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Angling Sketches by Andrew Lang

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This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
from the 1895 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition.

ANGLING SKETCHES

Contents:

Preface
Note to New Edition
The Confessions of a Duffer
A Border Boyhood
Loch Awe
Loch-Fishing
Loch Leven
The Bloody Doctor
The Lady or the Salmon?
A Tweedside Sketch
The Double Alibi
The Complete Bungler

PREFACE

Several of the sketches in this volume have appeared in
periodicals. "The Bloody Doctor" was in Macmillan's Magazine, "The
Confessions of a Duffer," "Loch Awe," and "The Lady or the Salmon?"
were in the Fishing Gazette, but have been to some extent re-
written. "The Double Alibi" was in Longman's Magazine. The author
has to thank the Editors and Publishers for permission to reprint
these papers.

The gem engraved on the cover is enlarged from a small intaglio in
the collection of Mr. M. H. N. STORY-MASKELYNE, M.P. Such gems
were recommended by Clemens of Alexandria to the early Christians.
"The figure of a man fishing will put them in mind of the Apostle."
Perhaps the Greek is using the red hackle described by AElian in
the only known Greek reference to fly-fishing.

NOTE TO NEW EDITION

The historical version of the Black Officer's career, very unlike
the legend in "Loch Awe," may be read in Mr. Macpherson's Social
Life in the Highlands.

THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUFFER

These papers do not boast of great sport. They are truthful, not
like the tales some fishers tell. They should appeal to many
sympathies. There is no false modesty in the confidence with which
I esteem myself a duffer, at fishing. Some men are born duffers;
others, unlike persons of genius, become so by an infinite capacity
for not taking pains. Others, again, among whom I would rank
myself, combine both these elements of incompetence. Nature, that
made me enthusiastically fond of fishing, gave me thumbs for
fingers, short-sighted eyes, indolence, carelessness, and a temper
which (usually sweet and angelic) is goaded to madness by the laws
of matter and of gravitation. For example: when another man is
caught up in a branch he disengages his fly; I jerk at it till
something breaks. As for carelessness, in boyhood I fished, by
preference, with doubtful gut and knots ill-tied; it made the risk
greater, and increased the excitement if one did hook a trout. I
can't keep a fly-book. I stuff the flies into my pockets at
random, or stick them into the leaves of a novel, or bestow them in
the lining of my hat or the case of my rods. Never, till 1890, in
all my days did I possess a landing-net. If I can drag a fish up a
bank, or over the gravel, well; if not, he goes on his way
rejoicing. On the Test I thought it seemly to carry a landing-net.
It had a hinge, and doubled up. I put the handle through a
buttonhole of my coat: I saw a big fish rising, I put a dry fly
over him; the idiot took it. Up stream he ran, then down stream,
then he yielded to the rod and came near me. I tried to unship my
landing-net from my button-hole. Vain labour! I twisted and
turned the handle, it would not budge. Finally, I stooped, and
attempted to ladle the trout out with the short net; but he broke
the gut, and went off. A landing-net is a tedious thing to carry,
so is a creel, and a creel is, to me, a superfluity. There is
never anything to put in it. If I do catch a trout, I lay him
under a big stone, cover him with leaves, and never find him again.
I often break my top joint; so, as I never carry string, I splice
it with a bit of the line, which I bite off, for I really cannot be
troubled with scissors and I always lose my knife. When a phantom
minnow sticks in my clothes, I snap the gut off, and put on
another, so that when I reach home I look as if a shoal of fierce
minnows had attacked me and hung on like leeches. When a boy, I
was--once or twice--a bait-fisher, but I never carried worms in box
or bag. I found them under big stones, or in the fields, wherever
I had the luck. I never tie nor otherwise fasten the joints of my
rod; they often slip out of the sockets and splash into the water.
Mr. Hardy, however, has invented a joint-fastening which never
slips. On the other hand, by letting the joint rust, you may find
it difficult to take down your rod. When I see a trout rising, I
always cast so as to get hung up, and I frighten him as I disengage
my hook. I invariably fall in and get half-drowned when I wade,
there being an insufficiency of nails in the soles of my brogues.
My waders let in water, too, and when I go out to fish I usually
leave either my reel, or my flies, or my rod, at home. Perhaps no
other man's average of lost flies in proportion to taken trout was
ever so great as mine. I lose plenty, by striking furiously, after
a series of short rises, and breaking the gut, with which the fish
swims away. As to dressing a fly, one would sooner think of
dressing a dinner. The result of the fly-dressing would resemble a
small blacking-brush, perhaps, but nothing entomological.

Then why, a persevering reader may ask, do I fish? Well, it is
stronger than myself, the love of fishing; perhaps it is an
inherited instinct, without the inherited power. I may have had a
fishing ancestor who bequeathed to me the passion without the art.
My vocation is fixed, and I have fished to little purpose all my
days. Not for salmon, an almost fabulous and yet a stupid fish,
which must be moved with a rod like a weaver's beam. The trout is
more delicate and dainty--not the sea-trout, which any man, woman,
or child can capture, but the yellow trout in clear water.

A few rises are almost all I ask for: to catch more than half a
dozen fish does not fall to my lot twice a year. Of course, in a
Sutherland loch one man is as good as another, the expert no better
than the duffer. The fish will take, or they won't. If they
won't, nobody can catch them; if they will, nobody can miss them.
It is as simple as trolling a minnow from a boat in Loch Leven,
probably the lowest possible form of angling. My ambition is as
great as my skill is feeble; to capture big trout with the dry fly
in the Test, that would content me, and nothing under that. But I
can't see the natural fly on the water; I cannot see my own fly,

Let it sink or let it swim.

I often don't see the trout rise to me, if he is such a fool as to
rise; and I can't strike in time when I do see him. Besides, I am
unteachable to tie any of the orthodox knots in the gut; it takes
me half an hour to get the gut through one of these newfangled iron
eyes, and, when it is through, I knot it any way. The "jam" knot
is a name to me, and no more. That, perhaps, is why the hooks
crack off so merrily. Then, if I do spot a rising trout, and if he
does not spot me as I crawl like the serpent towards him, my fly
always fixes in a nettle, a haycock, a rose-bush, or whatnot,
behind me. I undo it, or break it, and put up another, make a
cast, and, "plop," all the line falls in with a splash that would
frighten a crocodile. The fish's big black fin goes cutting the
stream above, and there is a sauve qui peut of trout in all
directions.

I once did manage to make a cast correctly: the fly went over the
fish's nose; he rose; I hooked him, and he was a great silly brute
of a grayling. The grayling is the deadest-hearted and the
foolishest-headed fish that swims. I would as lief catch a perch
or an eel as a grayling. This is the worst of it--this ambition of
the duffer's, this desire for perfection, as if the golfing
imbecile should match himself against Mr. Horace Hutchinson, or as
the sow of the Greek proverb challenged Athene to sing. I know it
all, I deplore it, I regret the evils of ambition; but c'est plus
fort que moi. If there is a trout rising well under the pendant
boughs that trail in the water, if there is a brake of briars
behind me, a strong wind down stream, for that trout, in that
impregnable situation, I am impelled to fish. If I raise him I
strike, miss him, catch up in his tree, swish the cast off into the
briars, break my top, break my heart, but--that is the humour of
it. The passion, or instinct, being in all senses blind, must no
doubt be hereditary. It is full of sorrow and bitterness and hope
deferred, and entails the mockery of friends, especially of the
fair. But I would as soon lay down a love of books as a love of
fishing.

Success with pen or rod may be beyond one, but there is the
pleasure of the pursuit, the rapture of endeavour, the delight of
an impossible chase, the joys of nature--sky, trees, brooks, and
birds. Happiness in these things is the legacy to us of the
barbarian. Man in the future will enjoy bricks, asphalte, fog,
machinery, "society," even picture galleries, as many men and most
women do already. We are fortunate who inherit the older, not "the
new spirit"--we who, skilled or unskilled, follow in the steps of
our father, Izaak, by streams less clear, indeed, and in meadows
less fragrant, than his. Still, they are meadows and streams, not
wholly dispeopled yet of birds and trout; nor can any defect of
art, nor certainty of laborious disappointment, keep us from the
waterside when April comes.

Next to being an expert, it is well to be a contented duffer: a
man who would fish if he could, and who will pleasure himself by
flicking off his flies, and dreaming of impossible trout, and
smoking among the sedges Hope's enchanted cigarettes. Next time we
shall be more skilled, more fortunate. Next time! "To-morrow, and
to-morrow, and to-morrow." Grey hairs come, and stiff limbs, and
shortened sight; but the spring is green and hope is fresh for all
the changes in the world and in ourselves. We can tell a hawk from
a hand-saw, a March Brown from a Blue Dun; and if our success be as
poor as ever, our fancy can dream as well as ever of better things
and more fortunate chances. For fishing is like life; and in the
art of living, too, there are duffers, though they seldom give us
their confessions. Yet even they are kept alive, like the
incompetent angler, by this undying hope: they will be more
careful, more skilful, more lucky next time. The gleaming
untravelled future, the bright untried waters, allure us from day
to day, from pool to pool, till, like the veteran on Coquet side,
we "try a farewell throw," or, like Stoddart, look our last on
Tweed.

A BORDER BOYHOOD

A fisher, says our father Izaak, is like a poet: he "must be born
so." The majority of dwellers on the Border are born to be
fishers, thanks to the endless number of rivers and burns in the
region between the Tweed and the Coquet--a realm where almost all
trout-fishing is open, and where, since population and love of the
sport have increased, there is now but little water that merits the
trouble of putting up a rod.

Like the rest of us in that country, I was born an angler, though
under an evil star, for, indeed, my labours have not been blessed,
and are devoted to fishing rather than to the catching of fish.
Remembrance can scarcely recover, "nor time bring back to time,"
the days when I was not busy at the waterside; yet the feat is not
quite beyond the power of Mnemosyne. My first recollection of the
sport must date from about the age of four. I recall, in a dim
brightness, driving along a road that ran between banks of bracken
and mica-veined rocks, and the sunlight on a shining bend of a
highland stream, and my father, standing in the shallow water,
showing me a huge yellow fish, that gave its last fling or two on
the grassy bank. The fish seemed as terrible and dangerous to me
as to Tobit, in the Apocrypha, did that ferocious half-pounder
which he carries on a string in the early Italian pictures. How
oddly Botticelli and his brethren misconceived the man-devouring
fish, which must have been a crocodile strayed from the Nile into
the waters of the Euphrates! A half-pounder! To have been
terrified by a trout seems a bad beginning; and, thereafter, the
mist gather's over the past, only to lift again when I see myself,
with a crowd of other little children, sent to fish, with crooked
pins, for minnows, or "baggies" as we called them, in the Ettrick.
If our parents hoped that we would bring home minnows for bait,
they were disappointed. The party was under the command of a
nursery governess, and probably she was no descendant of the mother
of us all, Dame Juliana Berners. We did not catch any minnows, and
I remember sitting to watch a bigger boy, who was angling in a
shoal of them when a parr came into the shoal, and we had bright
visions of alluring that monarch of the deep. But the parr
disdained our baits, and for months I dreamed of what it would have
been to capture him, and often thought of him in church. In a
moment of profane confidence my younger brother once asked me:
"What do YOU do in sermon time? I," said he in a whisper--"mind
you don't tell--I tell stories to myself about catching trout." To
which I added similar confession, for even so I drove the sermon
by, and I have not "told"--till now.

