sides—­when a hook breaks at such a moment, it is very hard to bear.  The oath of Ernulphus seems all too weak to express the feelings of the sportsman and his wrath against the wretched tackle-maker.  Again, when the fish is actually conquered; when he is being towed gently into some little harbour among the tall slim water-grasses, or into a pebbly cove, or up to a green bank; when the bitterness of struggle is past, and he seems resigned and almost happy; when at this crisis the clumsy gilly with the gaff scratches him, rouses him to a last exertion, and entangles the line, so that the salmon breaks free—­that is an experience to which language cannot do justice.  The ancient painter drew his veil over the face of Agamemnon present at his daughter’s sacrifice.  Silence and sympathy are all one can offer to the angler who has toiled all day, and in this wise caught nothing.  There is yet another very bitter sorrow.  It is a hard thing for a man to leave town and hurry to a river in the west, a river that perhaps he has known since he fished for minnows with a bent pin in happy childhood.  The west is not a dry land; effeminate tourists complain that the rain it raineth every day.  But the heavy soft rain is the very life of an angler.  It keeps the stream of that clear brown hue, between porter and amber, which he loves; and it encourages the salmon to keep rushing from the estuary and the sea right up to the mountain loch, where they rest.  But suppose there is a dry summer—­and such things have been even in Argyleshire.  The heart of the tourist is glad within him, but as the river shrinks and shrinks, a silver thread among slimy green mosses in the streams, a sheet of clear water in the pools, the angler repines.  Day after sultry day goes by, and there is no hope.  There is a cloud on the distant hill; it is only the smoke from some moor that has caught fire.  The river grows so transparent that it is easy to watch the lazy fish sulking at the bottom.  Then comes a terrible temptation.  Men, men calling themselves sportsmen, have been known to fish in the innocent dewy morning, with worm, with black lob worm.  Worse remains behind.  Persons of ungoverned passions, maddened by the sight of the fish, are believed to have poached with rake-hooks, a cruel apparatus made of three hooks fastened back to back and loaded with lead.  These are thrown over the fish, and then struck into him with a jerk.  But the mind willingly turns away from the contemplation of such actions.

It is pleasanter to think of not unsuccessful days by lowland or highland streams, when the sun was veiled, the sky pearly grey, the water, as the people say, in grand order.  There is the artistic excitement of choosing the hook, gaudy for a heavy water, neat and modest for a clearer stream.  There is the feverish moment of adjusting rod and line, while you mark a fish “rising to himself.”  You begin to cast well above him, and come gradually down, till the fly lights on the place where he is