CHAPTER IV.

ANGLERS’ FISHES.

Fresh-Water Fish not of much Value—The Angler and his

Equipment—Pleasures of the Country in May—Anglers’ Fishes—Trout, Pike,

Perch, and Carp—Gipsy Anglers—Angling Localities—Gold Fish—The River

Scenery of England—The Thames—Thames Anglers—Sea Angling—Various Kinds

of Sea-Fish—Proper kinds of Bait—The Tackle Necessary—The Island of

Arran—Corry—Goatfell, etc.

Although it may be deemed necessary in a work like the present to

devote some space to the subject, I do not set much store by the common

anglers’ fishes, so far, at least, as their food value is concerned;

for although we were to cultivate them to their highest pitch, and by

means of artificial spawning multiply them exceedingly, they would

never (the salmon, of course, excepted) form an article of any great

commercial value in this beef-eating country. In France, where the

Church enjoins so many fasts and has such strict sumptuary laws, the

people are differently situated, and require, especially in the inland

districts, to have recourse to the meanest produce of the rivers

in order to carry out the injunctions of their priests. The fresh

waters are therefore assiduously cultivated in nearly all continental

countries; but the fresh-water fishes of the British Islands have at

present but a very slight commercial value, as they are not captured,

either individually or in the aggregate, for the purposes of commerce;

but to persons fond of angling they afford sport and healthful

recreation, whether they are pursued in the large English or Scottish

lakes, or caught in the small rivulets that feed our great salmon

streams.

Although Britain is possessed of a seabord of 4000 miles, and a large

number of fine rivers and lakes, the total number of British fishes is

comparatively small (about 250 only), and the varieties which live in

the fresh water are therefore very limited; those that afford sport

may be numbered with ease on our ten fingers. Fishers who live in

the vicinity of large cities are obliged in consequence to content

themselves with the realisation of that old proverb which tells them

that small fish are better than no fish at all; hence there is a race

of anglers who are contented to sit all day in a punt on the Thames,

happy when evening arrives to find their patience rewarded with a

fisher’s dozen of stupid gudgeons. But in the north, on the lakes of

Cumberland or on the Highland lochs of Scotland, such tame sport would

be laughed at. Are there not charr in the Derwent and splendid trout

in Loch Awe? and these require to be pursued with a zeal, and involve

an amount of labour not understood by anglers who punt for gudgeon or

who haunt the East India Docks for perch, or the angler who only knows

the usual run of Thames fish—barbel, roach, dace, and gudgeon. To kill

a sixteen-pound salmon on a Welsh or Highland stream is to be named

a knight among anglers; indeed, there are men who never lift a rod

except to kill a salmon; such, however, like the Duke of Roxburghe,

are the giants of the profession. For sport there is no fish like the

monarch of the brook, and great anglers will not waste time on any

fish less noble. An angler, with a moderate-sized fish of the salmon

kind at the end of his line, is not in the enjoyment of a sinecure,

although he would not for any kind of reward allow his work to be done

by deputy. I have seen a gentleman play a fish for four hours rather

than yield his rod to the attendant gillie, who could have landed the

fish in half-an-hour’s time. It is a thrilling moment to find that,

for the first time, one has hooked a salmon, and the event produces a

nervousness that certainly does not tend to the speedy landing of the

fish. The first idea, naturally enough, is to haul our scaly friend

out of the water by sheer force; but this plan has speedily to be

abandoned, for the fish, making an astonished dash, rushes away up

stream in fine style, taking out with it no end of “rope;” then when

once it obtains a bite of its bridle away it goes sulking into some

rocky hiding-place. In a brief time it comes out again with renewed

vigour, determined as it would seem to try your mettle; and so it

dashes about till you become so fatigued as not to care whether you

land it or not. It is impossible to say how long an angler may have to

“play” a salmon or a large grilse; but if it sinks itself to the bottom

of a deep pool, it may be a business of hours to get it safe into the

landing-net, if the fish be not altogether lost, as in its exertions to

escape it may so chafe the line as to cause it to snap and thus regain

its liberty; and during the progress of the battle the angler has

certainly to wade, aye and be pulled once or twice through the stream,

so that he comes in for a thorough drenching, and may, as many have

to do, go home after a hard day’s work without being rewarded by the

capture of a single fish.

There is abundance of good salmon-angling to be had in the season

in the north of Scotland, where there are always a great variety of

fishings to be let at prices suitable for all pockets; and there

is nothing better either for health or recreation than a day on a

salmon stream. There are one or two places on Tweed frequented by

anglers who take a fishing as a sort of joint-stock company, and who,

when they are not angling, talk politics, make poetry, bandy about

their polite chaff, and generally “go in” as they say for any amount

of amusement. These societies are of course very select, and not

generally accessible to strangers, being of the nature of a club. The

plan which every angler ought to adopt on going to a strange water

is to place himself under the guidance of some shrewd native of the

place, who will show him all the best pools and aid him with his advice

as to what flies he ought to use, and give him many useful hints on

other points as well. Anglers, however, must divide their attention,

for it is quite as interesting (not to speak of convenience) for some

men to spend a day on the Thames killing barbel or roach as it is to

others to kill a ten-pound salmon on the Tweed or the Spey. It is good

sport also to troll for pike in the Lodden or to capture grayling in

beautiful Dovedale. And so pleasant has of late years become the sport

that it is no uncommon sight to see a gentle-born lady handling a

salmon-rod with as much vigour as grace on some one of our picturesque

Highland streams. In fact, angling is a recreation that can be made to

suit all classes, from the child with his stick and crooked pin to the

gentleman with his well-mounted rod and elaborate tackle, who hies away

in his yacht to the fiords of Norway in search of salmon that weigh

from twenty to forty pounds and require a day to capture. For those,

however, who desire to stay at home there is abundant angling all the

year round. From New-Year’s Day to Christmas there needs be no stoppage

of the sport; even the weather should never stop an enthusiastic

angler; but on very bad days, when it is not possible to go out of

doors, there is the study of the fish, and their natural and economic

history, which ought to be interesting to all who use the angle, and

to the majority of mankind besides; and there is spread out around

the angler the interesting book of nature inviting him to perusal. He

can see the white seal of winter opened, and observe the balmy spring

put forth its vernal power; note the turbid streams of winter as they

are slackening their volume of water; see the swelling buds and the

bursting leaves; admire the cowslip and the primrose grow into blossom

almost as he looks at them; hear the sweet notes of the cuckoo, and the

unceasing carol of noisier birds; watch the sportive lamb or the timid

hare; and chronicle the ever-changing seasons as they roll away on

their everlasting journey of progress.

Without pretending to rival the hundred and one guides to angling

that now flood the market, I shall take a glance at a few of the more

popular of the anglers’ fishes; not, however, in any scientific or

other order of precedence, but beginning with the trout, seeing that

the salmon is discussed in a separate division of this work.

Of all our fresh-water fishes, the one that is most plentiful, and

the one that is most worthy of notice by anglers, is the trout. It

can be fished for with the simplest possible kind of rod in the most

tiny stream, or be captured by elaborate apparatus on the great lochs

of Scotland. There are so many varieties of it as to suit all tastes;

there are well-flavoured burn trout, not so large as a small herring,

and there are lake giants that, when placed in the scales, will pull

down a twenty pound weight with the greatest ease. The usual run of

river trout are about six or eight ounces in weight; a pound trout is

an excellent reward for the patient angler. Where a trouting stream

flows through a rich and fertile district of country, with abundant

drainage, the trout are usually well-conditioned and large, and of good

flavour; but when the country through which the stream flows is poor

and rocky, with no drains carrying in food to enrich the stream, the

fish will, as a matter of course, be lanky and flavourless; they may be

numerous, but they will be of small size. It is curious, too, to note

the difference of the fish of the same stream: some of the trout taken

in Tweed, and in other rivers as well, are sharp in their colour, have

fine fat plump thick shoulders, great depth of belly, and beautiful

pink flesh of excellent flavour; others again are lean and flavourless.

The colour of trout is of course dependent on the quality and

abundance of its food; those are best which exist on ground-feeding,

living upon worms and such fresh-water crustaceans as are within reach.

Fly-taking fish—those that indulge in the feed of ephemeræ that takes

place a few times every day—are comparatively poor in flesh and weak in

flavour. As to where fishers should resort, must be left to themselves.

I was once beguiled out to the Dipple, but it was a hungry sort of

river, where the trout were on the average about three ounces and

scarce enough; although I must say that for a few minutes, when “the

feed” was on the water, there was an enormous display of fish, but they

preferred to remain in their native stream, a tributary of the Clyde I

think. The mountain streams and lochs of Scotland, or the placid and

picturesque lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland, are the paradise of

anglers.

For trout-fishing we would name Scotland as being before all other

countries. “What,” it has been asked, “is a Scottish stream without

its trout?” Doubtless, if a river has no trout it is without one of

its greatest charms, and it is pleasant to record that, except in

the neighbourhood of very large seats of population, trout are still

plentiful in Scotland. It is true the railway, and other modes of

conveyance, have carried of late years a perfect army of anglers into

its most picturesque nooks and corners, and therefore fish are not

quite so plentiful as they were thirty years ago, in the old coaching

days, when it was possible to fill a washing-tub in the space of half

an hour with lovely half-pound trout from a few pools on a burn near

Moffat. But there are still plenty of trout; indeed there is a noted

fisher who can fill his basket even in streams that, being near the

large cities, have been too often fished; but then it is given to him

to be a man of great skill in his vocation, and moreover capable of

instructing others, for he has written a work that in some degree has

revolutionised the art of angling.

