that might once be relied upon every
season on the Test. Many of us who still linger have seen this
phenomenon, only equalled by the hatch of Mayfly in the Kennet Valley
twenty years ago. Just as clouds of Mayfly would greet you on the
railway platforms between Reading and Hungerford, flying into the open
windows, clinging to the lamp-posts and seats, so at Houghton and
Stockbridge the shucks of the grannom would drift into eddies and
collect almost as solid as a weed-bed. Such things are not to be seen
now, and have not been seen for years.
From the swaddling clothes of the risen grannom, cast thus upon the
surface of the water by the insect made perfect, Halford turned to the
artificial imitations then in use. They were of importance in those
days, for the grannom was an institution much regarded, and the grannom
season was held in high esteem. Anglers packed their kit and hurried
away when the grannom was signalled up. There were as many patterns of
the artificial grannom as there are to-day of the March brown, and it
was because Halford found them of varying forms and colourings, and not
a really good imitation of the natural fly amongst them all, that he
resolved to learn how to dress a fly for himself. His stores of
patience were heavily taxed in the preliminary stages, and the victory
came only after a long battle with difficulties. The standard volumes
he produced on the subject of dressing, and the kindred subject of the
entomological side of it, are conclusive evidence of what came of it
all. "Halford as a fly-dresser," however, is a topic too big to handle
in a chapter which merely aims at rambling recollections of him by the
waterside, and indeed it can only be dealt with by a master in the art
of fly-dressing.
In his early days at Houghton, Halford went to John Hammond's shop in
Winchester just before the opening of the 1879 fishing season to buy
flies, and there met, and was introduced by the rubicund John to, a
tall, not to say gaunt, gentleman, who was the most famous of the
Hampshire trout fishers, none other than Marryat himself. This was the
beginning of a close, life-long friendship between the two men.
Halford was at all times most grateful to any helper, and never failed
freely to acknowledge assistance received. Whether he took advice
proffered or not was another matter; he sometimes did it all the same,
but he was always grateful. Words would fail to describe his
appreciation of such co-workers as Marryat at the beginning, and
Williamson at the end of the labours which are embodied in the series
of books which preceded the _Autobiography_. They were co-workers in
everything; hard workers, too. I have heard men lightly joke about
these worthies going about the meadows with a bug-net and lifting
individual ephemerals from the surface of the stream. Let those laugh
that win. It meant collecting hundreds of tiny insects, selecting the
fittest, preparing, preserving, and mounting them. It meant the
endless autopsy of fish and the patient searching of their entrails.
To stand by while Halford and Marryat with their scissors, forceps, and
whatnot laid out the contents of a trout's stomach, and bent low in
separating and identifying the items, putting what were worthy of it
under a microscope, and proceeding all the while as if the round world
offered no other pursuit half so worthy of concentrated attention, was
most fascinating. Many a time was I a spectator--I fear sometimes an
irreverent one--of this ritual, but always privileged and welcome;
always, of course, sympathetic, and always in a way envious of the
qualities of mind and extraordinary knowledge which made the whole work
a labour of love to them.
It so fell out that two days after the meeting in John Hammond's shop
the parties met at Houghton, and the first of many foregatherings took
place that day in the well-remembered Sheep-bridge hut--Marryat,
Francis, Carlisle ("South-West"), and Halford. Halford had rooms in
the neighbourhood, and, in his own words, there this historical
quartette would "hold triangular fishing colloquies," "South-West"
having his home up the river at Stockport. Francis was the first of
the trio to fall out, his last casts being on his beloved Sheep-bridge
shallow. Halford's quarters were now at the mill at Houghton, and it
was my privilege to take Francis Francis's vacant place there, as also
in another place.
What ambrosial nights we had in the homely millhouse after untiring
days with our rods! It was there that I insisted upon my host becoming
a contributor to the _Field_, and he required considerable persuasion.
Indeed, the suggestion roused him into one of his dogmatic
disputations, and he held on tenaciously, till, taking up my bedroom
candle, I said, "Well, I'm off to bed. You've got my opinion and my
advice, and, if you don't write that article you are a so-and-so. Good
night, old chap, sleep on it." Next morning I was taking my
ante-breakfast pipe on a cartwheel in the shed outside, and listening
to the diapason of the mill, when Halford came out. "All right,
sonny," he said, "I'll try it, but candidly I ha'e ma doots." This was
how the first "Detached Badger" article came to appear in the _Field_.
Walsh, the famous "Stonehenge," was editor of the paper then, and he
stuck for a while at the pseudonym which Halford chose. But he was the
best fellow in the world, and very soon good-humouredly gave in and
left it to me. Walsh, nevertheless, would always make merry over that
signature, and used with a twinkle of his eye to ask me whether my
friend the Badger was quite well.
And what a delightful fishing companion the Badger was! Perhaps for
the first two years at Houghton the pleasure was just a little tempered
with one insignificant drawback. I had not then been long a dry-fly
practitioner, and was terribly ashamed for H. to watch me fishing.