By this time we must have been introduced to trout. Who forgets
his first trout? Mine, thanks to that unlucky star, was a double
deception, or rather there were two kinds of deception. A village
carpenter very kindly made rods for us. They were of unpainted
wood, these first rods; they were in two pieces, with a real brass
joint, and there was a ring at the end of the top joint, to which
the line was knotted. We were still in the age of Walton, who
clearly knew nothing, except by hearsay, of a reel; he abandons the
attempt to describe that machine as used by the salmon-fishers. He
thinks it must be seen to be understood. With these innocent
weapons, and with the gardener to bait our hooks, we were taken to
the Yarrow, far up the stream, near Ladhope. How well one
remembers deserting the gardener, and already appreciating the joys
of having no gillie nor attendant, of being "alone with ourselves
and the goddess of fishing"! I cast away as well as I could, and
presently jerked a trout, a tiny one, high up in the air out of the
water. But he fell off the hook again, he dropped in with a little
splash, and I rushed up to consult my tutor on his unsportsmanlike
behaviour, and the disappointing, nay, heart-breaking, occurrence.
Was the trout not morally caught, was there no way of getting him
to see this and behave accordingly? The gardener feared there was
none. Meanwhile he sat on the bank and angled in a pool. "Try my
rod," he said, and, as soon as I had taken hold of it, "pull up,"
he cried, "pull up." I did "pull up," and hauled my first
troutling on shore. But in my inmost heart I feared that he was
not my trout at all, that the gardener had hooked him before he
handed the rod to me. Then we met my younger brother coming to us
with quite a great fish, half a pound perhaps, which he had caught
in a burn. Then, for the first time, my soul knew the fierce
passion of jealousy, the envy of the angler. Almost for the last
time, too; for, I know not why it is, and it proves me no true
fisherman, I am not discontented by the successes of others. If
one cannot catch fish oneself, surely the next best thing is to see
other people catch them.

My own progress was now checked for long by a constitutional and
insuperable aversion to angling with worm. If the gardener, or a
pretty girl-cousin of the mature age of fourteen, would put the
worm on, I did not "much mind" fishing with it. Dost thou
remember, fair lady of the ringlets? Still, I never liked bait-
fishing, and these mine allies were not always at hand. We used,
indeed, to have great days with perch at Faldonside, on the land
which Sir Walter Scott was always so anxious to buy from Mr. Nichol
Milne. Almost the last entry in his diary, at Naples, breathes
this unutterable hope. He had deluded himself into believing that
his debts were paid, and that he could soon "speak a word to young
Nichol Milne." The word, of course, was never spoken, and the
unsupplanted laird used to let us fish for his perch to our hearts'
desire. Never was there such slaughter. The corks which we used
as floats were perpetually tipping, bobbing, and disappearing, and
then the red-finned perch would fly out on to dry land. Here I
once saw two corks go down, two anglers haul up, and one perch,
attached to both hooks, descend on the grassy bank. My brother and
I filled two baskets once, and strung dozens of other perch on a
stick.

But this was not legitimate business. Not till we came to fly-
fishing were we really entered at the sport, and this initiation
took place, as it chanced, beside the very stream where I was first
shown a trout. It is a charming piece of water, amber-coloured and
clear, flowing from the Morvern hills under the limes of an ancient
avenue--trees that have long survived the house to which, of old,
the road must have led. Our gillie put on for us big bright sea-
trout flies--nobody fishes there for yellow trout; but, in our
inexperience, small "brownies" were all we caught. Probably we
were only taken to streams and shallows where we could not
interfere with mature sportsmen. At all events, it was
demonstrated to us that we could actually catch fish with fly, and
since then I have scarcely touched a worm, except as a boy, in
burns. In these early days we had no notion of playing a trout.
If there was a bite, we put our strength into an answering tug,
and, if nothing gave way, the trout flew over our heads, perhaps up
into a tree, perhaps over into a branch of the stream behind us.
Quite a large trout will yield to this artless method, if the rod
be sturdy--none of your glued-up cane-affairs. I remember hooking
a trout which, not answering to the first haul, ran right across
the stream and made for a hole in the opposite bank. But the
second lift proved successful and he landed on my side of the
water. He had a great minnow in his throat, and must have been a
particularly greedy animal. Of course, on this system there were
many breakages, and the method was abandoned as we lived into our
teens, and began to wade and to understand something about fly-
fishing.

It was worth while to be a boy then in the south of Scotland, and
to fish the waters haunted by old legends, musical with old songs,
and renowned in the sporting essays of Christopher North and
Stoddart. Even then, thirty long years ago, the old stagers used
to tell us that "the waiter was owr sair fished," and they grumbled
about the system of draining the land, which makes a river a
roaring torrent in floods, and a bed of grey stones with a few
clear pools and shallows, during the rest of the year. In times
before the hills were drained, before the manufacturing towns were
so populous, before pollution, netting, dynamiting, poisoning,
sniggling, and the enormous increase of fair and unfair fishing,
the border must have been the angler's paradise. Still, it was not
bad when we were boys. We had Ettrick within a mile of us, and a
finer natural trout-stream there is not in Scotland, though now the
water only holds a sadly persecuted remnant. There was one long
pool behind Lindean, flowing beneath a high wooded bank, where the
trout literally seemed never to cease rising at the flies that
dropped from the pendant boughs. Unluckily the water flowed out of
the pool in a thin broad stream, directly it right angles to the
pool itself. Thus the angler had, so to speak, the whole of lower
Ettrick at his back when he waded: it was a long way up stream to
the bank, and, as we never used landing-nets then, we naturally
lost a great many trout in trying to unhook them in mid water.
They only averaged as a rule from three to two to the pound, but
they were strong and lively. In this pool there was a large tawny,
table-shaped stone, over which the current broke. Out of the eddy
behind this stone, one of my brothers one day caught three trout
weighing over seven pounds, a feat which nowadays sounds quite
incredible. As soon as the desirable eddy was empty, another
trout, a trifle smaller than the former, seems to have occupied it.
The next mile and a half, from Lindean to the junction with Tweed,
was remarkable for excellent sport. In the last pool of Ettrick,
the water flowed by a steep bank, and, if you cast almost on to the
further side, you were perfectly safe to get fish, even when the
river was very low. The flies used, three on a cast, were small
and dusky, hare's ear and woodcock wing, black palmers, or, as
Stoddart sings,

Wee dour looking huiks are the thing,
Mouse body and laverock wing.

Next to Ettrick came Tweed: the former river joins the latter at
the bend of a long stretch of water, half stream, half pool, in
which angling was always good. In late September there were sea-
trout, which, for some reason, rose to the fly much more freely
than sea-trout do now in the upper Tweed. I particularly remember
hooking one just under the railway bridge. He was a two-pounder,
and practised the usual sea-trout tactics of springing into the air
like a rocket. There was a knot on my line, of course, and I was
obliged to hold him hard. When he had been dragged up on the
shingle, the line parted, broken in twain at the knot; but it had
lasted just long enough, during three exciting minutes. This
accident of a knot on the line has only once befallen me since,
with the strongest loch-trout I ever encountered. It was on
Branxholme Loch, where the trout run to a great size, but usually
refuse the fly. I was alone in a boat on a windy day; the trout
soon ran out the line to the knot, and then there was nothing for
it but to lower the top almost to the water's edge, and hold on in
hope. Presently the boat drifted ashore, and I landed him--better
luck than I deserved. People who only know the trout of the Test
and other chalk streams, cannot imagine how much stronger are the
fish of the swift Scottish streams and dark Scottish lochs.
They're worse fed, but they are infinitely more powerful and
active; it is all the difference between an alderman and a
clansman.

Tweed, at this time, was full of trout, but even then they were not
easy to catch. One difficulty lay in the nature of the wading.
There is a pool near Ashiesteil and Gleddis Weil which illustrated
this. Here Scott and Hogg were once upset from a boat while
"burning the water"--spearing salmon by torchlight. Herein, too,
as Scott mentions in his Diary, he once caught two trout at one
cast. The pool is long, is paved with small gravel, and allures
you to wade on and on. But the water gradually deepens as you go
forward, and the pool ends in a deep pot under each bank. Then to
recover your ground becomes by no means easy, especially if the
water is heavy. You get half-drowned, or drowned altogether,
before you discover your danger. Many of the pools have this
peculiarity, and in many, one step made rashly lets you into a very
uncomfortable and perilous place. Therefore expeditions to
Tweedside were apt to end in a ducking. It was often hard to reach
the water where trout were rising, and the rise was always
capricious. There might not be a stir on the water for hours, and
suddenly it would be all boiling with heads and tails for twenty
minutes, after which nothing was to be done. To miss "the take"
was to waste the day, at least in fly-fishing. From a high wooded
bank I have seen the trout feeding, and they have almost ceased to
feed before I reached the waterside. Still worse was it to be
allured into water over the tops of your waders, early in the day,
and then to find that the rise was over, and there was nothing for
it but a weary walk home, the basket laden only with damp boots.
Still, the trout were undeniably THERE, and that was a great
encouragement. They are there still, but infinitely more cunning
than of old. Then, if they were feeding, they took the artificial
fly freely; now it must be exactly of the right size and shade or
they will have none of it. They come provokingly short, too; just
plucking at the hook, and running out a foot of line or so, then
taking their departure. For some reason the Tweed is more
difficult to fish with the dry fly than--the Test, for example.
The water is swifter and very dark, it drowns the fly soon, and on
the surface the fly is less easily distinguished than at
Whitchurch, in the pellucid streams. The Leader a tributary, may
be fished with dry fly; on the Tweed one can hardly manage it.
There is a plan by which rising trout may be taken--namely, by
baiting with a small red worm and casting as in fly-fishing. But
that is so hard on the worm! Probably he who can catch trout with
fly on the Tweed between Melrose and Holy Lee can catch them
anywhere. On a good day in April great baskets are still made in
preserved parts of the Tweed, but, if they are made in open water,
it must be, I fancy, with worm, or with the "screw," the lava of
the May-fly. The screw is a hideous and venomous-looking animal,
which is fixed on a particular kind of tackle, and cast up stream
with a short line. The heaviest trout are fond of it, but it can
only be used at a season when either school or Oxford keeps one far
from what old Franck, Walton's contemporary, a Cromwellian trooper,
calls "the glittering and resolute streams of Tweed."

Difficult as it is, that river is so beautiful and alluring that it
scarcely needs the attractions of sport. The step banks,
beautifully wooded, and in spring one mass of primroses, are
crowned here and there with ruined Border towers--like Elibank, the
houses of Muckle Mou'ed Meg; or with fair baronial houses like
Fernilea. Meg made a bad exchange when she left Elibank with the
salmon pool at its foot for bleak Harden, frowning over the narrow
"den" where Harden kept the plundered cattle. There is no fishing
in the tiny Harden burn, that joins the brawling Borthwick Water.

The burns of the Lowlands are now almost barren of trout. The
spawning fish, flabby and useless, are killed in winter. All
through the rest of the year, in the remotest places, tourists are
hard at them with worm. In a small burn a skilled wormer may
almost depopulate the pools, and, on the Border, all is fish that
comes to the hook; men keep the very fingerlings, on the pretext
that they are "so sweet" in the frying-pan. The crowd of anglers
in glens which seem not easily accessible is provoking enough.
Into the Meggat, a stream which feeds St. Mary's Loch, there flows
the Glengaber, or Glencaber burn: the burn of the pine-tree stump.
The water runs in deep pools and streams over a blue slatey rock,
which contains gold under the sand, in the worn holes and crevices.
My friend, Mr. McAllister, the schoolmaster at St. Mary's, tells me
that one day, when fish were not rising, he scooped out the gravel
of one of these holes with his knife, and found a tiny nugget,
after which the gold-hunting fever came on him for a while. But
little is got nowadays, though in some earlier period the burn has
been diverted from its bed, and the people used solemnly to wash
the sand, as in California or Australia. Well, whether in
consequence of the gold, as the alchemical philosophers would have
held, or not, the trout of the Glengaber burn were good. They were
far shorter, thicker and stronger than those of the many
neighbouring brooks. I have fished up the burn with fly, when it
was very low, hiding carefully behind the boulders, and have been
surprised at the size and gameness of the fish. As soon as the fly
had touched the brown water, it was sucked down, and there was
quite a fierce little fight before the fish came to hand.