The place to try an angler is a fine Border stream or a grand Highland

loch; but I shall not presume to lay down minute directions as to _how_

to angle, for an angler, like a poet, must be born, he can scarcely be

bred, and no amount of book lore will confer upon a man the magic power

of luring the wary trout from its crystalline home. The best anglers,

and I may add fish-poachers, are the gipsies. A gipsy will raise fish

when no other human being can move them. If encamped near a stream, a

gipsy band are sure to have fish as a portion of their daily food; and

how beautifully they can broil a trout or boil a grilse those only who

have had the fortune to dine with them can say. Your gipsy is a rare

good fisher, and with half a rod can rob the river of a few dozens of

trout in a very brief space of time, and he can do so while men with

elaborate “fishing machines,” fitted up with costly tackle, continue

to flog the water without obtaining more than a questionable nibble,

just as if the fish knew that they were greenhorns, and took a pleasure

in chaffing them. Mr. Cheek, who wrote a capital book for the guidance

of what I may call Thames anglers, says that the best way to learn

is to see other anglers at work—which is better than all the written

instructions that can be given, one hour’s practical information going

farther than a folio volume of written advice. It is all in vain for

men to fancy that a suit of new Tweeds, a fair acquaintance with

Stoddart or Stewart, and a large amount of angling “slang,” will make

them fishers. There is more than that required. Besides the natural

taste, there is wanted a large measure of patience and skill; and the

proper place to acquire these best virtues of the angler is among the

brawling hill streams of Scotland, or on the expansive bosom of some of

the great Cumberland lakes, while trying for a few delicious charr. A

congregation of fish brought together by means of a scatter of food and

an angler’s taking advantage of the piscine convention over its diet

of worms, is no more angling than a battue is sport. An American that

I have heard of has a fish-manufactory in Connecticut, where he can

shovel the animals out by the hundred; but then he does not go in for

sport, his idea—a thoroughly American one—is money! But despite this

exceedingly commercial idea, there are a few anglers in America, and as

there are much water and many game fishes, there is plenty of sport.

In North America there are to be found in large quantities both the

true salmon and the brook trout; and as a great number of the American

fishes visit the fresh and salt water alternately, they, by reason of

their strength and size, afford excellent employment either to the

river or sea angler. One of the best of the American fishes is called

the Mackinaw salmon.

[Illustration: ANGLERS’ FISHES.

1. Great lake trout (_Salmo ferox_).

2. _Salmo fario._

3. Trout.

]

To come back, in the meantime, to Scotland and the trout, and where

to find them, I may mention that that particular fish is the stock in

trade of the streams and lochs of Scotland,—Scotland, the “land of

the mountain and the flood,”—and there is an ever-abiding abundance

of water, for the lochs and streams of that country are numberless.

One county alone (Sutherland, to wit) contains a thousand lochs, and

one parish in that county has in it two hundred sheets of water,

and all of these abounding with fine trout, affording rich sport to

the angler—rewarding all who persevere with full baskets. As I have

already hinted, the fisher must study his locality and glean advice

from well-informed residents. The gipsies of a district can usually

give capital advice as to the kind of bait that will please best. Many

a time have anglers been seen flogging away at a stream or lake that

was troutless, or at their wit’s end as to which of their flies would

please the dainty palate of my lord the resident trout. But I shall

not further dogmatise on such matters; most people who are given to

angling are quite as wise as the writer of these remarks; and there are

as fine trout in England, I daresay, as there are in Scotland; indeed

there are a thousand streams in this Great Britain, Ireland, and Wales

of ours, where we can find fish—there are splendid trout even in the

Thames. Then there are the Dove and the Severn, as well as rivers that

are much farther away, so that on his second day from London an active

angler may be whipping the Spey for salmon, or trolling on Loch Awe for

the large trout that inhabit that sheet of water. The change of scene

is of itself a delight, no matter what river the visitor may choose. At

the same time the physical exertion undergone by the angler flushes his

cheek with the hue of health, and imparts to his frame a strength and

elasticity known only to such as are familiar with country scenes and

pure air. May and the Mayfly are held to inaugurate the angler’s year;

for although a few of the keenest sportsmen keep on angling all the

year round, most of them lay down their rod about the end of October,

and do not think of again resuming it till they can smell the sweet

fragrance of the advancing summer. Although few of our busy men of law

or commerce are able to forestall the regular holiday period of August

and September, yet a few do manage a run to the country at the charming

time of May, when the days are not too hot for enjoyment nor too

short for country industry. In August and September the landscape is

preparing for the sleep of winter, whilst in May it is being robed by

nature for the fêtes of summer, and, despite the sneers of some poets

and naturalists, is new and charming in the highest degree. Town living

people should visit the country in May, and see and feel its industry,

pastoral and simple as it is, and at the same time view the charms of

its scenery in all its vivid freshness and fragrance.

Some anglers delight in pike-catching, others try for perch; but

give me the trout, of which there is a large variety, and all worth

catching. In Loch Awe, for instance, there is the great lake trout,

which, combined with the beauty of the scenery, has sufficed to draw

to that neighbourhood some of our best anglers. The trout of Loch Awe,

as is well known, are very ferocious, hence their scientific name of

_Salmo ferox_. This trout attains to great dimensions; individuals

weighing twenty pounds have been often captured; but its flavour is

indifferent and the flesh is coarse, and not of a prepossessing colour.

This kind of trout is found in nearly all the large and deep lochs

of Scotland. It was discovered scientifically about the end of last

century by a Glasgow merchant, who was fond of sending samples of

it to his friends as a proof of his prowess as an angler. The usual

way of taking the great lake trout is to engage a boat to fish from,

which must be rowed gently through the water. The best bait is a small

trout, with at least half-a-dozen strong hooks projecting from it, and

the tackle requires to be prodigiously strong, as the fish is a most

powerful one, although not quite so active as some others of the trout

kind, but it roves about in these deep waters enacting the parts of

the bully and the cannibal to all lesser creatures, and driving before

it even the hungry pike. Persons residing near the great lochs capture

these large trout by setting night lines for them. As has been already

mentioned, they are exceedingly voracious, and have been known to be

dragged for long distances, and even after losing hold of the bait to

seize it again with great eagerness, and so have been finally captured.

These great lake trout are also to be found in other countries.

In Lochleven, at Kinross, in the county of Fife, twenty-two miles from

Edinburgh, there will be found localised that beautiful trout which is

peculiar to this one loch, and which I have already referred to as one

of the mysterious fishes of Scotland. This fish—although its quality

is said to have been degenerated by the drainage of the lake in 1830,

at which period it was reduced by draining to a third of its former

dimensions—is of considerable commercial value; it cannot be bought in

Edinburgh under two shillings a pound weight; and if it was properly

cultivated might yield a large revenue. I have not been able to obtain

recent statistics of “the take” of Lochleven trout, but in former years

during the seven months of the fishing season it used to range from

fifteen thousand to twenty thousand pounds weight, and at the time

referred to all trout under three-quarters of a pound in weight were

thrown back into the water by order of the lessee. Eighty-five dozen of

these fine trout have been known to be taken at a single haul, while

from twenty to thirty dozen used to be a very common take. As to perch,

they used to be caught in thousands. Little has or can be said about

Lochleven trout, except that they are a speciality. Some learned people

(but I take leave to differ from them) consider the Lochleven fish to

be identical with _Salmo fario_, but never in any of my piscatorial

wanderings have I found its equal in colour, flavour, or shape. It

has been compared with the _Fario Lemanus_ of the Lake of Geneva, and

having handled both fishes I must allow that there is very little

difference between them; but still there are differences. Boats can be

hired at Kinross for an hour or two’s fishing on Lochleven. Mr. Barnet,

the editor of the local paper, himself a keen fisher, will, I have

no doubt, put gentlemen in the way of enjoying a day’s pike or trout

fishing on the loch.

I need not go over all the varieties of fresh-water trout _seriatim_,

for their name is legion, and every book on angling contains lists of

those that are peculiar to the districts treated upon. If anglers’

fishes ever become valuable as food, it will be by the cultivation of

our great lochs. With such a vast expanse of water as is contained in

some of these lakes, and having ample river accommodation at hand for

spawning purposes, there could be no doubt that artificial breeding,

if properly gone about, would be successful. The Lochleven trout in

particular might be made a subject of piscicultural experiment; it is

already of great money value commercially, and could be cultivated so

as to become a considerable source of revenue to the proprietor of the

lake and amusement to the angler.

[Illustration: JACK IN HIS ELEMENT.]

