1819-20
THE SKETCH BOOK
THE ANGLER
by Washington Irving
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
THE ANGLER
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This day dame Nature seem'd in love,
The lusty sap began to move,
Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines
And birds had drawn their valentines.
The jealous trout that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled flie.
There stood my friend, with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.
SIR H. WOTTON.
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IT IS said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away from
his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from reading the
history of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect that, in like manner, many
of those worthy gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral
streams with angle rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion
to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying
his "Complete Angler" several years since, in company with a knot of
friends in America, and moreover that we were all completely bitten
with the angling mania. It was early in the year; but as soon as the
weather was auspicious, and the spring began to melt into the verge of
summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the country, as stark mad
as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry.
One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of his
equipments: being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore a
broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets; a
pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters; a basket slung on one
side for fish; a patent rod, a landing net, and a score of other
inconveniences, only to be found in the true angler's armory. Thus
harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of stare and
wonderment among the country folk, who had never seen a regular
angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of
the Sierra Morena.
Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the highlands of
the Hudson; a most unfortunate place for the execution of those
piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet margins
of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that
lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to
fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it
would leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the
trees threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung
in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with diamond drops.
Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade
of a forest, filling it with murmurs; and, after this termagant
career, would steal forth into open day with the most placid demure
face imaginable; as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife,
after filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out of
doors, swimming and courtesying, and smiling upon all the world.
How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times,
through some bosom of green meadow-land among the mountains: where the
quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell from
the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a woodcutter's axe
from the neighboring forest.
For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that
required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above
half an hour before I had completely "satisfied the sentiment," and
convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that
angling is something like poetry- a man must be born to it. I hooked
myself instead of the fish; tangled my line in every tree; lost my
bait; broke my rod; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed
the day under the trees, reading old Izaak; satisfied that it was
his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had
bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My companions, however,
were more persevering in their delusion. I have them at this moment
before my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay
open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the
bittern rising with hollow scream as they break in upon his
rarely-invaded haunt; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously from
his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge
of the hills; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off
the stone or log on which he is sunning himself; and the
panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and spreading
an alarm throughout the watery world around.
I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping
about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, in
spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin came
down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a tree, a few
yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me! I believe, a crooked pin
for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm- and in half an hour caught
more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day!
But, above all, I recollect, the "good, honest, wholesome, hungry"
repast, which we made under a beech-tree, just by a spring of pure
sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill; and how, when it was
over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the
milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a bright
pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear like mere
egotism; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recollections, which
are passing like a strain of music over my mind, and have been
called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since.
In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beautiful
little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and throws
itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated on
the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a veteran
angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a
wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully patched,
betokening poverty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. His
face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair weather; its
furrows had been worn into an habitual smile; his iron-gray locks hung
about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humored air of a
constitutional philosopher who was disposed to take the world as it
went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look
of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any
gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The
other was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and
apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old man was busy in
examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover
by its contents what insects were seasonable for bait; and was
lecturing on the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen
with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling towards all "brothers
of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he
affirms, of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit;" and my esteem for
them has been increased since I met with an old "Tretyse of fishing
with the Angle," in which are set forth many of the maxims of their
inoffensive fraternity. "Take good hede," sayeth this honest little
tretyse, "that in going about your disportes ye open no man's gates
but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti
disport for no covetousness to the encreasing and sparing of your
money only, but principally for your solace, and to cause the helth of
your body and specyally of your soule." *
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* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more
industrious and devout employment than it is generally considered.-
"For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not
desyre greaflye many persons with you, which might let you of your
game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge effectually your
customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde
many vices, as ydelnes, which is principally cause to induce man to
many other vices, as it is right well known."
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I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before me an
exemplification of what I had read; and there was a cheerful
contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. I could not
but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part of the
brook to another; waving his rod in the air, to keep the line from
dragging on the ground, or catching among the bushes; and the
adroitness with which he would throw his fly to any particular
place; sometimes skimming it lightly along a little rapid; sometimes
casting it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or
overhanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the
meanwhile he was giving instructions to his two disciples; showing
them the manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their
flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The scene
brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his
scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which Walton
is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire,
close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior
Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. The
day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sunshiny,
with now and then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth
with diamonds.