"This, all this, was in the olden time, long ago."

The Glengaber burn is about twenty miles from any railway station,
but, on the last occasion when I visited it, three louts were
worming their way up it, within twenty yards of each other, each
lout, with his huge rod, showing himself wholly to any trout that
might be left in the water. Thirty years ago the burns that feed
St. Mary's Loch were almost unfished, and rare sport we had in
them, as boys, staying at Tibbie Sheil's famous cottage, and
sleeping in her box-beds, where so often the Ettrick Shepherd and
Christopher North have lain, after copious toddy. "'Tis gone, 'tis
gone:" not in our time will any man, like the Ettrick Shepherd,
need a cart to carry the trout he has slain in Meggat Water. That
stream, flowing through a valley furnished with a grass-grown track
for a road, flows, as I said, into St. Mary's Loch. There are two
or three large pools at the foot of the loch, in which, as a small
boy hardly promoted to fly, I have seen many monsters rising
greedily. Men got into the way of fishing these pools after a
flood with minnow, and thereby made huge baskets, the big fish
running up to feed, out of the loch. But, when last I rowed past
Meggat foot, the delta of that historic stream was simply crowded
with anglers, stepping in in front of each other. I asked if this
mob was a political "demonstration," but they stuck to business, as
if they had been on the Regent's Canal. And this, remember, was
twenty miles from any town! Yet there is a burn on the Border
still undiscovered, still full of greedy trout. I shall give the
angler such a hint of its whereabouts as Tiresias, in Hades, gave
to Odysseus concerning the end of his second wanderings.

When, O stranger, thou hast reached a burn where the shepherd asks
thee for the newspaper wrapped round thy sandwiches, that he may
read the news, then erect an altar to Priapus, god of fishermen,
and begin to angle boldly.

Probably the troops who fish our Border-burns still manage to toss
out some dozens of tiny fishes, some six or eight to the pound.
Are not these triumphs chronicled in the "Scotsman?" But they
cannot imagine what angling was in the dead years, nor what great
trout dwelt below the linns of the Crosscleugh burn, beneath the
red clusters of the rowan trees, or in the waters of the "Little
Yarrow" above the Loch of the Lowes. As to the lochs themselves,
now that anyone may put a boat on them, now that there is perpetual
trolling, as well as fly-fishing, so that every fish knows the
lures, the fun is mainly over. In April, no doubt, something may
still be done, and in the silver twilights of June, when as you
drift on the still surface you hear the constant sweet plash of the
rising trout, a few, and these good, may be taken. But the water
wants re-stocking, and the burns in winter need watching, in the
interests of spawning fish. It is nobody's interest, that I know
of, to take trouble and incur expense; and free fishing, by the
constitution of the universe, must end in bad fishing or in none at
all. The best we can say for it is that vast numbers of persons
may, by the still waters of these meres, enjoy the pleasures of
hope. Even solitude is no longer to be found in the scene which
Scott, in "Marmion," chooses as of all places the most solitary.

Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell,
And rear again the chaplain's cell.

But no longer does

"Your horse's hoof tread sound too rude,
So stilly is the solitude."

Stilly! with the horns and songs from omnibusses that carry
tourists, and with yells from nymphs and swains disporting
themselves in the boats. Yarrow is only the old Yarrow in winter.
Ages and revolutions must pass before the ancient peace returns;
and only if the golden age is born again, and if we revive in it,
shall we find St. Mary's what St. Mary's was lang syne -

Ah, Buddha, if thy tale be true,
Of still returning life,
A monk may I be born anew,
In valleys free from strife, -
A monk where Meggat winds and laves
The lone St. Mary's of the Waves.

Yarrow, which flows out of St. Mary's Loch was never a great
favourite of mine, as far as fishing goes. It had, and probably
deserved, a great reputation, and some good trout are still taken
in the upper waters, and there must be monsters in the deep black
pools, the "dowie dens" above Bowhill. But I never had any luck
there. The choicest stream of all was then, probably, the Aill,
described by Sir Walter in "William of Deloraine's Midnight Ride" -

Where Aill, from mountains freed,
Down from the lakes did raving come;
Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
Like the mane of a chestnut steed.

As not uncommonly happens, Scott uses rather large language here.
The steepy, grassy hillsides, the great green tablelands in a
recess of which the Aill is born, can hardly be called "mountains."
The "lakes," too, through which it passes, are much more like
tarns, or rather, considering the flatness of their banks, like
well-meaning ponds. But the Aill, near Sinton and Ashkirk, was a
delightful trout-stream, between its willow-fringed banks, a brook
about the size of the Lambourne. Nowhere on the Border were trout
more numerous, better fed, and more easily beguiled. A week on
Test would I gladly give for one day of boyhood beside the Aill,
where the casting was not scientific, but where the fish rose
gamely at almost any fly. Nobody seemed to go there then, and, I
fancy, nobody need go there now. The nets and other dismal devices
of the poachers from the towns have ruined that pleasant brook,
where one has passed so many a happy hour, walking the long way
home wet and weary, but well content. Into Aill flows a burn, the
Headshaw burn, where there used to be good fish, because it runs
out of Headshaw Loch, a weed-fringed lonely tarn on the bleak level
of the tableland. Bleak as it may seem, Headshaw Loch has the
great charm of absolute solitude: there are no tourists nor
anglers here, and the life of the birds is especially free and
charming. The trout, too, are large, pink of flesh, and game of
character; but the world of mankind need not rush thither. They
are not to be captured by the wiles of men, or so rarely that the
most enthusiastic anglers have given them up. They are as safe in
their tarn as those enchanted fish of the "Arabian Nights."
Perhaps a silver sedge in a warm twilight may somewhat avail, but
the adventure is rarely achieved.

These are the waters with which our boyhood was mainly engaged; it
is a pleasure to name and number them. Memory, that has lost so
much and would gladly lose so much more, brings vividly back the
golden summer evenings by Tweedside, when the trout began to plash
in the stillness--brings back the long, lounging, solitary days
beneath the woods of Ashiesteil--days so lonely that they
sometimes, in the end, begat a superstitious eeriness. One seemed
forsaken in an enchanted world; one might see the two white fairy
deer flit by, bringing to us, as to Thomas Rhymer, the tidings that
we must back to Fairyland. Other waters we knew well, and loved:
the little salmon-stream in the west that doubles through the loch,
and runs a mile or twain beneath its alders, past its old Celtic
battle-field, beneath the ruined shell of its feudal tower, to the
sea. Many a happy day we had there, on loch or stream, with the
big sea-trout which have somehow changed their tastes, and to-day
take quite different flies from the green body and the red body
that led them to the landing-net long ago. Dear are the twin
Alines, but dearer is Tweed, and Ettrick, where our ancestor was
drowned in a flood, and his white horse was found, next day,
feeding near his dead body, on a little grassy island. There is a
great pleasure in trying new methods, in labouring after the
delicate art of the dry fly-fisher in the clear Hampshire streams,
where the glassy tide flows over the waving tresses of crow's-foot
below the poplar shade. But nothing can be so good as what is old,
and, as far as angling goes, is practically ruined, the alternate
pool and stream of the Border waters, where

The triple pride
Of Eildon looks over Strathclyde,

and the salmon cast murmurs hard by the Wizard's grave. They are
all gone now, the old allies and tutors in the angler's art--the
kind gardener who baited our hooks; the good Scotch judge who gave
us our first collection of flies; the friend who took us with him
on his salmon-fishing expedition, and made men of us with real
rods, and "pirns" of ancient make. The companions of those times
are scattered, and live under strange stars and in converse
seasons, by troutless waters. It is no longer the height of
pleasure to be half-drowned in Tweed, or lost on the hills with no
luncheon in the basket. But, except for scarcity of fish, the
scene is very little altered, and one is a boy again, in heart,
beneath the elms of Yair, or by the Gullets at Ashiesteil. However
bad the sport, it keeps you young, or makes you young again, and
you need not follow Ponce de Leon to the western wilderness, when,
in any river you knew of yore, you can find the Fountain of Youth.

LOCH AWE--THE BOATMAN'S YARNS

Good trout-fishing in Scotland, south of the Pentland Firth, is
almost impossible to procure. There are better fish, and more of
them, in the Wandle, within twenty minutes of Victoria Station,
than in any equal stretch of any Scotch river with which I am
acquainted. But the pleasure of angling, luckily, does not consist
merely of the catching of fish. The Wandle is rather too suburban
for some tastes, which prefer smaller trout, better air, and wilder
scenery. To such spirits, Loch Awe may, with certain distinct
cautions, be recommended. There is more chance for anglers, now,
in Scotch lochs than in most Scotch rivers. The lochs cannot so
easily be netted, lined, polluted, and otherwise made empty and
ugly, like the Border streams. They are farther off from towns and
tourists, though distance is scarcely a complete protection. The
best lochs for yellow trout are decidedly those of Sutherland.
There are no railways, and there are two hundred lochs and more in
the Parish of Assynt. There, in June, the angler who is a good
pedestrian may actually enjoy solitude, sometimes. There is a loch
near Strathnaver, and far from human habitations, where a friend of
my own recently caught sixty-five trout weighing about thirty-eight
pounds. They are numerous and plucky, but not large, though a
casual big loch-trout may be taken by trolling. But it is truly a
far way to this anonymous lake and all round the regular fishing
inns, like Inchnadampf and Forsinard there is usually quite a
little crowd of anglers. The sport is advertised in the
newspapers; more and more of our eager fellow-creatures are
attracted, more and more the shooting tenants are preserving waters
that used to be open. The distance to Sutherland makes that county
almost beyond the range of a brief holiday. Loch Leven is nearer,
and at Loch Leven the scenery is better than its reputation, while
the trout are excellent, though shy. But Loch Leven is too much
cockneyfied by angling competitions; moreover, its pleasures are
expensive. Loch Awe remains, a loch at once large, lovely, not too
distant, and not destitute of sport.