There are some pretty big pike in Lochleven; I lately examined a

very large one, weighing sixteen pounds, that had been feeding very

industriously on the dainty trout of the loch. As every angler knows,

the pike affords capital sport, and may be taken in many different

ways. Pike spawn in March and April, when the fish leaves its

hiding-place in the deep water and retires for procreative purposes

into shallow creeks or ditches. The pike yields a very large quantity

of roe on the average, and the young fish are not long in being

hatched. Endowed with great feeding power, pike grow rapidly from the

first, attaining a length of twenty-two inches. Before that period a

young pike is called a jack, and its increase of weight is at the rate

of about four pounds a year when well supplied with food. The appetite

of this fish is very great, and, from its being so fierce, it has been

called the pirate of the rivers. It is not easily satisfied with food,

and numerous extraordinary stories of the pike’s powers of eating and

digesting have been from time to time related. I remember, when at

school at Haddington (seventeen miles from Edinburgh), of seeing a pike

that inhabited a hole in the “Lang Cram” (a part of the river Tyne),

which was nearly triangular in shape, supposed to be the exact pattern

of its hiding-place, and which devoured every kind of fish or animal

that came in its way. It was caught several times, but always managed

to escape, and must have weighed at least twenty-five pounds. Upon

one occasion it was hooked by a little boy, who fished for it with a

mouse, when it rewarded him for his cleverness by dragging him into

the water; and had help not been at hand the boy would assuredly have

been drowned, as the water at that particular spot was deep. As to the

voracity of this fish many particulars have been given. Mr. Jesse,

in one of his works, says that a pike of the weight of five pounds

has been known to eat a hundred gudgeon in three weeks; and I have

myself seen them killed in the neighbourhood of a shoal of parr, and,

notwithstanding their rapidity of digestion, I have seen four or five

fish taken out of the stomach of each. Mr. Stoddart, one of our chief

angling authorities, has calculated the pike to be amongst the most

deadly enemies of the infant salmon. He tells us that the pike of the

Teviot, a tributary of the Tweed, are very fond of eating young smolts,

and says that, in a stretch of water ten miles long, where there is

good feeding, there will be at least a thousand pike, and that these

during a period of sixty days will consume about a quarter of a million

of young salmon!

One would almost suppose that some of the stories about the voracity

of pike had been invented; if only half of them be true, this fish has

certainly well earned its title of shark of the fresh water. There

is, for instance, the well-known tale of the poor mule, which a pike

was seen to take by the nose and pull into the water; but it is more

likely I think that the mule pulled out the pike. Pennant, however,

relates a story of a pike that is known to be true. On the Duke of

Sutherland’s Canal at Trentham, a pike seized the head of a swan that

was feeding under water, and gorged as much of it as killed both. A

servant, perceiving the swan with its head below the surface for a

longer time than usual, went to see what was wrong, and found both

swan and pike dead. A large pike, if it has the chance, will think

nothing of biting its captor; there are several authentic instances

of this having been done. The pike is a long-lived fish, grows to a

large size, and attains a prodigious weight. There is a narrative

extant about one that was said to be two centuries and a half old,

which weighed three hundred and fifty pounds, and was seventeen feet

long. There is abundant evidence of the size of pike: individuals

have been captured in Scotland, so we are told in the Scots Magazine,

that weighed seventy-nine pounds. In the London newspapers of 1765 an

account is given of the draining of a pool, twenty-seven feet deep, at

the Lilishall Limeworks, near Newport, which had not been fished for

many years, and from which a gigantic pike was taken that weighed one

hundred and seventy pounds, being heavier than a man of twelve stone!

I have seen scores of pike which weighed upwards of half a stone, and

a good many double that weight, but, as in the case of the salmon, the

weight is now on the descending ratio, the giants of the tribe having

been apparently all captured. Formerly there used to be great hauls

of this fish taken out of the water. Whether or not a pike be good

for food depends greatly on where it has been fed, what it has eaten,

and how it has been cooked. In fact, as I have already endeavoured

to show, the animals of the water are in respect of food not unlike

those of the land—their flavour is largely dependent on their feeding;

and pike that have been luxuriating on Lochleven trout, or feeding

daintily for a few months on young salmon, cannot be very bad fare.

As a general rule, however, pike are not highly esteemed as a dish

even when cooked _à la Walton_, who recommended them to be roasted,

and basted during the process with claret, anchovies, and butter. Old

Isaac says a dish of pike so prepared is too good for any but anglers

or very honest men. The pike is a comparatively ugly fish as regards

its shape, but at certain seasons is very brilliant in colour. It is

extensively distributed, and is found over the greater part of Europe,

and also in America and Asia. The mascalogne, _Esox estor_, is the

name of the largest American pike; it is found only in the great lakes

and waters of the St. Lawrence basin, and grows to a very large size,

thirty pounds being a common enough weight, but individuals have been

captured ranging from sixty to eighty pounds. The mascalogne, like all

its tribe, is a bold and voracious fish. There is also the northern

pickerel, another American pike, which does not grow so large as the

above, but is quite as fierce and bold as our own pike; and as the fish

is not good for food, although an excellent game fish, affording no

end of sport, I need not recommend the acclimatisation of any of these

American savages.

The carp family (Cyprinidæ) is very numerous, embracing among its

members the barbel, the gudgeon, the carp-bream, the white-bream, the

red-eye, the roach, the bleak, the dace, and the well-known minnow.

There is one of the family which is of a beautiful colour, and with

which all are familiar—I mean the golden carp, which may be seen

floating in its crystal prison in nearly every home of taste, and which

swarms in the ponds at Hampton Court and in the tropical waters of the

Crystal Palace at Sydenham. The gold and silver fish are natives of

China, whence they were introduced into this country by the Portuguese

about the end of the seventeenth century, and have become, especially

of late years, so common as to be hawked about the streets for sale. In

China, as we can read, every person of fashion keeps gold-fish by way

of having a little amusement. They are contained either in the small

basins that decorate the courts of the Chinese houses, or in porcelain

vases made on purpose; and the most beautiful kinds are taken from a

small mountain-lake in the province of Che-Kyang, where they grow to a

comparatively large size, some attaining a length of eighteen inches

and a comparative bulk, the general run of them being equal in size to

our herrings. These lovely fish afford great delight to the Chinese

ladies, who tend and cultivate them with great care. They keep them in

very large basins, and a common earthen pan is generally placed at the

bottom of these in a reversed position, and so perforated with holes as

to afford shelter to the fish from the heat and glare of the sun. Green

stuff of some kind is also thrown upon the water to keep it cool, and

it (the water) must be changed at least every two days, and the fish,

as a general rule, must never be touched by the hand. Great quantities

of gold-fish are often bred in ponds adjacent to factories, where the

waste steam being let in the water is kept at a warmish temperature.

At the manufacturing town of Dundee they became at one time a complete

nuisance in some of the factories, having penetrated into the steam and

water pipes, and occasionally brought the works to a complete stand.

In England the golden carp usually spawns between May and July, the

particular time being greatly regulated by the warmth of the season.

The time of spawning may be known by the change of habit which occurs

in this fish. It sinks at once into deep water instead of basking on

the top, as usual; previous to which the fish are restive and quick in

their movements, throwing themselves out of the water, etc. It may be

stated here, to prevent disappointment, that golden carp never spawn in

a transparent vessel. When the spawn is hatched the fish are very black

in colour, some darker than others: these become of a golden hue, while

those of a lighter shade become silver-coloured. As is the case with

the salmon, it is some time before this change occurs, some colouring

at the end of one year, and others not till two or three seasons have

come and gone. These beautiful prisoners seldom live long in their

crystal cells, although the prison is beautiful enough, one would

fancy:—

“I ask, what warrant fixed them (like a spell

Of witchcraft fixed them) in the crystal cell;

To wheel with languid motion round and round,

Beautiful, yet in mournful durance bound?

Their peace, perhaps, our slightest footstep marr’d,

Or their quick sense our sweetest music jarr’d;

And whither could they dart, if seized with fear?

No sheltering stone, no tangled root was near.

When fire or taper ceased to cheer the room,

They wore away the night in starless gloom;

And when the sun first dawned upon the streams,

How faint their portion of his vital beams!

Thus, and unable to complain, they fared,

While not one joy of ours by them was shared.”

Gold-fish ought not to be purchased except from some very respectable

dealer. I have known repeated cases where the whole of the fish bought

have died within an hour or two of being taken home. These golden carp,

which are reared for sale, are usually spawned and bred in warmish

water, and they ought in consequence to be acclimatised or “tempered”

by the dealer before they are parted with. Parties buying ought to be

particular as to this, and ascertain if the fish they have bought have

been _tempered_.

Returning to the common carp, I may speak of it as being a most useful

pond-fish. It is a sort of vegetarian, and it may be classed among the

least carnivorous fishes; it feeds chiefly upon vegetables or decaying

organic matter, and very few of them prey upon their kind, while some,

it is thought, pass the winter in a torpid state. There is a rhyme

which tells us that

Turkeys, carp, hops, pickerel, and beer,

Came into England _all_ in one year.