I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so much
entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions in his
art, I kept company with him almost the whole day; wandering along the
banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. He was very
communicative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age;
and I fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of
displaying his piscatory lore; for who does not like now and then to
play the sage?
He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed some
years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where he
had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a
partner. He had afterwards experienced many ups and downs in life,
until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a cannon
ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke of real
good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a pension, which,
together with some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue
of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native village,
where he lived quietly and independently; and devoted the remainder of
his life to the "noble art of angling."
I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed
to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent good-humor.
Though he had been sorely buffeted about the world, he was satisfied
that the world, in itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had
been as roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that is
fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation
with candor and kindness, appearing to look only on the good side of
things: and, above all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with
who had been an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty and
magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to curse
the country. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I learnt,
was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow who kept the
village inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and much
courted by the idle gentlemanlike personages of the place. In taking
him under his care, therefore, the old man had probably an eye to a
privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful
ale free of expense.
There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, which
anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted on worms
and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit, and a
pure serenity of mind. As the English are methodical even in their
recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has been
reduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed it is an
amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cultivated scenery
of England, where every roughness has been softened away from the
landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streams
which wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom of this
beautiful country; leading one through a diversity of small home
scenery; sometimes winding through ornamented grounds; sometimes
brimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is
mingled with sweet-smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of
villages and hamlets, and then running capriciously away into shady
retirements. The sweetness and serenity of nature, and the quiet
watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing;
which are now and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird,
the distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some
fish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming transiently about
its glassy surface. "When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton,
"and increase confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of
Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and
there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many
other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed
(man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and
therefore trust in him."
I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those ancient
champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent and happy
spirit:
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Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink
Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place,
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink,
With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace;
And on the world and my Creator think:
Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace;
And others spend their time in base excess
Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness.
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Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue,
And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill;
So I the fields and meadows green may view,
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,
Among the daisies and the violets blue,
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. *
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* J. Davors.
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On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of
abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the village a few
evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found
him living in a small cottage, containing only one room, but a perfect
curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the
village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, with a small
garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and adorned with a few
flowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun with a
honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weather-cock. The interior
was fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and
convenience having been acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of-war.
A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the daytime, was
lashed up so as to take but little room. From the centre of the
chamber hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three
chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the principal movables.
About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier's
Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bowline, intermingled with pictures
of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown held a
distinguished place. The mantel-piece was decorated with sea-shells;
over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most
bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements for angling were
carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was
arranged his library, containing a work on angling, much worn, a Bible
covered with canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical
almanac, and a book of songs.
His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a parrot
which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, in the course
of one of his voyages; and which uttered a variety of sea phrases with
the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment
reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe; it was kept in
neat order, every thing being "stowed away" with the regularity of a
ship of war; and he informed me that he "scoured the deck every
morning, and swept it between meals."
I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe in
the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the
threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in an
iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He had been angling
all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness as
a general would talk over a campaign; being particularly animated in
relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, which had
completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as
a trophy to mine hostess of the inn.
How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age; and to
behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tempest-tost through
life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the evening of his
days! His happiness, however, sprung from within himself, and was
independent of external circumstances; for he had that inexhaustible
good-nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven; spreading
itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keeping the mind
smooth and equable in the roughest weather.
On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a universal
favorite in the village, and the oracle of the taproom; where he
delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sinbad, astonished
them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and
sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the
neighborhood; had taught several of them the art of angling; and was a
privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life
was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about the
neighboring streams, when the weather and season were favorable; and
at other times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing
tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and
flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry.
He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he generally
fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his particular request
that when he died he should be buried in a green spot, which he
could see from his seat in church, and which he had marked out ever
since he was a boy, and had thought of when far from home on the
raging sea, in danger of being food for the fishes- it was the spot
where his father and mother had been buried.
I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary; but I could
not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy "brother of the
angle;" who has made me more than ever in love with the theory, though
I fear I shall never be adroit in the practice of his art: and I
will conclude this rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak
Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's master upon my
reader, "and upon all that are true lovers of virtue; and dare trust
in his providence; and be quiet; and go a angling."
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THE END
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