The reader of Mr. Colquhoun's delightful old book, "The Moor and
the Loch," must not expect Loch Awe to be what it once was. The
railway, which has made the north side of the lake so ugly, has
brought the district within easy reach of Glasgow and of Edinburgh.
Villas are built on many a beautiful height; here couples come for
their honeymoon, here whole argosies of boats are anchored off the
coasts, here do steam launches ply. The hotels are extremely
comfortable, the boatmen are excellent boatmen, good fishers, and
capital company. All this is pleasant, but all this attracts
multitudes of anglers, and it is not in nature that sport should be
what it once was. Of the famous salmo ferox I cannot speak from
experience. The huge courageous fish is still at home in Loch Awe,
but now he sees a hundred baits, natural and artificial, where he
saw one in Mr. Colquhoun's time. The truly contemplative man may
still sit in the stern of the boat, with two rods out, and possess
his soul in patience, as if he were fishing for tarpon in Florida.
I wish him luck, but the diversion is little to my mind. Except in
playing the fish, if he comes, all the skill is in the boatmen, who
know where to row, at what pace, and in what depth of water. As to
the chances of salmon again, they are perhaps less rare, but they
are not very frequent. The fish does not seem to take freely in
the loch, and on his way from the Awe to the Orchy. As to the
trout-fishing, it is very bad in the months when most men take
their holidays, August and September. From the middle of April to
the middle of June is apparently the best time. The loch is well
provided with bays, of different merit, according to the feeding
which they provide; some come earlier, some later into season.
Doubtless the most beautiful part of the lake is around the
islands, between the Loch Awe and the Port Sonachan hotels. The
Green Island, with its strange Celtic burying-ground, where the
daffodils bloom among the sepulchres with their rude carvings of
battles and of armed men, has many trout around its shores. The
favourite fishing-places, however, are between Port Sonachan and
Ford. In the morning early, the steam-launch tows a fleet of boats
down the loch, and they drift back again, fishing all the bays, and
arriving at home in time for dinner. Too frequently the angler is
vexed by finding a boat busy in his favourite bay. I am not sure
that, when the trout are really taking, the water near Port
Sonachan is not as good as any other. Much depends on the weather.
In the hard north-east winds of April we can scarcely expect trout
to feed very freely anywhere. These of Loch Awe are very peculiar
fish. I take it that there are two species--one short, thick,
golden, and beautiful; but these, at least in April, are decidedly
scarce. The common sort is long, lanky, of a dark green hue, and
the reverse of lovely. Most of them, however, are excellent at
breakfast, pink in the flesh, and better flavoured, I think, than
the famous trout of Loch Leven. They are also extremely game for
their size; a half-pound trout fights like a pounder. From thirty
to forty fish in a day's incessant angling is reckoned no bad
basket. In genial May weather, probably the trout average two to
the pound, and a pounder or two may be in the dish. But three to
the pound is decidedly nearer the average, at least in April. The
flies commonly used are larger than what are employed in Loch
Leven. A teal wing and red body, a grouse hackle, and the
prismatic Heckham Peckham are among the favourites; but it is said
that flies no bigger than Tweed flies are occasionally successful.
In my own brief experience I have found the trout "dour,"
occasionally they would rise freely for an hour at noon, or in the
evening; but often one passed hours with scarcely a rising fish.
This may have been due to the bitterness of the weather, or to my
own lack of skill. Not that lochs generally require much artifice
in the angler. To sink the flies deep, and move them with short
jerks, appears, now and then, to be efficacious. There has been
some controversy about Loch Awe trouting; this is as favourable a
view of the sport as I can honestly give. It is not excellent,
but, thanks to the great beauty of the scenery, the many points of
view on so large and indented a lake, the charm of the wood and
wild flowers, Loch Awe is well worth a visit from persons who do
not pitch their hopes too high.

Loch Awe would have contented me less had I been less fortunate in
my boatman. It is often said that tradition has died out in the
Highlands; it is living yet.

After three days of north wind and failure, it occurred to me that
my boatman might know the local folklore--the fairy tales and
traditions. As a rule, tradition is a purely professional part of
a guide's stock-in-trade, but the angler who had my barque in his
charge proved to be a fresh fountain of legend. His own county is
not Argyleshire, but Inverness, and we did not deal much in local
myth. True, he told me why Loch Awe ceased--like the site of Sodom
and Gomorrah--to be a cultivated valley and became a lake, where
the trout are small and, externally, green.

"Loch Awe was once a fertile valley, and it belonged to an old
dame. She was called Dame Cruachan, the same as the hill, and she
lived high up on the hill-side. Now there was a well on the hill-
side, and she was always to cover up the well with a big stone
before the sun set. But one day she had been working in the valley
and she was weary, and she sat down by the path on her way home and
fell asleep. And the sun had gone down before she reached the
well, and in the night the water broke out and filled all the
plain, and what was land is now water." This, then, was the origin
of Loch Awe. It is a little like the Australian account of the
Deluge. That calamity was produced by a man's showing a woman the
mystic turndun, a native sacred toy. Instantly water broke out of
the earth and drowned everybody.

This is merely a local legend, such as boatmen are expected to
know. As the green trout utterly declined to rise, I tried the
boatman with the Irish story of why the Gruagach Gaire left off
laughing, and all about the hare that came and defiled his table,
as recited by Mr. Curtin in his "Irish Legends" (Sampson, Low, &
Co.). The boatman did not know this fable, but he did know of a
red deer that came and spoke to a gentleman. This was a story from
the Macpherson country. I give it first in the boatman's words,
and then we shall discuss the history of the legend as known to Sir
Walter Scott and James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd.

THE YARN OF THE BLACK OFFICER

"It was about 'the last Christmas of the hundred'--the end of last
century. They wanted men for the Black Watch (42nd Highlanders),
and the Black Officer, as they called him, was sent to his own
country to enlist them. Some he got willingly, and others by
force. He promised he would only take them to London, where the
King wanted to review them, and then let them go home. So they
came, though they little liked it, and he was marching them south.
Now at night they reached a place where nobody would have halted
them except the Black Officer, for it was a great place for ghosts.
And they would have run away if they had dared, but they were
afraid of him. So some tried to sleep in threes and fours, and
some were afraid to sleep, and they sat up round the fire. But the
Black Officer, he went some way from the rest, and lay down beneath
a tree.

"Now as the night wore on, and whiles it would be dark and whiles
the moon shone, a man came--they did not know from where--a big red
man, and drew up to the fire, and was talking with them. And he
asked where the Black Officer was, and they showed him. Now there
was one man, Shamus Mackenzie they called him, and he was very
curious, and he must be seeing what they did. So he followed the
man, and saw him stoop and speak to the officer, but he did not
waken; then this individual took the Black Officer by the breast
and shook him violently. Then Shamus knew who the stranger was,
for no man alive durst have done as much to the Black Officer. And
there was the Black Officer kneeling to him!

"Well, what they said, Shamus could not hear, and presently they
walked away, and the Black Officer came back alone.

"He took them to England, but never to London, and they never saw
the King. He took them to Portsmouth, and they were embarked for
India, where we were fighting the French. There was a town we
couldn't get into" (Seringapatam?), "and the Black Officer
volunteered to make a tunnel under the walls. Now they worked
three days, and whether it was the French heard them and let them
dig on, or not, any way, on the third day the French broke in on
them. They kept sending men into the tunnel, and more men, and
still they wondered who was fighting within, and how we could have
so large a party in the tunnel; so at last they brought torches,
and there was no man alive on our side but the Black Officer, and
he had a wall of corpses built up in front of him, and was fighting
across it. He had more light to see by than the French had, for it
was dark behind him, and there would be some light on their side.
So at last they brought some combustibles and blew it all up.
Three days after that we took the town. Some of our soldiers were
sent to dig out the tunnel, and with them was Shamus Mackenzie."

"And they never found the Black Officer," I said, thinking of young
Campbell in Sekukoeni's fighting koppie.

"Oh, yes," said the boatman, "Shamus found the body of the Black
Officer, all black with smoke, and he laid him down on a green
knoll, and was standing over the dead man, and was thinking of how
many places they had been in together, and of his own country, and
how he wished he was there again. Then the dead man's face moved.

"Shamus turned and ran for his life, and he was running till he met
some officers, and he told them that the Black Officer's body had
stirred. They thought he was lying, but they went off to the
place, and one of them had the thought to take a flask of brandy in
his pocket. When they came to the lifeless body it stirred again,
and with one thing and another they brought him round.

"The Black Officer was not himself again for long, and they took
him home to his own country, and he lay in bed in his house. And
every day a red deer would come to the house, and go into his room
and sit on a chair beside the bed, speaking to him like a man.

"Well, the Black Officer got better again, and went about among his
friends; and once he was driving home from a dinner-party, and
Shamus was with him. It was just the last night of the hundred.
And on the road they met a man, and Shamus knew him--for it was him
they had seen by the fire on the march, as I told you at the
beginning. The Black Officer got down from his carriage and joined
the man, and they walked a bit apart; but Shamus--he was so
curious--whatever happened he must see them. And he came within
hearing just as they were parting, and he heard the stranger say,
'This is the night.'

"'No,' said the Black Officer, 'this night next year.'

"So he came back, and they drove home. A year went by, and the
Black Officer was seeking through the country for the twelve best
men he could find to accompany him to some deer-hunt or the like.
And he asked Shamus, but he pretended he was ill--Oh, he was very
unwell!--and he could not go, but stayed in bed at home. So the
Black Officer chose another man, and he and the twelve set out--the
thirteen of them. But they were never seen again."

"Never seen again? Were they lost in the snow?"

"It did come on a heavy fall, sir."

"But their bodies were found?"

"No, sir--though they searched high and low; they are not found,
indeed, till this day. It was thought the Black Officer had sold
himself and twelve other men, sir."

"To the Devil?"

"It would be that."

For the narrator never mentions our ghostly foe, which produces a
solemn effect.

This story was absolutely new to me, and much I wished that Mr.
Louis Stevenson could have heard it. The blending of the far East
with the Highlands reminds one of his "Master of Ballantrae," and
what might he not make of that fairy red deer! My boatman, too,
told me what Mr. Stevenson says the Highlanders will not tell--the
name of the man who committed the murder of which Alan Breck was
accused. But this secret I do not intend to divulge.

The story of the Black Officer then seemed absolutely unpublished.
But when Sir Walter Scott's diary was given to the world in
October, 1890, it turned out that he was not wholly ignorant of the
legend. In 1828 he complains that he has been annoyed by a lady,
because he had printed "in the 'Review'" a rawhead and bloody-bones
story of her father, Major Macpherson, who was lost in a snowstorm.
This Major Macpherson was clearly the Black Officer. Mr. Douglas,
the publisher of Scott's diary, discovered that the "Review"
mentioned vaguely by Scott was the "Foreign Quarterly," No. I,
July, 1827. In an essay on Hoffmann's novels, Sir Walter
introduced the tale as told to him in a letter from a nobleman some
time deceased, not more distinguished for his love of science than
his attachment to literature in all its branches.

The tale is too long to be given completely. Briefly, a Captain
M., on St. Valentine's day, 1799, had been deer-shooting (at an odd
time of the year) in the hills west of D-. He did not return, a
terrible snowstorm set in, and finally he and his friends were
found dead in a bothy, which the tempest had literally destroyed.
Large stones from the walls were found lying at distances of a
hundred yards; the wooden uprights were twisted like broken sticks.
The Captain was lying dead, without his clothes, on the bed; one
man was discovered at a distance, another near the Captain. Then
it was remembered that, at the same bothy a month before, a
shepherd lad had inquired for the Captain, had walked with him for
some time, and that, on the officer's return, "a mysterious anxiety
hung about him." A fire had also been seen blazing on an opposite
height, and when some of the gillies went to the spot, "there was
no fire to be seen." On the day when the expedition had started,
the Captain was warned of the ill weather, but he said "he MUST
go." He was an unpopular man, and was accused of getting money by
procuring recruits from the Highlands, often by cruel means. "Our
informer told us nothing more; he neither told us his own opinion,
nor that of the country, but left it to our own notions of the
manner in which good and evil is rewarded in this life to suggest
the author of the miserable event. He seemed impressed with
superstitious awe on the subject, and said, 'There was na the like
seen in a' Scotland.' The man is far advanced in years and is a
schoolmaster in the neighbourhood of Rannoch."

Sir Walter says that "the feeling of superstitious awe annexed to
the catastrophe could not have been improved by any circumstances
of additional horror which a poet could have invented. But is
there not something more moving still in the boatman's version:
"they were never seen again . . . they were not found indeed till
this day"?