But this couplet must, I think, be wrong, as some of these items were

in use long before the carp was known; indeed, it is not at all certain

when this fish was first introduced into England, or where it was

brought from, but I think it extremely possible that it was originally

brought here from Germany. In ancient times there used to be immense

ponds filled with carp in Prussia, Saxony, Bohemia, Mecklenburg, and

Holstein, and the fish was bred and brought to market with as much

regularity as if it had been a fruit or a vegetable. The carp yields

its spawn in great quantities, no fewer than 700,000 eggs having been

found in a fish of moderate weight (ten pounds); and, being a hardy

fish, it is easily cultivated, so that it would be profitable to breed

in ponds for the fishmarkets of populous places, and the fish-salesmen

assure us that there would be a large demand for good fresh carp. It

is necessary, according to the best authorities, to have the ponds in

suites of three—viz., a spawning-pond, a nursery, and a receptacle for

the large fish—and to regulate the numbers of breeding fish according

to the surface of water. It is not my intention to go minutely into

the construction of carp-ponds; but I may be allowed to say that it

is always best to select such a spot for their site as will give the

engineer as little trouble as possible. Twelve acres of water divided

into three parts would allow a splendid series of ponds—the first to

be three acres in extent, the second an acre more, and the third to be

five acres; and here it may be again observed that, with water as with

land, a given space can only yield a given amount of produce, therefore

the ponds must not be overstocked with brood. Two hundred carp, twenty

tench, and twenty jack per acre is an ample stock to begin breeding

with. A very profitable annual return would be obtained from these

twelve acres of water; and, as many country gentlemen have even larger

sheets than twelve acres, I recommend this plan of stocking them with

carp to their attention. There is only the expense of construction to

look to, as an under-keeper or gardener could do all that was necessary

in looking after the fish. A gentleman having a large estate in Saxony,

on which were situated no less than twenty ponds, some of them as large

as twenty-seven acres, found that his stock of fish added greatly

to his income. Some of the carp weighed fifty pounds each, and upon

the occasion of draining one of his ponds, a supply of fish weighing

five thousand pounds was taken out; and for good carp it would be no

exaggeration to say that sixpence per pound weight could easily be

obtained, which, for a quantity like that of this Saxon gentleman,

would amount to a sum of £125 sterling. Now, I have the authority of

an eminent fish-salesman for stating that ten times the quantity here

indicated could be disposed of among the Jews and Catholics of London

in a week, and, could a regular supply be obtained, an unlimited

quantity might be sold.

I have been writing about Highland streams and northern lochs; but the

river scenery of England is, in its way, equally beautiful, and no

river is more charming than the Thames. It is a classic stream, and its

praises have been sung by the poets and celebrated by the historian.

After Mrs. S. C. Hall and Thorne, it were vain to repeat its praises:—

“Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

O Thames! that anglers all may see

As lovely visions by thy side,

As now, fair river, come to me.

Oh, glide, fair stream, for ever so

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,

Till all our minds for ever flow

As thy deep waters are now flowing.”

The Thames takes its rise in Gloucestershire, about three miles from

the town of Cirencester; and at that place, and for some miles of its

course, it is known as the Isis, and not till the waters of the Thame

join it in Oxfordshire is it known as the _Thames_. This celebrated

river is small at first, and flows through some beautiful scenery and

highly-cultivated country; its banks are studded with castles and

palaces, beautiful towns and snug villages; while well-stored gardens

and cultivated fields give smiling evidence of plenty all along its

course. When we consider that the Thames flows past Windsor, Hampton

Court, and Richmond; that it laves the grassy lawns of Twickenham,

waters the gardens of Kew, and that it bears upon its bosom the

gigantic commerce of London—we can at once realise its importance, and

can understand its being called the king of British rivers, although it

is neither so long, nor does it contain so voluminous a body of water

as some other of our British streams. The total length of the river

Thames is 215 miles, and the area of the country it waters is 6160

square miles. It has as affluents a great many fine streams, including

the river Lodden, as also the Wey and the Mole. I am not entitled to

consider it here in its picturesque aspects—my business with it is

piscatorial, and I am able to certify that it is rich in fish of a

certain kind—

“The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye,

The silver eel in shining volumes rolled,

The yellow carp in scales bedropp’d with gold,

Swift trout diversified with crimson stains,

And pike, the tyrants of the watery plains.”

Considering that all its best fishing points are accessible to an

immense population, many of whom are afflicted with a mania for

angling, it is quite wonderful that there is a single fish of any

description left in it; and yet but a year or two ago, the “pen of the

war” bagged a seven-pound trout near Walton Bridge! I may be allowed

just to run over a few Thames localities, and note what fish may be

taken from them. Above Teddington at different places an occasional

trout may be pulled out, but, although the finest trout in the world

may be got in the Thames, they are, unfortunately, so scarce in the

meantime, that it is hardly worth while to lose one’s time in the

all but vain endeavour to lure them from their home. Pike fishing or

trolling will reward the Thames angler better than trouting. There are

famous pike to be taken every here and there—in the deep pools and at

the weirs: and, as the pike is voracious, a moderately good angler,

with proper bait, is likely to have some sport with this fish. But

the speciality of the Thames, so far at least as most anglers are

concerned, is the quantity of fish of the carp kind which it contains,

as also perch. This latter fish may be taken with great certainty about

Maidenhead, Cookham, Pangbourne, Walton, Labham, and Wallingford Road;

and a kindred fish, the pope, in great plenty, may be sought for in the

same localities. Then the bearded barbel is found in greater plenty in

the Thames than anywhere else, and, as it is a fish of some size and

of much courage, it affords great sport to the angler. The best way to

take the barbel is with the “Ledger,” and the best places for this kind

of fishing are the deeps at Kingston Bridge, Sunbury Lock, Halliford,

Chertsey Weir, and in the deeps at Bray, where many a time and oft have

good hauls of barbel been taken. The best times for the capture of

this fish are late in the afternoon or very early in the morning. Chub

are also plentiful in the Thames; and Mr. Arthur Smith, who wrote a

guide to Thames anglers, specially recommended the island above Goring

for chub, also Marlow and the large island below Henley Bridge. This

fish can be taken with the fly, and gives tolerable sport. The roach

is a fish that abounds in all parts of the Thames, especially between

Windsor and Richmond; and in the proper season—September and October—it

will be found in Teddington Weir, Sunbury, Blackwater, Walton Bridge,

Shepperton Lock, the Stank Pitch at Chertsey, and near Maidenhead,

Marlow, and Henley Bridges. At Teddington I may state that the dace is

abundant, and there is plenty of little fish of various kinds that can

be had as bait at most of the places we have named. In fact, in the

Thames there is a superabundance of sport of its kind, and plenty of

accommodation for anglers, with wise fishermen to teach them the art;

and although the best sport that can be enjoyed on this lovely stream

is greatly different from the trout-fishing of Wales or Scotland, it

is good in its degree, and tends to health and high spirits, and an

anxiety to excel in his craft, as one can easily see who ventures by

the side of the water about Kew and Richmond.

“With hurried steps,

The anxious angler paces on, nor looks aside,

Lest some brother of the angle, ere he arrive,

Possess his favourite swim.”

[Illustration: THAMES ANGLERS.—FROM AN OLD PICTURE.]

I come now to the perch, a well-known because common fish, about

which a great deal has been written, and which is easily taken by the

angler. There are a great number of species of this fish, from the

common perch of our own canals and lochs to the “lates” of the Nile,

or the beautiful golden-tailed mesoprion, which swims in the seas of

Japan and India and flashes out brilliant rays of colour. The perch was

assiduously cultivated in ancient Italy, in the days when pisciculture

was an adjunct of gastronomy, and was thought to equal the mullet in

flavour. In Britain, the fish, left to its natural growth and no care

being taken to flavour it artificially, is surpassed for table purposes

by the salmon and the trout; but perch being abundant afford plenty of

good fishing. The perch usually congregate in small shoals, and delight

in streams, or water with a clear bottom and with overhanging foliage

to shelter them from the overpowering heats of summer. These fish do

not attain any considerable weight, the one recorded as being taken in

the Serpentine, in Hyde Park, which weighed nine pounds, being still

the largest on record. Perch of three and four pounds are by no means

rare, and those of one pound or so are quite common. The perch is a

stupid kind of fish, and easily captured. Many of the foreign varieties

of perch attain an immense weight. Some of the ancient writers tell us

that the “lates” of the Nile attained a weight of three hundred pounds;

and then there is the vacti of the Ganges, which is often caught five

feet long. The perch, after it is three years old, spawns about May. It

may be described as rather a hardy fish, as we know it will live a long

time out of water, and can be kept alive among wet moss, so that it

may be easily transferred from pond to pond. Its hardy nature accounts

for its being found in so many northern lochs and rivers, as in the

olden times of slow conveyances it must have taken a long time to send

the fish to the great distances we know it must have been carried

to. On the Continent, living perch are a feature of nearly all the

fishmarkets. The fish, packed in moss and occasionally sprinkled with

water, are carried from the country to the cities, and if not sold are

taken home and replaced in the ponds. This particular fish, which is

very prolific, might be “cultivated” to any extent. We do not see why

a fish-pond should not be as much a portion of a country gentleman’s

commissariat as his kitchen-garden or his cow-paddock. Perch are

useful in more ways than are generally known. The Laplanders make glue

and also jelly out of their skins. Exquisite dishes for fastidious

gourmets can be concocted from their milts, and choice ornaments can

be formed out of their scales. The sea-perch, as it is called (the

basse), may be mentioned here. Some varieties of it are very plentiful

on the coast of America, where they grow to a large size, and are

much esteemed for their flavour. Another variety of the perch is the

common pike-perch, which might be acclimatised with advantage in our

seas, where it is at present unknown. It is common in the Danube and

the Elbe, as also in the Caspian and Black Seas. It is a fish that

grows rapidly and attains a considerable weight, and its flesh is most

agreeable. It is surprising that no pains are taken to acclimatise new

varieties of fish in Britain, although it could be easily accomplished.

