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Page 22
As for me, I had a delightful time of it; I caught no fish, to be
sure: but what of that? I COULD have caught fish had I so
desired, but, as I have already intimated to you and as I have
always maintained and always shall, the mere catching of fish is
the least of the many enjoyments comprehended in the broad,
gracious art of angling.
Even my bookseller was compelled to admit ultimately that I was a
worthy disciple of Walton, for when we had returned to the club
house and had partaken of our supper I regaled the company with
many a cheery tale and merry song which I had gathered from my
books. Indeed, before I returned to the city I was elected an
honorary member of the club by acclamation--not for the number
of fish I had expiscated (for I did not catch one), but for that
mastery of the science of angling and the literature and the
traditions and the religion and the philosophy thereof which, by
the grace of the companionship of books, I had achieved.
It is said that, with his feet over the fender, Macaulay could
discourse learnedly of French poetry, art, and philosophy. Yet
he never visited Paris that he did not experience the most
exasperating difficulties in making himself understood by the
French customs officers.
In like manner I am a fender-fisherman. With my shins toasting
before a roaring fire, and with Judge Methuen at my side, I love
to exploit the joys and the glories of angling. The Judge is ``a
brother of the angle,'' as all will allow who have heard him tell
Father Prout's story of the bishop and the turbots or heard him
sing--
With angle rod and lightsome heart,
Our conscience clear, we gay depart
To pebbly brooks and purling streams,
And ne'er a care to vex our dreams.
And how could the lot of the fender-fisherman be happier? No
colds, quinsies or asthmas follow his incursions into the realms
of fancy where in cool streams and peaceful lakes a legion of
chubs and trouts and sawmon await him; in fancy he can hie away
to the far-off Yalrow and once more share the benefits of the
companionship of Kit North, the Shepherd, and that noble
Edinburgh band; in fancy he can trudge the banks of the
Blackwater with the sage of Watergrasshill; in fancy he can hear
the music of the Tyne and feel the wind sweep cool and fresh o'er
Coquetdale; in fancy, too, he knows the friendships which only he
can know--the friendships of the immortals whose spirits hover
where human love and sympathy attract them.
How well I love ye, O my precious books--my Prout, my Wilson, my
Phillips, my Berners, my Doubleday, my Roxby, my Chatto, my
Thompson, my Crawhall! For ye are full of joyousness and cheer,
and your songs uplift me and make me young and strong again.
And thou, homely little brown thing with worn leaves, yet more
precious to me than all jewels of the earth--come, let me take
thee from thy shelf and hold thee lovingly in my hands and press
thee tenderly to this aged and slow-pulsing heart of mine! Dost
thou remember how I found thee half a century ago all tumbled in
a lot of paltry trash? Did I not joyously possess thee for a
sixpence, and have I not cherished thee full sweetly all these
years? My Walton, soon must we part forever; when I am gone say
unto him who next shall have thee to his own that with his latest
breath an old man blessed thee!
VIII
BALLADS AND THEIR MAKERS
One of the most interesting spots in all London to me is Bunhill
Fields cemetery, for herein are the graves of many whose memory I
revere. I had heard that Joseph Ritson was buried here, and
while my sister, Miss Susan, lingered at the grave of her
favorite poet, I took occasion to spy around among the tombstones
in the hope of discovering the last resting-place of the curious
old antiquary whose labors in the field of balladry have placed
me under so great a debt of gratitude to him.
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