The folklorist, of course, is eager to know whether the boatman's
much more complete and connected narrative is a popular mythical
development in the years between 1820 and 1890, or whether the
schoolmaster of Rannoch did not tell all he knew. It is unlikely,
I think, that the siege of Seringapatam would have been remembered
so long in connection with the Black Officer if it had not formed
part of his original legend. Meanwhile the earliest printed notice
of the event with which I am acquainted, a notice only ten years
later than the date of the Major's death in 1799, is given by Hogg
in "The Spy," 1810-11, pp. 101-3. I offer an abridgment of the
narrative.

"About the end of last century Major Macpherson and a party of
friends went out to hunt on the Grampians between Athole and
Badenoch. They were highly successful, and in the afternoon they
went into a little bothy, and, having meat and drink, they
abandoned themselves to jollity.

"During their merry-making a young man entered whose appearance
particularly struck and somewhat shocked Macpherson; the stranger
beckoned to the Major, and he followed him instantly out of the
bothy.

"When they parted, after apparently having had some earnest
conversation, the stranger was out of sight long before the Major
was half-way back, though only twenty yards away.

"The Major showed on his return such evident marks of trepidation
that the mirth was marred and no one cared to ask him questions.

"This was early in the week, and on Friday the Major persuaded his
friends to make a second expedition to the mountains, from which
they never returned.

"On a search being made their dead bodies were found in the bothy,
some considerably mangled, but some were not marked by any wound.

"It was visible that this had not been effected by human agency:
the bothy was torn from its foundations and scarcely a vestige left
of it, and one huge stone, which twelve men could not have raised,
was tossed to a considerable distance.

"On this event Scott's beautiful ballad of "Glenfinlas" is said to
have been founded."

As will be seen presently, Hogg was wrong about "Glenfinlas"; the
boatman was acquainted with a traditional version of that wild
legend. I found another at Rannoch.

The Highland fairies are very vampirish. The Loch Awe boatman
lives at a spot haunted by a shadowy maiden. Her last appearance
was about thirty years ago. Two young men were thrashing corn one
morning, when the joint of the flail broke. The owner went to
Larichban and entered an outhouse to look for a piece of sheepskin
wherewith to mend the flail. He was long absent, and his companion
went after him. He found him struggling in the arms of a ghostly
maid, who had nearly murdered him, but departed on the arrival of
his friend. It is not easy to make out what these ghoulish women
are--not fairies exactly, nor witches, nor vampires. For example,
three shepherds at a lonely sheiling were discoursing of their
loves, and it was, "Oh, how happy I should be if Katie were here,
or Maggie, or Bessie!" as the case might be. So they would say and
so they would wish, and lo! one evening, the three girls came to
the door of the hut. So they made them welcome; but one of the
shepherds was playing the Jew's-harp, and he did not like the turn
matters were taking.

The two others stole off into corners of the darkling hut with
their lovers, but this prudent lad never took his lips off the
Jew's-harp.

"Harping is good if no ill follows it," said the semblance of his
sweetheart; but he never answered. He played and thrummed, and out
of one dark corner trickled red blood into the fire-light, and out
of another corner came a current of blood to meet it. Then he
slowly rose, still harping, and backed his way to the door, and
fled into the hills from these cruel airy shapes of false desire.

"And do the people actually believe all that?"

"Ay, do they!"

That is the boatman's version of Scott's theme in "Glenfinlas."
Witches played a great part in his narratives.

In the boatman's country there is a plain, and on the plain is a
knoll, about twice the height of a one-storeyed cottage, and
pointed "like a sugar-loaf." The old people remember, or have
heard, that this mound was not there when they were young. It
swelled up suddenly out of the grave of a witch who was buried
there.

The witch was a great enemy of a shepherd. Every morning she would
put on the shape of a hare, and run before his dogs, and lead them
away from the sheep. He knew it was right to shoot at her with a
crooked sixpence, and he hit her on the hind leg, and the dogs were
after her, and chased the hare into the old woman's cottage. The
shepherd ran after them, and there he found them, tearing at the
old woman; but the hare was twisted round their necks, and she was
crying, "Tighten, hare, tighten!" and it was choking them. So he
tore the hare off the dogs; and then the old woman begged him to
save her from them, and she promised never to plague him again.
"But if the old dog's teeth had been as sharp as the young one's,
she would have been a dead woman."

When this witch died she knew she could never lie in safety in her
grave; but there was a very safe churchyard in Aberdeenshire, a
hundred and fifty miles away, and if she could get into that she
would be at rest. And she rose out of her grave, and off she went,
and the Devil after her, on a black horse; but, praise to the
swiftness of her feet, she won the churchyard before him. Her
first grave swelled up, oh, as high as that green hillock!

Witches are still in active practice. There was an old woman very
miserly. She would alway be taking one of her neighbours' sheep
from the hills, and they stood it for long; they did not like to
meddle with her. At last it grew so bad that they brought her
before the sheriff, and she got eighteen months in prison. When
she came out she was very angry, and set about making an image of
the woman whose sheep she had taken. When the image was made she
burned it and put the ashes in a burn. And it is a very curious
thing, but the woman she made it on fell into a decline, and took
to her bed.

The witch and her family went to America. They kept a little inn,
in a country place, and people who slept in it did not come out
again. They were discovered, and the eldest son was hanged; he
confessed that he had committed nineteen murders before he left
Scotland.

"They were not a nice family."

"The father was a very respectable old man."

The boatman gave me the name of this wicked household, but it is
perhaps better forgotten.

The extraordinary thing is that this appears to be the Highland
introduction to, or part first of, a gloomy and sanguinary story of
a murder hole--an inn of assassins in a lonely district of the
United States, which Mr. Louis Stevenson heard in his travels
there, and told to me some years ago. The details have escaped my
memory, but, as Mr. Stevenson narrated them, they rivalled De
Quincey's awful story of Williams's murders in the Ratcliffe
Highway.

Life must still be haunted in Badenoch, as it was on Ida's hill, by
forms of unearthly beauty, the goddess or the ghost yet wooing the
shepherd; indeed, the boatman told me many stories of living
superstition and terrors of the night; but why should I exhaust his
wallet? To be sure, it seemed very full of tales; these offered
here may be but the legends which came first to his hand. The
boatman is not himself a believer in the fairy world, or not more
than all sensible men ought to be. The supernatural is too
pleasant a thing for us to discard in an earnest, scientific manner
like Mr. Kipling's Aurelian McGubben. Perhaps I am more
superstitious than the boatman, and the yarns I swopped with him
about ghosts I have met would seem even more mendacious to
possessors of pocket microscopes and of the modern spirit. But I
would rather have one banshee story than fifteen pages of proof
that "life, which began as a cell, with a c, is to end as a sell,
with an s." It should be added that the boatman has given his
consent to the printing of his yarns. On being offered a moiety of
the profits, he observed that he had no objection to these, but
that he entirely declined to be responsible for any share of the
expenses. Would that all authors were as sagacious, for then the
amateur novelist and the minor poet would vex us no more.

Perhaps I should note that I have not made the boatman say
"whateffer," because he doesn't. The occasional use of the
imperfect is almost his only Gaelic idiom. It is a great comfort
and pleasure, when the trout do not rise, to meet a skilled and
unaffected narrator of the old beliefs, old legends, as ancient as
the hills that girdle and guard the loch, or as antique, at least,
as man's dwelling among the mountains--the Yellow Hill, the Calf
Hill, the Hill of the Stack. The beauty of the scene, the pleasant
talk, the daffodils on the green isle among the Celtic graves,
compensate for a certain "dourness" among the fishes of Loch Awe.
On the occasions when they are not dour they rise very pleasant and
free, but, in these brief moments, it is not of legends and
folklore that you are thinking, but of the landing-net. The
boatman, by the way, was either not well acquainted with Marchen--
Celtic nursery-tales such as Campbell of Islay collected, or was
not much interested in them, or, perhaps, had the shyness about
narrating this particular sort of old wives' fables which is so
common. People who do know them seldom tell them in Sassenach.

LOCH-FISHING

LITTLE LOCH BEG

There is something mysterious in loch-fishing, in the tastes and
habits of the fish which inhabit the innumerable lakes and tarns of
Scotland. It is not always easy to account either for their
presence or their absence, for their numbers or scarcity, their
eagerness to take or their "dourness." For example, there is Loch
Borlan, close to the well-known little inn of Alt-na-geal-gach in
Sutherland. Unless that piece of water is greatly changed, it is
simply full of fish of about a quarter of a pound, which will rise
at almost any time to almost any fly. There is not much pleasure
in catching such tiny and eager trout, but in the season complacent
anglers capture and boast of their many dozens. On the other hand,
a year or two ago, a beginner took a four-pound trout there with
the fly. If such trout exist in Borlan, it is hard to explain the
presence of the innumerable fry. One would expect the giants of
the deep to keep down their population. Not far off is another
small lake, Loch Awe, which has invisible advantages over Loch
Borlan, yet there the trout are, or were, "fat and fair of flesh,"
like Tamlane in the ballad. Wherefore are the trout in Loch
Tummell so big and strong, from one to five pounds, and so scarce,
while those in Loch Awe are numerous and small? One occasionally
sees examples of how quickly trout will increase in weight, and
what curious habits they will adopt. In a county of south-western
Scotland there is a large village, populated by a keenly devoted
set of anglers, who miss no opportunity. Within a quarter of a
mile of the village is a small tarn, very picturesquely situated
among low hills, and provided with the very tiniest feeder and
outflow. There is a sluice at the outflow, and, for some reason,
the farmer used to let most of the water out, in the summer of
every year. In winter the tarn is used by the curling club. It is
not deep, has rather a marshy bottom, and many ducks, snipe, and
wild-fowl generally dwell among the reeds and marish plants of its
sides. Nobody ever dreamed of fishing here, but one day a rustic,
"glowering" idly over the wall of the adjacent road, saw fish
rising. He mentioned his discovery to an angler, who is said to
have caught some large trout, but tradition varies about
everything, except that the fish are very "dour." One evening in
August, a warm, still evening, I happened to visit the tarn. As
soon as the sun fell below the hills, it was literally alive with
large trout rising. As far as one could estimate from the brief
view of heads and shoulders, they were sometimes two or three
pounds in weight. I got my rod, of course, as did a rural friend.
Mine was a small cane rod, his a salmon-rod. I fished with one
Test-fly; he with three large loch-flies. The fish were rising
actually at our feet, but they seemed to move about very much,
never, or seldom, rising twice exactly at the same place. The
hypothesis was started that there were but few of them, and that
they ran round and round, like a stage army, to give an appearance
of multitude. But this appears improbable. What is certain was
our utter inability ever to get a rise from the provoking
creatures. The dry fly is difficult to use on a loch, as there is
no stream to move it, and however gently you draw it it makes a
"wake"--a trail behind it. Wet or dry, or "twixt wet and dry,"
like the convivial person in the song, we could none of us raise
them. I did catch a small but beautifully proportioned and pink-
fleshed trout with the alder, but everything else, silver sedge and
all, everything from midge to May-fly, in the late twilight, was
offered to them in vain. In windy or cloudy weather it was just as
useless; indeed, I never saw them rise, except in a warm summer
stillness, at and after sunset. Probably they would have taken a
small red worm, pitched into the ripple of a rise; but we did not
try that. After a few evenings, they seemed to give up rising
altogether. I don't feel certain that they had not been netted:
yet no trout seemed to be on sale in the village. Their presence
in the water may perhaps be accounted for thus: they may have come
into the loch from the river, by way of the tiny feeder; but the
river-trout are both scarce and small. A new farmer had given up
letting the water off, and probably there must have been very rich
feeding, water-shrimps or snails, which might partly account for
the refusal to rise at the artificial fly. Or they may have been
ottered by the villagers, though that would rather have made them
rise short than not rise at all.