There is, for instance, the black basse of the Huron, which might be

advantageously introduced; and there are many other fishes, both of the

salt and fresh water, which would flourish in this country and add to

our commissariat. I have chronicled in another place the introduction

of the _Silurus glanis_, and I would have been only too glad to have

recorded the introduction of a dozen other fish.

As I have said so much about the Scottish lochs, it would be but

fair to say a few words about those of England; but in good honest

truth it would be superfluous to descant at the present day on the

beauties of Windermere, or the general lake scenery of Cumberland and

Westmorland: it has been described by hundreds of tourists, and its

praises have been sung by its own poets—the lake poets. It is with its

fish that we have business, and honesty compels us to give the charr a

bad character. It is not by any means a game fish, so far as sport is

concerned; nor is it great in size or rich in flavour. But potted charr

is a rare breakfast delicacy. This fish, which is said by Agassiz to be

identical with the ombre chevalier of Switzerland, is rarely found to

weigh more than a pound; specimens are sometimes taken exceeding that

weight, but they are scarce. The charr is found to be pretty general

in its distribution, and is found in many of the Scottish lochs. It

spawns about the end of the year, some of the varieties depositing

their eggs in the shallow parts of the lake, while others proceed a

short way up some of the tributary streams. In November great shoals of

charr may be seen in the rivers Rothay and Brathay, particularly the

latter, with the view of spawning. The charr, we are told by Yarrell,

afford but scant amusement to the angler, and are always to be found in

the deepest parts of the water in the lochs which they inhabit. “The

best way to capture them is to trail a very long line after a boat,

using a minnow for a bait, with a large bullet of lead two or three

feet above the bait to sink it deep in the water; by this mode a few

charr may be taken in the beginning of summer, at which period they are

in the height of perfection both in colour and flavour.”

As I am on the subject of anglers’ fishes, the reader will perhaps

allow me to suggest that “no end of sport” may be obtained in the sea;

that capital sea-angling may be enjoyed all the year round, and all

round the British coasts; and that there are fighting fishes in the

waters of the great deep that will occasionally try both the cunning

and the nerve of the best anglers. The greatest charm of sea-angling,

however, lies in its simplicity, and the readiness with which it can

be engaged in, together with the comparatively homely and inexpensive

nature of the instruments required. A party living at the seaside

can either fish off the rocks or hire a boat, and purchase or obtain

the loan (for a slight consideration) of such simple tackle as is

necessary; though it must not be too simple, for even sea-fish will

not stand the insult of supposing they can be caught as a matter of

course with anything; and as the larger kinds of hooks are often scarce

at mere fishing villages, it is better to carry a few to the scene of

action.

“Well then, what sport does the sea afford?” will most likely be the

first question put by those who are unacquainted with sea-angling. I

answer, anything and everything in the shape of fish or sea-monster,

from a sprat to a whale. This is literally true. It is not an

unfrequent occurrence for tourists in Orkney, or other places in

Scotland, to assist at a whale-battue; and some of my readers may

remember a very graphic description of an Orcadian whale-hunt, given

in _Blackwood’s Magazine_ a few years ago, by the late Professor

Aytoun, who was Sheriff and Admiral of Orkney. The kind of sea-fish,

however, that are most frequently taken by the angler, both on the

coasts of England and Scotland, are the whiting, the common cod, the

beautiful poor or power cod, and the mackerel; there is also the

abundant coal-fish, or sea-salmon as I call it, from its handsome

shape. This fish is taken in amazing quantities, and in all its stages

of growth. It is known by various names, such as sillock, piltock,

cudden, poddly, etc.; indeed most of our fishes have different names

in different localities; but I shall keep to the proper name so as to

avoid mistakes. The merest children are able, by means of the roughest

machinery, to catch any quantity of young coal-fish; they can be taken

in our harbours, and at the sea-end of our piers and landing-places.

The whiting is also very plentiful, so far as angling is concerned, as

indeed are most of the Gadidæ. It feeds voraciously, and will seize

upon anything in the shape of bait; several full-grown pilchards

have been more than once taken from the stomach of a four-pound

fish. Whiting can be caught at all periods of the year, but it is of

course most plentiful in the breeding season, when it approaches the

shores for the purpose of depositing its spawn—that is in January

and February. The common codfish is found on all parts of our coast,

and the sea-anglers, if they hit on a good locality—and this can be

rendered a certainty—are sure to make a very heavy basket.

[Illustration: THE ANGLER FISH.]

The pollack, or, as it is called in Scotland lythe, also affords

capital sport; and the mackerel-herring and conger-eel can also

be taken in considerable quantities. I can strongly recommend the

lythe-fishing to gentlemen who are _blasés_ of salmon or pike, or who

do not find excitement even among the birds of lone St. Kilda. Then,

as will afterwards be described, there is the extensive family of the

flat fish, embracing brill, plaice, flounders, soles, and turbot.

The latter is quite a classic fish, and has long been an object of

worship among gastronomists; it has been known to attain an enormous

size. Upon one occasion an individual, which measured six feet across,

and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds, was caught near Whitby.

The usual mode of capturing flat fish is by means of the trawl-net,

but many varieties of them may be caught with a handline. A day’s

sea-angling will be chequered by many little adventures. There are

various minor monsters of the deep that vary the monotony of the day

by occasionally devouring the bait. A tadpole-fish, better known as

the sea-devil or “the angler,” may be hooked, or the fisher may have

a visit from a hammer-headed shark or a pile-fish, which adds greatly

to the excitement; and if “the dogs” should be at all plentiful, it is

a chance if a single fish be got out of the sea in its integrity. So

voracious are this species of the Squalidæ, that I have often enough

pulled a mere skeleton into the boat, instead of a plump cod of ten or

twelve pounds weight.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

I shall now say a few words about the machinery of capture. The tackle

in use for handline sea-fishing is much the same everywhere, and that

which I describe will suit almost any locality. It consists of a frame

of four pieces of woodwork about a foot and a half in length, fastened

together in the shape of such a machine as ladies use for certain

worsted work. Round this is wound a thin cord, generally tanned, of

from ten to twenty fathoms in length. To the extreme end of this line

is attached a leaden sinker, the weight of which varies according

as the current of the tide is slow or rapid. About two feet above

the sinker is a cross piece of whalebone or iron, to the extremities

of which the strings on which the hooks are dressed are attached.

Sometimes a third hook is affixed to an outrigger, about two feet above

the other hooks. The length of the cords to which the lower hooks are

attached should be such as to allow them to hang about six inches

higher than the bottom of the sinker. In some parts of the Western

Highlands a rod consisting of thin fir is used, but from the length of

line required it is rather a clumsy instrument, as after the fish has

been struck the rod has to be laid down in the boat, and the line to be

hauled in by hand.

As to bait, it is quite impossible to lay down any strict rule. The

bait which is the favourite in one bay or bank is scouted by the fish

of other localities. At times almost anything will do: numbers of

mackerel have been taken with a little bit of red cloth attached to the

hook; on certain occasions the fish are so voracious that they will

swallow the naked iron! On the English coasts, and among the Western

Islands of Scotland, the most deadly bait that is used is boiled

limpets, which require to be partially chewed by the fisher before

placing them on the hooks; in other places mussels are the favourites,

and in others the worms procured among the mud of the shore. The

limpet has this one advantage, that it is easily fixed on the hook,

and keeps its hold tenaciously. A very excellent bait for the larger

kinds of fish is the soft parts of the body of small crabs, which

are gathered for that purpose at low tide under the stones; a good

place for procuring them is a mussel-bed. The best time for fishing

is immediately before ebb or flow. The hooks being baited, the line

is run over the side of the boat until the lead touches the bottom,

when it is drawn up a little, so as to keep the baits out of reach of

the crabs, who gnaw and destroy both bait and tackle. The line is held

firmly and lightly outside the boat, the other hand, inside the boat,

also having a grip of the line. The moment a fish is felt to strike,

the line is jerked down by the hand inside, thus bringing it sharply

across the gunwale and fixing the hook. A little experience will soon

enable the angler to determine the weight of the fish, and according

as it is light or heavy must he quickly or slowly haul in his line.

When the fish reaches the surface, he should, if practicable, seize it

with his hand, as it is apt, on feeling itself out of water, to wriggle

off. A landing-clip or gaff, such as is used in salmon-fishing, is

useful, as, in the event of hooking a conger or a ray, there is much

difficulty, and even some danger.

In fishing for lythe—the most exciting of all sea-angling—a very strong

cord is used, on which, in order to prevent the fouling of the line,

one or two stout swivels are attached. The hooks also cannot be too

strong; those used for cod or ling fishing are very suitable. The

baits in general use are the body of a small eel, about half a foot in

length, skinned and tied to the shaft; or a strip of red cloth, or a

red or white feather similarly attached. A piece of lead is fixed on

the line at a short distance above the hook.

