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