There is another loch on an extremely remote hillside, eight miles
from the smallest town, in a pastoral country. There are trout
enough in the loch, and of excellent size and flavour, but you
scarcely ever get them. They rise freely, but they ALWAYS rise
short. It is, I think, the most provoking loch I ever fished. You
raise them; they come up freely, showing broad sides of a ruddy
gold, like the handsomest Test trout, but they almost invariably
miss the hook. You do not land one out of twenty. The reason is,
apparently, that people from the nearest town use the otter in the
summer evenings, when these trout rise best. In a Sutherland loch,
Mr. Edward Moss tells us (in "A Season in Sutherland"), that he
once found an elegant otter, a well-made engine of some
unscrupulous tourist, lying in the bottom of the water on a sunny
day. At Loch Skene, on the top of a hill, twenty miles from any
town, otters are occasionally found by the keeper or the shepherds,
concealed near the shore. The practice of ottering can give little
pleasure to any but a depraved mind, and nothing educates trout so
rapidly into "rising short"; why they are not to be had when they
are rising most vehemently, "to themselves," is another mystery. A
few rises are encouraging, but when the water is all splashing with
rises, as a rule the angler is only tantalised. A windy day, a day
with a large ripple, but without white waves breaking, is, as a
rule, best for a loch. In some lochs the sea-trout prefer such a
hurricane that a boat can hardly be kept on the water. I have
known a strong north wind in autumn put down the sea-trout, whereas
the salmon rose, with unusual eagerness, just in the shallows where
the waves broke in foam on the shore. The best day I ever had with
sea-trout was muggy and grey, and the fish were most eager when the
water was still, except for a tremendously heavy shower of rain, "a
singing shower," as George Chapman has it. On that day two rods
caught thirty-nine sea-trout, weighing forty pounds. But it is
difficult to say beforehand what day will do well, except that
sunshine is bad, a north wind worse, and no wind at all usually
means an empty basket. Even to this rule there are exceptions, and
one of these is in the case of a tarn which I shall call,
pleonastically, Little Loch Beg.

This is not the real name of the loch--quite enough people know its
real name already. Nor does it seem necessary to mention the
district where the loch lies hidden; suffice it to say that a land
of more streams and scarcer trout you will hardly find. We had
tried all the rivers and burns to no purpose, and the lochs are
capricious and overfished. One loch we had not tried, Loch Beg.
You walk, or drive, a few miles from any village, then you climb a
few hundred yards of hill, and from the ridge you see, on one hand
a great amphitheatre of green and purple mountain-sides, in the
west; on the east, within a hundred yards under a slope, is Loch
Beg. It is not a mile in circumference, and all but some eighty
yards of shore is defended against the angler by wide beds of
water-lilies, with their pretty white floating lamps, or by tall
sedges and reeds. Nor is the wading easy. Four steps you make
with safety, at the fifth your foremost leg sinks in mud apparently
bottomless. Most people fish only the eastern side, whereof a few
score yards are open, with a rocky and gravelly bottom.

Now, all lochs have their humours. In some trout like a big fly,
in some a small one, but almost all do best with a rough wind or
rain. I knew enough of Loch Beg to approach it at noon on a
blazing day of sunshine, when the surface was like glass. It was
like that when first I saw it, and a shepherd warned us that we
"would dae naething"; we did little, indeed, but I rose nearly
every rising fish I cast over, losing them all, too, and in some
cases being broken, as I was using very fine gut, and the fish were
heavy. Another trial seemed desirable, and the number of rising
trout was most tempting. All over it trout were rising to the
natural fly, with big circles like those you see in the Test at
twilight; while in the centre, where no artificial fly can be cast
for want of a boat, a big fish would throw himself out of the water
in his eagerness. One such I saw which could not have weighed
under three pounds, a short, thick, dark-yellow fish.

I was using a light two-handed rod, and fancied that a single Test-
fly on very fine tackle would be the best lure. It certainly rose
the trout, if one threw into the circle they made; but they never
were hooked. One fish of about a pound and a half threw himself
out of the water at it, hit it, and broke the fine tackle. So I
went on raising them, but never getting them. As long as the sun
blazed and no breeze ruffled the water, they rose bravely, but a
cloud or even a ripple seemed to send them down.

At last I tried a big alder, and with that I actually touched a
few, and even landed several on the shelving bank. Their average
weight, as we proved on several occasions, was exactly three-
quarters of a pound; but we never succeeded in landing any of the
really big ones.

A local angler told me he had caught one of two pounds, and lost
another "like a young grilse," after he had drawn it on to the
bank. I can easily believe it, for in no loch, but one, have I
ever seen so many really big and handsome fish feeding. Loch Beg
is within a mile of a larger and famous loch, but it is infinitely
better, though the other looks much more favourable in all ways for
sport. The only place where fishing is easy, as I have said, is a
mere strip of coast under the hill, where there is some gravel, and
the mouth of a very tiny feeder, usually dry. Off this place the
trout rose freely, but not near so freely as in a certain corner,
quite out of reach without a boat, where the leviathans lived and
sported.

After the little expanse of open shore had been fished over a few
times, the trout there seemed to grow more shy, and there was a
certain monotony in walking this tiny quarter-deck of space. So I
went round to the west side, where the water-lilies are. Fish were
rising about three yards beyond the weedy beds, and I foolishly
thought I would try for them. Now, you cannot overestimate the
difficulty of casting a fly across yards of water-lilies. You
catch in the weeds as you lift your line for a fresh cast, and then
you have to extricate it laboriously, shortening line, and then to
let it out again, and probably come to grief once more.

I saw a trout rise, with a huge sullen circle dimpling round him,
cast over him, raised him, and missed him. The water was perfectly
still, and the "plop" made by these fish was very exciting and
tantalising. The next that rose took the alder, and, of course,
ran right into the broad band of lilies. I tried all the dodges I
could think of, and all that Mr. Halford suggests. I dragged at
him hard. I gave him line. I sat down and endeavoured to
disengage my thoughts, but I never got a glimpse of him, and
finally had to wade as far in as I dared, and save as much of the
casting line as I could; it was very little.

There was one thing to be said for the trout on this side: they
meant business. They did not rise shyly, like the others, but went
for the fly if it came at all near them, and then, down they
rushed, and bolted into the lily-roots.

A new plan occurred to me. I put on about eighteen inches of the
stoutest gut I had, to the end I knotted the biggest sea-trout fly
I possessed, and, hooking the next fish that rose, I turned my back
on the loch and ran uphill with the rod. Looking back I saw a
trout well over a pound flying across the lilies; but alas! the
hold was not strong enough, and he fell back. Again and again I
tried this method, invariably hooking the trout, though the heavy
short casting-line and the big fly fell very awkwardly in the dead
stillness of the water. I had some exciting runs with them, for
they came eagerly to the big fly, and did not miss it, as they had
missed the Red Quill, or Whitchurch Dun, with which at first I
tried to beguile them. One, of only the average weight, I did drag
out over the lilies; the others fell off in mid-journey, but they
never broke the uncompromising stout tackle.

With the first chill of evening they ceased rising, and I left
them, not ungrateful for their very peculiar manners and customs.
The chances are that the trout beyond the band of weeds never see
an artificial fly, and they are, therefore, the more guileless--at
least, late in the season. In spring, I believe, the lilies are
less in the way, and I fear some one has put a Berthon boat on the
loch in April. But it is not so much what one catches in Loch Beg,
as the monsters which one might catch that make the tarn so
desirable.

The loch seems to prove that any hill-tarn might be made a good
place for sport, if trout were introduced where they do not exist
already. But the size of these in Loch Beg puzzles me, nor can one
see how they breed, as breed they do: for twice or thrice I caught
a fingerling, and threw him in again. No burn runs out of the
loch, and, even in a flood, the feeder is so small, and its course
so extremely steep, that one cannot imagine where the fish manage
to spawn. The only loch known to me where the common trout are of
equal size, is on the Border. It is extremely deep, with very
clear water, and with scarce any spawning ground. On a summer
evening the trout are occasionally caught; three weighing seven
pounds were taken one night, a year or two ago. I have not tried
the evening fishing, but at all other times of day have found them
the "dourest" of trout, and they grow dourer. But one is always
lured on by the spectacle of the monsters which throw themselves
out of water, with a splash that echoes through all the circuit of
the low green hills. They probably reach at least four or five
pounds, but it is unlikely that the biggest take the fly, and one
may doubt whether they propagate their species, as small trout are
never seen there.

There are two ways of enlarging the size of trout which should be
carefully avoided. Pike are supposed to keep down the population
and leave more food for the survivors, minnows are supposed to be
nourishing food. Both of these novelties are dangerous. Pike have
been introduced in that long lovely sheet of water, Loch Ken, and I
have never once seen the rise of a trout break that surface, so
"hideously serene." Trout, in lochs which have become accustomed
to feeding on minnows, are apt to disdain fly altogether. Of
course there are lochs in which good trout coexist with minnows and
with pike, but these inmates are too dangerous to be introduced.
The introduction, too, of Loch Leven trout is often disappointing.
Sometimes they escape down the burn into the river in floods;
sometimes, perhaps for lack of proper food and sufficient, they
dwindle terribly in size, and become no better than "brownies." In
St. Mary's Loch, in Selkirkshire, some Canadian trout were
introduced. Little or nothing has been seen of them, unless some
small creatures of a quarter of a pound, extraordinarily silvery,
and more often in the air than in the water when hooked, are these
children of the remote West. If they grew up, and retained their
beauty and sprightliness, they would be excellent substitutes for
sea-trout. Almost all experiments in stocking lochs have their
perils, except the simple experiment of putting trout where there
were no trout before. This can do no harm, and they may increase
in weight, let us hope not in wisdom, like the curiously heavy and
shy fish mentioned in the beginning of this paper.

LOCH LEVEN

I had a friend once, an angler, who in winter was fond of another
sport. He liked to cast his louis into the green baize pond at
Monte Carlo, and, on the whole, he was generally "broken." He
seldom landed the golden fish of the old man's dream in Theocritus.
When the croupier had gaffed all his money he would repent and say,
"Now, that would have kept me at Loch Leven for a fortnight." One
used to wonder whether a fortnight of Loch Leven was worth an
afternoon of the pleasure of losing at Monte Carlo. The loch has a
name for being cockneyfied, beset by whole fleets of competitive
anglers from various angling clubs in Scotland. That men should
competitively angle shows, indeed, a great want of true angling
sentiment. To fish in a crowd is odious, to work hard for prizes
of flasks and creels and fly-books is to mistake the true meaning
of the pastime. However, in this crowded age men are so
constituted that they like to turn a contemplative exercise into a
kind of Bank Holiday. There is no use in arguing with such
persons; the worst of their pleasure is that it tends to change a
Scotch loch into something like the pond of the Welsh Harp, at
Hendon. It is always good news to read in the papers how the
Dundee Walton Society had a bad day, and how the first prize was
won by Mr. Macneesh, with five trout weighing three pounds and
three quarters. Loch Leven, then, is crowded and cockneyfied by
competitions; it has also no great name for beauty of landscape.
Every one to his own taste in natural beauty, but in this respect I
think Loch Leven is better than its reputation. It is certainly
more pictorial, so to speak, than some remote moor lochs up near
Cape Wrath; Forsinard in particular, where the scenery looks like
one gigantic series of brown "baps," flat Scotch scones, all of low
elevation, all precisely similar to each other.