[Illustration]

The boat must be rowed or sailed at a moderate rate, and from five or

ten fathoms of the line allowed to trail behind. The boat end of the

line should be turned once or twice round the arm, and held tightly in

the hand; if the line were fastened to the boat, there is every chance

that a large lythe—they are frequently caught upwards of thirty pounds

weight—would snap the tackle. The fish, when hooked, gives considerable

play, and rather strongly objects to being lifted into the boat. The

clip or gaff is in this case always necessary. In fishing for lythe,

mackerel and dogfish are not unfrequently caught. The best place for

prosecuting this sport is in the neighbourhood of a rocky shore; and

the best times of the day are the early morning and evening. This fish

will also take readily during any period of a dull but not gloomy day.

The most amusing kind of sea-angling is fly-fishing for small lythe and

saithe (coal-fish). The tackle is exceedingly simple: a rod consisting

of a pliant branch about eight feet in length; a line of light cord of

the same length, and a small hook roughly busked with a small white,

red, or black feather. The fly is dragged on the surface as the boat

is rowed along, and the moment the fish is struck it is swung into

the boat. The fry of the lythe and saithe may also be fished for from

rocks and pier-heads, using the same tackle. A very ingenious plan for

securing a number of these little fish is carried on in the Firth of

Clyde and elsewhere. A boat similar in shape to a salmon-coble, with

a crew of two—one to row and one to fish—goes out along the shore in

the evening, when the sea is perfectly calm or nearly so. The fisher

has charge of half-a-dozen rods or more, similar to the one already

mentioned. These rods project across the square stern of the boat, and

their near ends are inserted into the interstices of a seat of wattled

boughs, on which the fisher sits, not steadily, but bumping gently up

and down, communicating a trembling motion to the flies. The course of

the coble is always close in shore, and, if the fish are taking well,

the same ground may be fished over many times during the course of the

evening.

As to set-line-fishing, it can only be practised in places where the

tide recedes to a considerable distance. The cord used is of no defined

length, and at certain distances along its entire extent are affixed

corks to prevent the hooks sinking in the sand or mud. The shore-end

is generally anchored to a stone, and the further end fastened to the

top of a stout staff firmly fixed in the beach, and generally attached

also to a stone to prevent it drifting ashore in the event of being

loosened from its socket. From the staff almost to the shore, hooks

are tied along the line at distances of a yard. The hooks are baited

at low tide, and on the return of next low tide the line is examined.

This is neither a satisfactory nor sure method of fishing, as many of

the fish wriggle themselves free, and clear the hook of the bait, and

many, after being caught, fall a prey to dogfish, etc., so that the

disappointed fisher, on examining his line, too often finds a row of

baitless hooks, alternating with the half-devoured bodies of haddocks,

flounders, saithe, and other shore fish.

[Illustration]

I may just name another mode of obtaining sport, which is by spearing

flat fish, such as flounders, dab, plaice, etc. No rule can be laid

down on this method of fishing. It has been carried on successfully

by means of a common pitchfork, but some gentlemen go the length of

having fine spears made for the purpose, very long and with very sharp

prongs; others, again, use a three-pronged farm-yard “graip,” which has

been known to do as much real work as more elaborate utensils specially

contrived for the purpose. The simplest directions I can give to those

who try this style of fishing are just to spear all the fish they can

see, but the general plan is to stab in the dark with the kind of

instrument delineated above. At the mouths of most of the large English

rivers there is usually abundance of all the minor kinds of flat fish.

[Illustration]

Lobsters and crabs can be taken at certain rocky places of the coast;

mussels can be picked from the rocks, and cockles can be dug for in

the sand. Shrimps can also be taken, and various other wonders of the

sea and its shores may be picked up. After a storm a great number of

curious fishes and shells may be gathered, and some of these are very

valuable as specimens of natural history. The apparatus for capturing

lobsters and crabs is like a cage, and is generally made of wicker

work, with an aperture at the top or the side for the animal to enter

by; it can be baited with any sort of garbage that is at hand. Having

been so baited, the lobster-pot is sunk into the water, and left for

a season, till, tempted by the mess within, the game enters and is

caged. Those who would induce crabs to enter their pots must set them

with fresh bait; lobsters, on the other hand, will look at nothing but

garbage. Very frequently rock-cod, saithe, and other fish, are found to

have entered the pots, intent both on foul and fresh food. Shell-fish

for bait can be taken by means of a wooden box or old wicker basket

sunk near a rocky place, and filled with garbage of some kind; the

whelks and small crabs are sure to patronise the mass extensively, and

can thus be obtained at convenience. It is impossible to tell in the

limits of a brief chapter one-half of the fishing wonders that can be

accomplished during a sojourn at the seaside. A visit to some quaint

old fishing town, on the recurrence of “the year’s vacation sabbath,”

as some of our poets now call the annual month’s holiday, might be made

greatly productive of real knowledge; there are ten thousand wonders of

the shore which can be studied besides those laid down in books.

As will be noted, I have avoided as much as possible the naming of

localities, preferring to state the general practice. In all seaside

towns and fishing villages there are usually three or four old

fishermen who will be glad to do little favours for the curious in

fish lore—to hire out boats, give the use of tackle, and point out

good localities in which to fish. For such as have a few weeks at

their disposal, I would suggest the western sea-lochs of Scotland as

affording superb sport in all the varieties of sea-angling. Fish of

all kinds, great and small, are to be found in tolerable quantity,

and there is likewise the still greater inducement of fine scenery,

cheap lodgings, and moderate living expenses. But the entire change

of scene is the grand medicine; nothing would do an exhausted London

or Manchester man more good than a month on Lochfyne, where he could

not only angle in the great water for amusement, but also watch the

commercial fishers, and enjoy the finely-flavoured herring of that loch

as a portion of his daily food. If persons in search of sea-angling

wish to combine the enjoyment of picturesque scenery with their

pleasant labours on the water, they cannot do better than select, as I

did, the rural village of Corry, on the Island of Arran, as a centre

from which to conduct their operations.

May I be allowed to say a few words about this wonderful island, just

by way of a whet to the eye-appetite of those who have never seen

it? Our angler, having arrived at Glasgow, can go down the Clyde by

steamboat direct to Arran. There is another and a quicker way—viz.

by railway to Ardossan and steamboat to Brodick, but most strangers

prefer the river; and let me say here, without fear of contradiction,

there is no pleasure river equal to the Clyde, especially as regards

accessibility. The steamers from Glasgow peer at stated intervals into

every nook and cranny of the water, and, on the Saturdays especially,

deposit perfect armies of people at various towns and villages below

Greenock, who are thus enabled to pass the Sunday in the bright open

air by the clear waters of this great stream. Any kind of lodging is

put up with for the sake of being “down the water;” and all sorts of

people—merchants even of high degree and “Glasgow bodies” of lower

social standing—are contented, chiefly no doubt at the instigation of

their better halves, to sojourn in places that when at home they would

think quite unsuitable for even the Matties of their households. The

banks of the Clyde have become wonderfully populous within the last

twenty-five years—villages have expanded into towns, hamlets have grown

into villages, and single cottages into hamlets. Now the railway to

Greenock is insufficient as a daily travelling aid to persons whose

half hours are of large commercial value; and as a consequence, a new

line of rails has been constructed to come upon the water at Wemyss

Bay, about twelve miles below Greenock. To your thorough business man

time is money, and if he is alternately able to leave his place of

business and his place of pleasure half an hour later each way, he is

all the better pleased with both. To speculators in want of an idea I

would say: Rush to the Clyde, and buy up every inch of land that can

be had within a mile of the water, build upon it, and from the half

million of human beings who tenant Glasgow and the surrounding towns

I will engage to find two competing occupants for every house that

can be put up. Building has progressed even in Arran, and this too in

despite of the late Duke of Hamilton’s dislike to strangers, so that

there is now a population on the island of about 6000. A friend of mine

says that such an important entity as a duke has no right to do as he

likes with his own, and consequently that Arran ought to be built upon,

and the blackcocks and other game birds be left to take their chance.

Even with such limited accommodation as can be now obtained, Arran is

a delightful summer residence; were it to be generally built upon, it

would realise from ground-rents alone an annual fortune to his Grace

the Duke of Hamilton, who owns the greater part of it, and he might

have capital shooting into the bargain.

Arran, I may state to all who are ignorant of the fact, is a very

paradise for geologists; and amateur globe-makers—persons who think

they are better at constructing worlds than the Great Architect who

preceded them all—are particularly fond of that island, being, as

they suppose, quite able to find upon it _materiel_ sufficient for

the erection of the largest possible “theories.” Figures, it is

said, can be made to prove either side of a cause; so can stones.

