Enter ANGLUS
Anglus.—Now to creep like your Indian of Virginia on the prey,
and angle for George. I’faith, he is a lusty trout; many
a good Wickham have I lost in George.
[He ensconces himself in the middle of a thorn bush.
Anglus.—There he is, I mark his big back fin. Now speed
me, St. Peter, patron of all honest anglers! But first to dry
my fly!
[He flicks his fly for ten minutes. Enter BOY on Bridge.
ANGLUS makes his cast, too short. BOY heaves a great stone from
the Bridge. Exit GEORGE. Exit BOY.
Anglus.—Oh, Mass! verily the angler had need of patience!
Yonder boy hath spoiled my sport, and were it not that swearing frights
the fish, I could find it in my heart to say an oath or twain.
But, ha, here come the swallows, hawking low on the stream. Now,
were but my Scholar here, I could impart to him much honest lore concerning
the swallow, and other birds. But where she hawks, there fly must
be, and fish will rise, and, look you, I do mark the trout feeding in
yonder ford below the plank bridge.
[ANGLUS steals off, and gingerly takes up his position.
Anglus.—Marry, that is a good trout under the burdock!
[He is caught up in the burdock, and breaks his tackle.
Anglus.—Now to knot a fresh cast. Marry, but they are
feeding gaily! How kindly is the angler’s life; he harmeth
no fish that swims, yet the Spectator deemeth ours a cruel sport.
Ah, good Master Townsend and learned Master Hutton, little ye wot of
our country contents. So, I am ready again, and this Whitchurch
dun will beguile yonder fish, I doubt not. Marry, how thick the
flies come, and how the fish do revel in this merciful provender that
Heaven sendeth! Verily I know not at which of these great fellows
to make my essay.
[Enter twenty-four callow young ducks, swimming up stream.
The ducks chevy the flies, taking them out of the very mouths of the
trout.
Anglus.—Oh, mercy. I have hooked a young duck!
Where is my landing-net? Nay, I have left it under yonder elm!
[He struggles with the young duck. By the conclusion of the
fray the Rise is over.
Anglus.—I have saved my fly, but lo, the trout have ceased
to feed, and will rise no more till after sunset. Well, “a
merry heart goes all the way!” And lo, here comes my Scholar.
Ho, runaway, how have you sped?
Scotus.—Not ill. Here be my spoils, great ones; but how
faint-hearted are your southern trout!
Anglus.—That fat fellow is a good three pounds by the scales.
But, Scholar, with what fly caught ye these, and where?
Scotus.—Marry, Master, in a Mill-tail, where the water lagged
not, but ran free as it doth in bonny Scotland; nor with no fly did
I grip him, but with an artificial penk, or minnow. It was made
by a handsome woman that had a fine hand, and wrought for Master Brown,
of Aberdeen. The mould, or body of the minnow, is of parchment,
methinks, and he hath fins of copper, all so curiously dissembled that
it will beguile any sharp-sighted trout in a swift stream. Men
call it a Phantom, Master; wilt thou not try my Phantom?
Anglus.—Begone, sirrah. I took thee for an angler, and
thou art but a poaching knave!
Scotus.—Knave thyself! I will break thy head!
Anglus.—Softly, Scholar. Here comes good Master Hedgely,
who will see fair play. Now lie there, my coat, and have at you!
[They fight, SCOTUS is knocked down.
Anglus.—Half-minute time! Time is up! Master Hedgely,
in my dry fly box thou wilt find a little sponge for moistening of my
casting lines. Wilt thou, of thy courtesy, throw it up for my
Scholar? And now, Scholar, trust me, thy guard is too low.
I hope thou bearest no malice.
Scotus.—None, Master. But, lo! I am an hungered;
wilt thou taste my cates? Here I have bread slices and marmalade
of Dundee. This fishing is marvellous hungry work.
Anglus.—Gladly will I fall to, but first say me a grace—Benedictus
benedicat! Where is thine usquebaugh? Marry, ’tis
the right Talisker!
Scotus.—And now, Master, wherefore wert thou wroth with me?
Came we not forth to catch fish?
Anglus.—Nay, marry, Scholar, by no means to catch fish, but
to fish with the dry fly. Now this, humanly speaking, is impossible;
natheless it is rare sport. But for your fish, as they were ill
come by, let us even give them to good Master Hedgely here, and so be
merry till the sedges come on in the late twilight. And, trust
me, this is the rarest fishing, and the peacefulest; only see that thou
fish not with the wet fly, for that is Anathema. So shall we have
light consciences.
Scotus.—And light baskets!
Anglus.—Ay, it may be so.