Loch Leven is not such a cockney place as the majority of men who
have not visited it imagine. It really is larger than the Welsh
Harp at Hendon, and the scenery, though not like that of Ben
Cruachan or Ben Mohr, excels the landscape of Middlesex. At the
northern end is a small town, grey, with some red roofs and one or
two characteristic Fifeshire church-towers, squat and strong.
There are also a few factory chimneys, which are not fair to
outward view, nor appropriate by a loch-side. On the west are
ranges of distant hills, low but not uncomely. On the east rises a
beautiful moorland steep with broken and graceful outlines. When
the sun shines on the red tilled land, in spring; when the smoke of
burning gorse coils up all day long into the sky, as if the Great
Spirit were taking his pipe of peace on the mountains; when the
islands are mirrored on the glassy water, then the artist rejoices,
though the angler knows that he will waste his day. As far as
fishing goes, he is bound to be "clean," as the boatmen say--to
catch nothing; but the solemn peace, and the walls and ruined
towers of Queen Mary's prison, may partially console the fisher.
The accommodation is agreeable, there is a pleasant inn--an old
town-house, perhaps, of some great family, when the great families
did not rush up to London, but spent their winters in such country
towns as Dumfries and St. Andrews. The inn has a great green
garden at its doors, and if the talk is mainly of fishing, and if
every one tells of his monster trout that escaped the net, there is
much worse conversation than that.

When you reach Kinross, and, after excellent ham and eggs, begin to
make a start, the cockney element is most visible at the first.
Everybody's name is registered in a book; each pays a considerable,
but not exorbitant, fee for the society--often well worth the
money--and the assistance of boatmen. These gentlemen are also
well provided with luncheon and beer, and, on the whole, there is
more pleasure in the life of a Loch Leven boatman than in most
arts, crafts, or professions. He takes the rod when his patron is
lazy; it is said that he often catches the trout; {1} he sees a
good deal of good company, and, if his basket be heavy, who so
content as he? The first thing is to row out to a good bay, and
which will prove a good bay depends on the strength and direction
of the wind. Perhaps the best fishing is farthest off, at the end
of a long row, but the best scenery is not so distant. A good deal
hangs on an early start when there are many boats out.

Loch Leven is a rather shallow loch, seldom much over fifteen feet
deep, save where a long narrow rent or geological flaw runs through
the bottom. The water is of a queer glaucous green, olive-
coloured, or rather like the tint made when you wash out a box of
water-colour paints. This is not so pretty as the black wave of
Loch Awe or Loch Shin, but has a redeeming quality in the richness
of the feeding for trout. These are fabled to average about a
pound, but are probably a trifle under that weight, on the whole.
They are famous, and, according to Sir Walter Scott, were famous as
long ago as in Queen Mary's time, for the bright silver of their
sides, for their pink flesh, and gameness when hooked. Theorists
have explained all this by saying that they are the descendants of
land-locked salmon. The flies used on the loch are smaller than
those favoured in the Highlands; they are sold attached to casts,
and four flies are actually employed at once. Probably two are
quite enough at a time. If a veteran trout is attracted by seeing
four flies, all of different species, and these like nothing in
nature, all conspiring to descend on him at once, he must be less
cautious than we generally find him. The Hampshire angler, of
course, will sneer at the whole proceeding, the "chucking and
chancing it," in the queer-coloured wave, and the use of so many
fanciful entomological specimens. But the Hampshire angler is very
welcome to try his arts, in a calm, and his natural-looking cocked-
up flies. He will probably be defeated by a grocer from Greenock,
sinking his four flies very deep, as is, by some experts,
recommended. The trout are capricious, perhaps as capricious as
any known to the angler, but they are believed to prefer a strong
east wind and a dark day. The east wind is nowhere, perhaps, so
bad as people fancy; it is certainly not so bad as the north wind,
and on Loch Leven it is the favourite. The man who is lucky enough
to hit on the right day, and to land a couple of dozen Loch Leven
trout, has very good reason to congratulate himself, and need envy
nobody. But such days and such takes are rare, and the summer of
1890 was much more unfortunate than that of 1889.

One great mistake is made by the company which farms the Loch,
stocks it, supplies the boats, and regulates the fishing. They
permit trolling with angels, or phantoms, or the natural minnow.
Now, trolling may be comparatively legitimate, when the boat is
being pulled against the wind to its drift, but there is no more
skill in it than in sitting in an omnibus. But for trolling, many
a boat would come home "clean" in the evening, on days of calm, or
when, for other reasons of their own, the trout refuse to take the
artificial fly. Yet there are men at Loch Leven who troll all day,
and poor sport it must be, as a trout of a pound or so has no
chance on a trolling-rod. This method is inimical to fly-fishing,
but is such a consolation to the inefficient angler that one can
hardly expect to see it abolished. The unsuccessful clamour for
trolling, instead of consoling themselves, as sportsmen should do,
with the conversation of the gillies, their anecdotes of great
trout, and their reminiscences of great anglers, especially of the
late Mr. Russell, the famed editor of the "Scotsman." This
humourist is gradually "winning his way to the mythical." All
fishing stories are attached to him; his eloquence is said (in the
language of the historian of the Buccaneers) to have been "florid";
he is reported to have thrown his fly-book into Loch Leven on an
unlucky day, saying, "You brutes, take your choice," and a rock,
which he once hooked and held on to, is named after him, on the
Tweed. In addition to the humane and varied conversation of the
boatmen, there is always the pure pleasure of simply gazing at the
hillsides and at the islands. They are as much associated with the
memory of Mary Stuart as Hermitage or even Holyrood. On that
island was her prison; here the rude Morton tried to bully her into
signing away her rights; hence she may often have watched the shore
at night for the lighting of a beacon, a sign that a rescue was at
hand.

The hills, at least, are much as she may have seen them, and the
square towers and crumbling walls on the island met her eyes when
they were all too strong. The "quay" is no longer "rude," as when
"The Abbot" was written, and is crowded with the green boats of the
Loch Leven Company. But you still land on her island under "the
huge old tree" which Scott saw, which the unhappy Mary may herself
have seen. The small garden and the statues are gone, the garden
whence Roland Graeme led Mary to the boat and to brief liberty and
hope unfulfilled. Only a kind of ground-plan remains of the halls
where Lindesay and Ruthven browbeat her forlorn Majesty. But you
may climb the staircase where Roland Graeme stood sentinel, and
feel a touch, of what Pepys felt when he kissed a dead Queen--
Katherine of Valois. Like Roland Graeme, the Queen may have been
"wearied to death of this Castle of Loch Leven," where, in spring,
all seems so beautiful, the trees budding freshly above the yellow
celandine and among the grey prison walls. It was a kindlier
prison house than Fotheringay, and minds peaceful and contented
would gladly have taken "this for a hermitage."

The Roman Emperors used to banish too powerful subjects to the
lovely isles that lie like lilies on the AEgean. Plutarch tried to
console these exiles, by showing them how fortunate they were, far
from the bustle of the Forum, the vices, the tortures, the noise
and smoke of Rome, happy, if they chose, in their gardens, with the
blue waters breaking on the rocks, and, as he is careful to add,
WITH PLENTY OF FISHING. Mr. Mahaffy calls this "rhetorical
consolation," and the exiles may have been of his mind. But the
exiles would have been wise to listen to Plutarch, and, had I
enjoyed the luck of Mary Stuart, when Loch Leven was not
overfished, when the trout were uneducated, never would I have
plunged into politics again. She might have been very happy, with
Ronsard's latest poems, with Italian romances, with a boat on the
loch, and some Rizzio to sing to her on the still summer days.
From her Castle she would hear how the politicians were squabbling,
lying, raising a man to divinity and stoning him next day, cutting
each other's heads off, swearing and forswearing themselves,
conspiring and caballing. Suave mari, and the peace of Loch Leven
and the island hermitage would have been the sweeter for the din
outside. A woman, a Queen, a Stuart, could not attain, and perhaps
ought not to have attained, this epicureanism. Mary Stuart had her
chance, and missed it; perhaps, after all, her shrewish female
gaoler made the passionless life impossible.

These, at Loch Leven, are natural reflections. The place has a
charm of its own, especially if you make up your mind not to be
disappointed, not to troll, and not to envy the more fortunate
anglers who shout to you the number of their victories across the
wave. Even at Loch Leven we may be contemplative, may be quiet,
and go a-fishing. {2}

THE BLOODY DOCTOR

(A BAD DAY ON CLEARBURN)

Thou askest me, my brother, how first and where I met the Bloody
Doctor? The tale is weird, so weird that to a soul less proved
than thine I scarce dare speak of the adventure.

This, perhaps, would be the right way of beginning a story (not
that it is a story exactly), with the title forced on me by the
name and nature of the hero. But I do not think I could keep up
the style without a lady-collaborator; besides, I have used the
term "weird" twice already, and thus played away the trumps of
modern picturesque diction. To return to our Doctor: many a bad
day have I had on Clearburn Loch, and never a good one. But one
thing draws me always to the loch when I have the luck to be within
twenty miles of it. There are trout in Clearburn! The Border
angler knows that the trout in his native waters is nearly as
extinct as the dodo. Many causes have combined to extirpate the
shy and spirited fish. First, there are too many anglers:

Twixt Holy Lee and Clovenfords,
A tentier bit ye canna hae,

sang that good old angler, now with God, Mr. Thomas Tod Stoddart.
But between Holy Lee and Clovenfords you may see half a dozen rods
on every pool and stream. There goes that leviathan, the angler
from London, who has been beguiled hither by the artless "Guide" of
Mr. Watson Lyall. There fishes the farmer's lad, and the
schoolmaster, and the wandering weaver out of work or disinclined
to work. In his rags, with his thin face and red "goatee" beard,
with his hazel wand and his home-made reel, there is withal
something kindly about this poor fellow, this true sportsman. He
loves better to hear the lark sing than the mouse cheep; he wanders
from depopulated stream to depopulated burn, and all is fish that
comes to his fly. Fingerlings he keeps, and does not return to the
water "as pitying their youth." Let us not grudge him his sport as
long as he fishes fair, and he is always good company. But he,
with all the other countless fishermen, make fish so rare and so
wary that, except after a flood in Meggat or the Douglas burn,
trout are scarce to be taken by ordinary skill. As for

Thae reiving cheils
Frae Galashiels,

who use nets, and salmon roe, and poisons, and dynamite, they are
miscreants indeed; they spoil the sport, not of the rich, but of
their own class, and of every man who would be quiet, and go
angling in the sacred streams of Christopher North and the
Shepherd. The mills, with their dyes and dirt, are also
responsible for the dearth of trout.

Untainted yet thy stream, fair Teviot, runs,

Leyden sang; but now the stream is very much tainted indeed below
Hawick, like Tweed in too many places. Thus, for a dozen reasons,
trout are nigh as rare as red deer. Clearburn alone remains full
of unsophisticated fishes, and I have the less hesitation in
revealing this, because I do not expect the wanderer who may read
this page to be at all more successful than myself. No doubt they
are sometimes to be had, by the basketful, but not often, nor by
him who thinks twice before risking his life by smothering in a
peaty bottom.

To reach Clearburn Loch, if you start from the Teviot, you must
pass through much of Scott's country and most of Leyden's. I am
credibly informed that persons of culture have forgotten John
Leyden. He was a linguist and a poet, and the friend of Walter
Scott, and knew

The mind whose fearless frankness naught could move,
The friendship, like an elder brother's love.

We remember what distant and what deadly shore has Leyden's cold
remains, and people who do not know may not care to be reminded.

Leaving Teviot, with Leyden for a guide, you walk, or drive,

Where Bortha hoarse, that loads the meads with sand,
Rolls her red tide.

Not that it was red when we passed, but electro purior.

Through slaty hills whose sides are shagged with thorn,
Where springs, in scattered tufts, the dark green corn,
Towers wood-girt Harden far above the vale.