Each geologist can build up his own pet world from the same set of

rocks; and so active geologists proceed to stucco over with their own

compositions—“adumbrate” a friend calls the process—the sublime works

of the greatest of all designers. None of the sciences have given rise

to so much controversy as the science of geology. I make no pretensions

to much geologic knowledge, although I do know a little more than the

man who wondered if the granite boulders which he saw on a brae-side

were on their way up or down the hill, and argued that it was a moot

point. What I would like to see would be a good work on geology,

divested entirely of the learned and scientific slang which usually

make such books entirely useless to ninety-nine out of every hundred

persons who attempt to read them. I would like, moreover, a work that

would not bully us with a ready-made theory.

Arran is a rugged island, and, as I have said, is full of interesting

and almost unique geologic features. There is a mountain upon it which

it is a kind of necessity for all visitors to ascend. It is called

Goatfell—its proper name being Goath-Bhein, or hill of winds. At Corry

I was told of persons who had ascended Goatfell and come down again—the

mountain is 2865 feet high—in less than three hours; but I very soon

found that I could not do the going up from Corry in that period of

time, not to speak of the coming down, which to some people, especially

if, like myself, they carry about with them a solid weight of fourteen

stones, is still more fatiguing; but then I had the disadvantage of a

wet forenoon, necessitating an occasional sojourn beneath a granite

boulder in order that _we_—that is, myself and a friend who essayed the

ascent with me—might keep ourselves tolerably dry. It was toilsome,

too, wading up to the knees in heather, even although the heather was

in its fullest bloom; but by perseverance and the good guiding of an

intelligent shepherd whom we took with us as a guide, and who knew the

best paths, we did in time reach the top, and must confess that we

obtained upon our arrival an exceeding rich reward, the view from the

summit being very grand and extensive, embracing what I may be allowed

to call a sublimely-painted diorama of portions of the three kingdoms.

It would be commonplace indeed to say of the view from the top of

Goatfell that it was either beautiful, picturesque, or sublime,

for it is grand—I might say a mysterious combination of all these

qualities; for it cannot be contemplated without a certain feeling of

awe gradually becoming incidental to the situation. We obtain, first

of all, in the distance, a faint and dreamlike view of mountains in

Ireland,—away, however, over a far expanse of sea. Nearer at hand,

looking another way, the giant crag of Ailsa rises perpendicular from

the water, and we can almost hear the screaming of the myriads of wild

fowl which float over it like a cloud. Then at our feet lie in rich

profusion the green islands of the Clyde—Bute and the Cumbraes close

at hand; Argyle, with its lovely bays of glassy water, farther away;

and more distant still, the cragged peaks of Skye. Opening up from all

parts of the river, which glitters brilliantly in the sun, there may be

discovered glimpses of lovely scenery—hill-tops melting into clouds,

and lofty mountains so abundantly clothed with wood that the very

branches dip into the water. Here and there, distance no doubt lending

enchantment to the view, we can see deep glens and gloomy ravines, with

trickling brooks and a rare wealth of foliage, penetrated ever and anon

by flashing sunbeams that light up the picture for a moment and then

leave it darker and grander than before. Pastoral hill-sides too we can

see covered with kine; while every here and there steamboats dot the

water and show their hazy trail of smoke. Lochfyne, covered with tiny

skiffs, is in view, the waters yielding up their wealth of nourishment

to the industrious fisherman. There too are the winding Kyles of Bute,

as much worthy of being immortalised in verse as the well-sung Isles

of Greece. The eye loves to linger on the soft-looking waters of the

inland seas; and again and again we gaze upon the Cobbler as he keeps

watch over the waters of Loch Long, or scan the placid expanse of

Lochfyne.

The late Miss Catharine Sinclair very happily said that a portion

of Lochfyne is fine only in name, and I can well agree with her

while looking at the rocky sides of Cantyre; but giving reins to the

imagination, we can fill up the scene and picture the savages of a few

thousand years ago fishing from the rocks with their bone-tipt spears,

and hauling the produce of their skill out of the waters with rough

branches of trees; and, as time flies onward, we can note in our mind’s

eye the rude canoes as they progress into ships becoming instruments of

commerce and tokens of civilisation. At our very feet are the immense

masses of granite that form the mountain on which we stand; and near at

hand, towering up alongside, are the cones of two other hills, forming

with Goatfell a silent council of three that seem to be ever engaged in

mysterious communing. The silence on the mountain-tops is wonderful,

indeed oppressive: there is not a sound to relieve the ear except

perhaps a roar of water, howling and hissing and boiling in endless

torture in one of the valleys; and as the wind fitfully moans as it

soughs adown some weird vale, half hidden from us by the clouds that

float over it, the scene looks

“So wondrous wild, the whole might seem

The scenery of a fairy dream.”

Looking around, one could feel that the island has a history, if we

could but ascertain it. Books have been written about Arran, and

the stone period and the metallurgic period, as illustrated by the

antiquities of the place, have been canvassed with a keen zest; in

fact, Arran is, if that be possible, more interesting to the antiquary

than the geologist. Its chambered cairns and cromlechs are silent

monuments of great events, as also are its standing-stones; and the

place is rich in those grey monoliths that would speak to us, if we

could but interpret their silent eloquence, of deeds achieved ages ago

by the valiant warriors of a long past time. There are vestiges of a

prehistoric age in Arran that indicate a population as long before the

Celtic period as that age preceded our own. There have doubtless been

heroes on Mauchrie Moor worthy to have their praises sung in Ossianic

strains; for scattered all over the island there are marks and tokens

and scathed ruins that give rise to profound speculations as to the

past history of this dark and mountainous island. And the irresistible

conclusion of any amount of imagining is, that Arran is not alone the

paradise of the geologist, but is the heaven of the botanist as well,

while the antiquary may find in its moors and glens rich memorials

indicating even in the present age the great and troubled life which

the huge mass of rock and its gigantic and peaked protuberances have

passed through as time with an invisible pencil was recording its

history.

Having sufficiently studied the changing scenery, and rested and

refreshed ourselves with some oat cakes and whisky, my friend proposed

that we should do our speculation on the geology and history of the

island at home over the dinner-table, or under the mild influence of

the cup that not inebriates. This was a sensible proposal, especially

as the rain was becoming more than a mere indication, and the shepherd,

who knew the dangers of the hill-top in wet clothes, impatient; so I

gave way, the more especially as beautiful views do not last for ever:

the bright scene fades and the colours deaden—the sea looks gloomy,

the mists gather, the rain falls, and the wind dashes the falling

water rudely in our face, giving us warning to hurry away before worse

befalls us.

When we again reached the plateau from which the rocky dome of

Goatfell takes its rise, the fair sun once more shone out, and we had

to note the botanical wealth of the island, and especially how rich

in heaths and ferns are the slopes of the mountain. Indeed the same

may be said of all the Clyde islands. Cantyre is rich in ferns also.

A botanical friend, while I was lingering on a recent occasion in a

bend of Lochfyne, waiting for that prince of river steamers the newest

_Iona_, picked up in a few minutes seven different varieties, and told

me that he had no doubt of finding double that number had we had time

to look for them. Our shepherd guide, while descending with us from

the mountain, seemed to hint that the reason why Arran was not more

generally allowed to be built upon by the late duke was because of the

game. I had heard before that the duke thought of keeping the Island

of Arran as a gigantic game-preserve; indeed it is admirably suited

for such a purpose, having an area of 165 square miles, and being

entirely isolated from any poaching population. Our guide, on being

asked, was quite of my opinion as to the declining grouse supplies: we

are overshooting our game birds in the very same way as we have been

overfishing our salmon. Where are the grouse? can only be answered

by the death-dealing brigade of sportsmen, gamekeepers, and gillies,

who every “twelfth” assemble on the hills and moors to perform their

annual shooting task. The grand brag over all the cohort of guns is

who will have the biggest bag; and now, what with overshooting and the

mysterious disease that ever and anon attacks the birds, we are likely

to run out of grouse. What a calamity! not only to real sportsmen, but

to all others who have extensive tracts of moor or mountain land, the

only wealth of which has hitherto been the stock of game. Once upon

a time the capercailzie abounded in the Island of Arran, and in many

places of Scotland besides; but that bird has long been very scarce,

and renewed attempts to breed it have not as yet resulted in any great

success. The wild boar was at one time also to be found on the island,

and there are still a few wild deer that rush with fleet steps about

the mountainsides; and on rare occasions, although not very lately,

eagles have been seen on the mountain-tops, where ptarmigan are yet

occasionally found. Arran is lavishly populated with grouse and black

game, while on the lowland parts partridges and pheasants have been

bred by the duke.

We were exceedingly glad, after our hot and toilsome forenoon’s work,

to refresh our bodies with cold water, and then to sit down to our

homely dinner of stewed mutton and well-boiled potatoes, which, it is

needless to say, we ate with decided relish. During this rest we became

still better acquainted with our landlady. She had passed nearly all

her life on the island as a domestic servant, and now, when she had

fallen into “the sere the yellow leaf,” she had, by “good speaking,”

and the payment of a rent of one pound a year, obtained permission to

reside in her present little cottage, which, when it was handed over

to her, was ruined and roofless: she had, therefore, to put on a straw

roof, and is bound to keep it in repair. “How did she live?” my friend

asked. “Well, sir, I don’t live very well; I’m not in good health and

can’t see to do much with my needle. I have some sewing work at which

I can earn a penny a day. It is called ‘veining,’ and is used to trim

ladies’ underclothing. Occasionally I let my bit place to Glasgow

gentlemen, who come down by the Saturday steamboat. The few shillings

that I will get from you, if you stay out the week, will be money to

me. A gentleman living in Edinburgh is kind enough to pay my rent, and

when my beds are let, I sleep in the garret.” Such are the short and

simple annals of the poor; and I could not help being impressed with

this example of patient womanhood, who, rather than be a recipient of

parish relief, would toil on from day to day, acting over again Hood’s

song of the shirt, in order to the earning of a “sair-won penny fee.”