'Tis thirty years back, yet I acutely remember my nervousness on that
point. Having got his brace or so of fish, and finished his studies of
water, rise of fly, weeds and weather, and neatly (and oh! so orderly
and accurately!) made his entries in his little notebook, he loved to
play gillie to his friend for hours together, criticise his style of
fishing, and give advice; naturally, after a time, if you are nervous,
you are certain of one thing only: that you are the king of asses, and
had better imitate the immortal colonel who hurled his book of salmon
flies into the pool shouting "Here, take the bally lot." The droll
thing was that Halford never dreamed that his chum was put out by his
good intentions, or that the victim's feeble smiles were but a mask for
nerve-flutters.
One hot day I was over-tired and nakedly accomplished everything that
was wrong; the backward cast caught buttercups and daisies, the forward
throw fouled the sedges, the underhand cut landed line and cast in a
heap on the water, the fish was put down, the whole shallow scared.
Halford stood behind amiably commenting upon the bungling operations,
and then I uprose from a painful knee and delivered myself of remarks.
Well; yes, I let myself go, and let _him_ "have it." The amazement of
Halford; his contrition; the colour that spread over his countenance
(you will remember how prettily he could blush with that complexion of
his, delicate as a woman in his last days); these sufficiently told me
that he had not the ghost of an idea of the perturbation that had been
seething in me. It took him the rest of the week to cease regretting
that he had been so unobservant, and never again during the remaining
eight-and-twenty years that we fished together at different times and
in divers places did he once depart from his resolve "never to do so no
more." During our long and happy acquaintance that was the only cloud
flitting over the sunshine of our friendship, and it was one of my
making.
After Houghton there was a farmhouse at Headbourne Worthy, and a
season's fishing in the Itchen, and later Halford fished a good deal
below Winchester, where Cooke, Daniels, and Williamson had private
waters. But after Houghton the most notable preserve to be mentioned
was the Ramsbury water on the Kennet. The inspiration of "Making a
Fishery" came from that, for the four friends who leased the
water--Basil Field, Orchardson, R.A., N. Lloyd, and Halford--earnestly
addressed themselves to the reformation of a fishery that had become
depreciated. They spent much money, and carried out operations with a
lavish hand for four seasons. The story has been fully narrated by
Halford, and the conclusion (p. 217, _Autobiography_) is in these
words:--"We had perhaps been extravagant in our expenditure, and also
over-sanguine as to the probable result. The river when we took
possession swarmed with pike and dace, and had a few trout in the lower
part, and in the upper was fairly stocked. When we gave it up the pike
had been practically exterminated, and every yard of the river was
fully stocked with trout of strains far superior to the indigenous
slimy, yellow _Salmo fario_ of the Kennet."
The plain fact was that at the end of four years four of the best of
our dry-fly fishers gave up a water of which they had become very fond
because the trout did not rise at the little floating fly that
appeared, and the sport had decreased to a marked degree. A fishery
that gave poor and diminishing results, even with the Mayfly, sedge,
and Welshman's button, was not suitable for dry-fly experts, and the
Ramsbury experiment was abandoned. The moral has yet to be drawn, and
I have not yet seen anyone grapple at close quarters with the question
of cause and effect with the Ramsbury experiment as a test. "Making a
Fishery" sets down in detail what was done; the _Autobiography_ tells
what came of it. Being one of those who has not faltered in the belief
that the clearing out of coarse fish, the introduction of new strains
of trout, and the artificial feeding of fish may be overdone, I used to
discuss the matter with Halford, but he did not agree with me.
Having known the Ramsbury water before the reformation was undertaken,
I can testify that I seldom at any time saw a good rise of duns upon
it, and that a basket of trout more or less was, notwithstanding, a
reasonable certainty there under ordinarily favourable circumstances,
spite of pike and dace. I have with the wet fly, on days when no
floating fly was coming down, caught my two or three brace of trout
with some such pattern as Red Spinner, Governor, Alder, or Coachman for
the evening; indeed, if I remember correctly, it was on a six-brace day
with the "Red Spinner" on this water that, enamoured of that
artificial, I annexed its name for a series of articles contributed in
1874 to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and have held by it ever since.
Foli, the opera-singer, once caught three half-pounders at a cast, and
the keeper netted them all, on this fishery.
One evening we met at Ramsbury, after an afternoon without sign of fly
or rising trout. Halford and Basil Field were there, and we stood and
bewailed the absence of duns and lack of sport. We loitered there with
our rods spiked, and smoked sadly. I then, and not for the first time,
repeated the tale of my former experiences, and at last begged Halford
not to be shocked, not to think me an unforgivable brute, but would he
give me free permission to try the wet fly in the old way, and without
prejudice. He at first laughingly protested, but saying he would ne'er
consent, consented. I was to do my best or worst. The difficulty was
to find a fly that could be fished wet, and in the end a Red Spinner on
a No. 1 hook was forthcoming. I thereupon followed the old plan,
except that there was one instead of two flies, and caught a brace of
three-quarter pounders before we had moved fifty yards down the meadow.
They were the only trout taken that day.