And very dark green, almost blue, was the corn in September, 1888.
Upwards, always upwards, goes the road till you reach the crest,
and watch far below the wide champaign, like a sea, broken by the
shapes of hills, Windburg and Eildon, and Priesthaughswire, and
"the rough skirts of stormy Ruberslaw," and Penchrise, and the twin
Maidens, shaped like the breasts of Helen. It is an old land, of
war, of Otterburn, and Ancrum, and the Raid of the Fair Dodhead;
but the plough has passed over all but the upper pastoral
solitudes. Turning again to the downward slope you see the loch of
Alemoor, small and sullen, with Alewater feeding it. Nobody knows
much about the trout in it. "It is reckoned the residence of the
water-cow," a monster like the Australian bunyip. There was a
water-cow in Scott's loch of Cauldshiels, above Abbotsford. The
water-cow has not lately emerged from Alemoor to attack the casual
angler. You climb again by gentle slopes till you reach a most
desolate table-land. Far beyond it is the round top of Whitecombe,
which again looks down on St. Mary's Loch, and up the Moffat, and
across the Meggat Water; but none of these are within the view.
Round are pastorum loca vasta, lands of Buccleugh and Bellenden,
Deloraine, Sinton, Headshaw, and Glack. Deloraine, by the way, is
pronounced "Delorran," and perhaps is named from Orran, the Celtic
saint. On the right lies, not far from the road, a grey sheet of
water, and this is Clearburn, where first I met the Doctor.

The loch, to be plain, is almost unfishable. It is nearly round,
and everywhere, except in a small segment on the eastern side, is
begirt with reeds of great height. These reeds, again, grow in a
peculiarly uncomfortable, quaggy bottom, which rises and falls, or
rather which jumps and sinks when you step on it, like the seat of
a very luxurious arm-chair. Moreover, the bottom is pierced with
many springs, wherein if you set foot you shall have thrown your
last cast.

By watching the loch when it is frozen, a man might come to learn
something of the springs; but, even so, it is hard to keep clear of
them in summer. Now the wind almost always blows from the west,
dead against the little piece of gravelly shore at the eastern
side, so that casting against it is hard work and unprofitable. On
this day, by a rare chance, the wind blew from the east, though the
sky at first was a brilliant blue, and the sun hot and fierce. I
walked round to the east side, waded in, and caught two or three
small fellows. It was slow work, when suddenly there began the
greatest rise of trout I ever saw in my life. From the edge of the
loch as far as one could clearly see across it there was that
endless plashing murmur, of all sounds in this world the sweetest
to the ear. Within the view of the eye, on each cast, there were a
dozen trout rising all about, never leaping, but seriously and
solemnly feeding. Now is my chance at last, I fancied; but it was
not so--far from it. I might throw over the very noses of the
beasts, but they seldom even glanced at the (artificial) fly. I
tried them with Greenwell's Glory, with a March brown, with "the
woodcock wing and hare-lug," but it was almost to no purpose. If
one did raise a fish, he meant not business--all but "a casual
brute," which broke the already weakened part of a small "glued-up"
cane rod. I had to twist a piece of paper round the broken end,
wet it, and push it into the joint, where it hung on somehow, but
was not pleasant to cast with. From twelve to half-past one the
gorging went merrily forward, and I saw what the fish were rising
at. The whole surface of the loch, at least on the east side, was
absolutely peppered with large, hideous insects. They had big
grey-white wings, bodies black as night, and brilliant crimson
legs, or feelers, or whatever naturalists call them. The trout
seemed as if they could not have too much of these abominable
wretches, and the flies were blown across the loch, not singly, but
in populous groups. I had never seen anything like them in any
hook-book, nor could I deceive the trout by the primitive dodge of
tying a red thread round the shank of a dark fly. So I waded out,
and fell to munching a frugal sandwich and watching Nature, not
without a cigarette.

Now Nature is all very well. I have nothing to say against her of
a Sunday, or when trout are not rising. But she was no comfort to
me now. Smiling she gazed on my discomfiture. The lovely lines of
the hills, curving about the loch, and with their deepest dip just
opposite where I sat, were all of a golden autumn brown, except in
the violet distance. The grass of Parnassus grew thick and white
around me, with its moonlight tint of green in the veins. On a
hillside by a brook the countryfolk were winning their hay, and
their voices reached me softly from far off. On the loch the
marsh-fowl flashed and dipped, the wild ducks played and dived and
rose; first circling high and higher, then, marshalled in the shape
of a V, they made for Alemoor. A solitary heron came quite near
me, and tried his chance with the fish, but I think he had no luck.
All this is pleasant to remember, and I made rude sketches in the
fly-leaves of a copy of Hogg's poems, where I kept my flies. But
what joy was there in this while the "take" grew fainter and ceased
at least near the shore? Out in the middle, where few flies
managed to float, the trout were at it till dark. But near shore
there was just one trout who never stopped gorging all day. He
lived exactly opposite the nick in the distant hills, and exactly a
yard farther out than I could throw a fly. He was a big one, and I
am inclined to think that he was the Devil. For, if I had stepped
in deeper, and the water had come over my wading boots, the odds
are that my frail days on earth would have been ended by a chill,
and I knew this, and yet that fish went on tempting me to my ruin.
I suppose I tried to reach him a dozen times, and cast a hundred,
but it was to no avail. At length, as the afternoon grew grey and
chill, I pitched a rock at him, by way of showing that I saw
through his fiendish guile, and I walked away.

There was no rise now, and the lake was leaden and gloomy. When I
reached the edge of the deep reeds I tried, once or twice, to wade
through them within casting distance of the water, but was always
driven off by the traitorous quagginess of the soil. At last,
taking my courage in both hands, I actually got so near that I
could throw a fly over the top of the tall reeds, and then came a
heavy splash, and the wretched little broken rod nearly doubled up.
"Hooray, here I am among the big ones!" I said, and held on. It
was now that I learned the nature of Nero's diversion when he was
an angler in the Lake of Darkness. The loch really did deserve the
term "grim"; the water here was black, the sky was ashen, the long
green reeds closed cold about me, and beyond them there was trout
that I could not deal with. For when he tired of running, which
was soon, he was as far away as ever. Draw him through the forest
of reeds I could not. At last I did the fatal thing. I took hold
of the line, and then, "plop," as the poet said. He was off. A
young sportsman on the bank who had joined me expressed his artless
disappointment. I cast over the confounded reeds once more.
"Splash!"--the old story! I stuck to the fish, and got him into
the watery wood, and then he went where the lost trout go. No more
came on, so I floundered a yard or two farther, and climbed into a
wild-fowl's nest, a kind of platform of matted reeds, all yellow
and faded. The nest immediately sank down deep into the water, but
it stopped somewhere, and I made a cast. The black water boiled,
and the trout went straight down and sulked. I merely held on,
till at last it seemed "time for us to go," and by cautious tugging
I got him through the reedy jungle, and "gruppit him," as the
Shepherd would have said. He was simply but decently wrapped
round, from snout to tail, in very fine water-weeds, as in a
garment. Moreover, he was as black as your hat, quite unlike the
comely yellow trout who live on the gravel in Clearburn. It hardly
seemed sensible to get drowned in this gruesome kind of angling,
so, leaving the Lake of Darkness, we made for Buccleugh, passing
the cleugh where the buck was ta'en. Surely it is the deepest, the
steepest, and the greenest cleugh that is shone on by the sun!
Thereby we met an angler, an ancient man in hodden grey, strolling
home from the Rankle burn. And we told him of our bad day, and
asked him concerning that hideous fly, which had covered the loch
and lured the trout from our decent Greenwells and March browns.
And the ancient man listened to our description of the monster, and
He said: "Hoot, ay; ye've jest forgathered wi' the Bloody Doctor."

This, it appears, is the Border angler's name for the horrible
insect, so much appreciated by trout. So we drove home, when all
the great table-land was touched with yellow light from a rift in
the west, and all the broken hills looked blue against the silvery
grey. God bless them! for man cannot spoil them, nor any
revolution shape them other than they are. We see them as the folk
from Flodden saw them, as Leyden knew them, as they looked to
William of Deloraine, as they showed in the eyes of Wat of Harden
and of Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead. They have always girdled
a land of warriors and of people fond of song, from the oldest
ballad-maker to that Scotch Probationer who wrote,

Lay me here, where I may see
Teviot round his meadows flowing,
And about and over me
Winds and clouds for ever going.

It was dark before we splashed through the ford of Borthwick Water,
and dined, and wrote to Mr. Anderson of Princes Street, Edinburgh,
for a supply of Bloody Doctors. But we never had a chance to try
them. I have since fished Clearburn from a boat, but it was not a
day of rising fish, and no big ones came to the landing-net. There
are plenty in the loch, but you need not make the weary journey;
they are not for you nor me.

THE LADY OR THE SALMON?

The circumstances which attended and caused the death of the Hon.
Houghton Grannom have not long been known to me, and it is only now
that, by the decease of his father, Lord Whitchurch, and the
extinction of his noble family, I am permitted to divulge the
facts. That the true tale of my unhappy friend will touch
different chords in different breasts, I am well aware. The
sportsman, I think, will hesitate to approve him; the fair, I hope,
will absolve. Who are we, to scrutinise human motives, and to
award our blame to actions which, perhaps, might have been our own,
had opportunity beset and temptation beguiled us? There is a
certain point at which the keenest sense of honour, the most
chivalrous affection and devotion, cannot bear the strain, but
break like a salmon line under a masterful stress. That my friend
succumbed, I admit; that he was his own judge, the severest, and
passed and executed sentence on himself, I have now to show.

I shall never forget the shock with which I read in the "Scotsman,"
under "Angling," the following paragraph:

"Tweed.--Strange Death of an Angler.--An unfortunate event has cast
a gloom over fishers in this district. As Mr. K-, the keeper on
the B- water, was busy angling yesterday, his attention was caught
by some object floating on the stream. He cast his flies over it,
and landed a soft felt hat, the ribbon stuck full of salmon-flies.
Mr. K- at once hurried up-stream, filled with the most lively
apprehensions. These were soon justified. In a shallow, below the
narrow, deep and dangerous rapids called "The Trows," Mr. K- saw a
salmon leaping in a very curious manner. On a closer examination,
he found that the fish was attached to a line. About seventy yards
higher he found, in shallow water, the body of a man, the hand
still grasping in death the butt of the rod, to which the salmon
was fast, all the line being run out. Mr. K- at once rushed into
the stream, and dragged out the body, in which he recognised with
horror the Hon. Houghton Grannom, to whom the water was lately let.
Life had been for some minutes extinct, and though Mr. K- instantly
hurried for Dr. -, that gentleman could only attest the melancholy
fact. The wading in "The Trows" is extremely dangerous and
difficult, and Mr. Grannom, who was fond of fishing without an
attendant, must have lost his balance, slipped, and been dragged
down by the weight of his waders. The recent breaking off of the
hon. gentleman's contemplated marriage on the very wedding-day will
be fresh in the memory of our readers."

This was the story which I read in the newspaper during breakfast
one morning in November. I was deeply grieved, rather than
astonished, for I have often remonstrated with poor Grannom on the
recklessness of his wading. It was with some surprise that I
received, in the course of the day, a letter from him, in which he
spoke only of indifferent matters, of the fishing which he had
taken, and so forth. The letter was accompanied, however, by a
parcel. Tearing off the outer cover, I found a sealed document
addressed to me, with the superscription, "Not to be opened until
after my father's decease." This injunction, of course, I have
scrupulously obeyed. The death of Lord Whitchurch, the last of the
Grannoms, now gives me liberty to publish my friend's Apologia pro

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