I have just indicated by the little story of this woman the one

drawback of the island—the scarcity of house accommodation, and

consequently of good lodgings. To give my readers a practical idea of

how matters stand, let me relate the experience of my last visit,

when, accompanied by the same friend, I made a hurried run down to the

island one Saturday evening to make some inquiries anent the Western

herring-fishery.

[Illustration: CORRY HARBOUR.]

We had been landed from the steamboat on a massive grey boulder, on

the sides of which, thick as was the atmosphere, we observed dozens of

limpets and crowds of “buckies,” and other sea-ware, giving us token of

ample employment when we could obtain leisure for a more minute survey

of the rocks and stray stones which sprinkle the sea-beach of Corry.

In the meantime, that is just after landing, the great, the momentous

question on this and every other Saturday night is—is _the_ inn full?

A hurried scramble over the jagged stones, and a rush past the very

picturesque residence of Mr. Douglas’ pigs, brought us to the inn, and

at once decided the question. Mrs. Jamison, the landlady, shook her

lawn-bedizened head—the inn, alas, _was_ full, overflowing in fact,

for a gentleman had engaged the coach-house! It was feared, too, that

every house in the village was in a like predicament, and further

inquiry soon confirmed this to us rather awful statement, and so I was

left standing at the inn-door, with a bitingly shrewd companion, to

solve this problem—Given the barest possible accommodation throughout

all Corry for only forty-eight strangers, how to shake fifty into the

village, so that each might have somewhere to lay his head? This is

a problem, I suspect, that few can answer. What was to be done? The

steamboat had gone! Were we then to tramp on to Brodick, with more

than a suspicion of a rainy night in the moist atmosphere, or try a

shake-down of clean straw in a lime quarry? It might have come to

that, and as both of us had before then camped out for a night by the

sheltered side of a haystack, we might have arranged, fortified by the

aid of a dram, or perhaps two, to pass a tolerable night in the lime

cavern beside a very canny-looking horse-of-all-work that we caught a

glimpse of through the gloom of the place while peeping into it.

But a Douglas to the rescue! And who is Douglas? it will be asked.

Well, the ever-active Douglas in his own person combines the offices

of boatman, quarrier, postman, butcher, grocer, and general merchant,

and is, in fact, to use a Scotch phrase, the “Johnny A’things” of the

village—a dealer in—

“Meal, barley, butter, and cheese;

Soap, starch, blue, and peas;

Train-oil, tobacco, pipes, and teas;

And whisky and loch leeches.”

It fortunately occurred that a modest maiden lady, a very

“civil-spoken” woman indeed, by name Grace Macalister, had been

disappointed of two Glasgow gentlemen, who had engaged her whole

house, and so the two benighted travellers from the east were accepted,

at the instigation of the aforesaid Mr. Douglas, in lieu of them.

Taking possession of our lodgings at once, we formed ourselves into a

committee of supply, which resulted in a prompt expenditure of a sum

of six shillings and threepence, the particulars of which, for the

benefit of my readers, and to show how primitive we had all at once

become, I beg to subjoin—namely, bread, 7d.; mutton, 2s. 4d.; butter,

6½d.; tea, 6d.; sugar, 3d.; milk, ½d.; herring, 2d. This sum,

with eighteenpence added for whisky, threepence for potatoes, and one

penny for a candle, represented the total commissariat expenses of two

persons in Corry for five wholesome but homely meals. Our bed cost

us one shilling each per night, and our attendance and washing were

charged at the rate of a shilling a day, so long as we used the Hotel

Macalister, but even this did not very much swell the grand total of

the bill, which, at such rates, was by no means heavy at the end of

our holiday ramble over Arran, especially when it is considered that

the Arran season does not very greatly exceed one hundred days. Our

quarters were certainly primitive enough—namely, half of a thatched

cottage, or rather hut we may call it, consisting of one apartment

containing two beds, four chairs, a small table, and a little cupboard.

The beds were curtained by a series of blue striped cotton fragments

of three different patterns of an old Scotch kind, and the walls were

papered with five different kinds of paper; but the low roof was the

greatest treat of all—it was covered with old numbers of the _Witness_

newspaper, at the time when it was edited by Hugh Miller, and these

had, no doubt, been left in the cottage by previous travellers. The

floor was covered with fragments of canvas laid down as a carpet. Many

tourists would perhaps turn up their noses at this humble cottage, but

to my friend and myself it was a delightful change.

I have not space in which to particularise all the beauties of Arran,

but I must say a word or two about Glen Sannox. Near the golden beach

of Sannox Bay is situated the solitary churchyard of Corry, with its

long grass waving rank over the graves, and its borders of fuchsias

laden with brilliant blossoms. There was, we observed, on peeping over

the wall, a new-made grave, that of an orphan girl who had been drowned

while bathing. Passing the churchyard—there was once a church at the

place, but all trace of it, save one stone built into the wall of the

churchyard, has long passed away—we came upon a brawling stream, which

led us up to the ruins of what had been a barytes-mill. The stones lay

around in great masses, as if they had been suddenly undermined by the

passing stream, and had fallen cemented as they stood. In a year or

two they will be grown over with weeds, and in a century hence some

persons may ingeniously speculate on the ruins, and give a learned

disquisition as to what building once stood there, and its uses. My

friend and I wondered what it had been, but an old man told us all

about it; and, strange to say, in the course of conversation, we found

this old resident reciting scraps of Ossian’s poems. He told us, too,

that the bard had died in the very parish in which we were standing. He

believed Ossian to have been a great priest and teacher of the people,

and this was an idea that was quite new to us. We had heard before, or

rather read, that the poet was by some esteemed a great warrior, and by

others a necromancer—perhaps to esteem him a teacher is right enough;

his poems, at any rate, were at one time as familiar in the mouths of

the West Highlanders as household words.

The scenery of Arran would certainly inspire a poet. As we penetrated

into Glen Sannox it became most interesting, whether we noted the

brawling and bubbling brook, or the rich carpet of heath and wild

flowers upon which we trod. The luxuriance of its wild flowers is

remarkable, and of its rabbits equally so. As we proceed up the glen,

the lofty hills with their granitic scars frown down upon us, and

one with a coroneted brow looks kingly among the others, as the mist

floats upon their shoulders, like a waving mantle, and with their bold

and rugged precipices they seem as if they had just been suddenly

shot out from the bosom of the earth. Glen Sannox is sublime indeed;

its magnitude is remarkable, and it is so hemmed in with hills as

to look at once, even without any details, or the aid of history, a

fitting hiding-place for the gallant Bruce and his devoted followers.

About three miles north from this glen we can view—and, we venture

to say, not without astonishment—the falling fragments of the broken

mountain; a stream of large stones that lie crowded on the declivity

of the hill, till they in one long trail reach the ocean. But to

enumerate a tithe even of the scenic and antiquarian beauties of

the island would require—nay, it has obtained, and more than once—a

volume. I could dwell upon the blue rock near Corry, and picture the

overhanging cliffs of the neighbourhood mantled o’er with ivy. The

visitor might enter some of the caves which have been scooped out by

the sea, or wander among the rock pools of the indented shore, rich

with treasures wherewith to feed the greedy eye of the naturalist, and

view the ladies, with kilted coats, doing their daily lessons from

Glaucus, collecting pretty shells, bottling anemones, or gathering

sea-weeds wherewith to ornament their botanic albums. At last, after

a long day’s work of wandering and climbing, we long for a quiet seat

and a refreshing cup of tea, and by and by, when the night shuts us

out from active labour, we hie us to our box bed, in order to stretch

our wearied limbs in Miss Macalister’s well-lavendered sheets; and,

as we are just attempting to coax the balmy goddess to close our eyes

with her soft fingers, we hear the landlady in her garret reading her

nightly chapter from her Gaelic Bible, with that genuine droning sound

incidental to the West Highland voice.

I have more than once after nightfall passed a quiet half-hour at our

cottage door inhaling the saline breath of the mighty sea. The look-out

at midnight is very beautiful: the Cumbrae light looked like a monitor

telling us that even at that dread hour we were watched over. On the

opposite coast of Ayr a huge ironwork threw a lurid glare upon the

bosom of the sea, and almost at my feet the restless waves were playing

a mournful dirge on the boulder-crowded beach. I could see along the

water to Holy Island, and could almost feel the silence that at that

moment would render the cave of old Saint Molio a wondrous place for

holding a feast of the imagination, the viands being brought forward

from a far-back time, and the island again peopled with the quaint

races that had passed a brief span of life upon its shores—who had been

warmed by the same sun as had that day shone upon me, and whose nights

had been illumined by the same moon that was now shimmering its soft

radiance upon the liquid bosom of the sparkling waters.