umn colour in the tufted woods that embosom
Fernilea. "Bother the setting sun," we say, and the Maid of Neidpath,
and the "Flowers of the Forest," and the memories of Scott at Ashiesteil,
and of Muckle Mou'd Meg, at Elibank. These are filmy, shadowy pleasures
of the fancy, these cannot minister to the mind of him who has been
"broken" twice, who cannot resume the contest for want of ammunition, and
who has not even brought the creature-comfort of a flask. Since that
woful day I have lain on the bank and watched excellent anglers skilfully
flogging the best of water, and that water full of fish, without hooking
one. Salmon-fishing, then, is a matter of chance, or of plodding
patience. They will rise on one day at almost any fly (but the
sniggler), however ill-presented to them. On a dozen other days no fly
and no skill will avail to tempt them. The salmon is a brainless brute
and the grapes are sour!

If only the gut had held, this sketch would have ended with sentiment,
and a sunset, and the music of Ettrick, the melody of Tweed. In the
gloaming we'd be roaming homeward, telling, perhaps, the story of the
ghost seen by Sir Walter Scott near Ashiesteil, or discussing the Roman
treasure still buried near Oakwood Tower, under an inscribed stone which
men saw fifty years ago. Or was it a treasure of Michael Scott's, who
lived at Oakwood, says tradition? Let Harden dig for Harden's gear, it
is not for me to give hints as to its whereabouts. After all that ill-
luck, to be brief, one is not in the vein for legendary lore, nor
memories of boyhood, nor poetry, nor sunsets. I do not believe that one
ever thinks of the landscape or of anything else, while there is a chance
for a fish, and no abundance of local romance can atone for an empty
creel. Poetical fishers try to make people believe these fallacies;
perhaps they impose on themselves; but if one would really enjoy
landscape, one should leave, not only the fly-book and the landing-net,
but the rod and reel at home. And so farewell to the dearest and fairest
of all rivers that go on earth, fairer than Eurotas or Sicilian Anapus
with its sea-trout; farewell--for who knows how long?--to the red-fringed
Gleddis-wheel, the rock of the Righ-wheel, the rushing foam of the
Gullets, the woodland banks of Caddon-foot.

The valleys of England are wide,
Her rivers rejoice every one,
In grace and in beauty they glide,
And water-flowers float at their side,