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f  *  *  t 

GENERAl 
LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY    Of 
CALIFORNIA 


THE   SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


The  Salt  of  My  Life 


By 

F.   G.  AFLALO 

|| 
F.   Z.   S. 

EDITOR  OF  THE  "ENCYCLOPAEDIA  OF  SPORT 


LONDON:  SIR  ISAAC  PITMAN  AND  SONS,  LTD., 
No.  1  AMEN  CORNER,  E.C.  1905 


7 


PRINTED    BY 

SIR  ISAAC   PITMAN   &  SONS,  LTD., 
BATH. 

(2272) 


THREE   QUOTATIONS 

I.  "Op  such  mighty  importance  every  man  is  to  himself, 
and  ready  to  think  he  is  so  to  others,  without  once  making 
this  easy  and  obvious  reflection,  that  his  affairs  can  have  no 
more  weight  with  other  men  than  theirs  have  with  him  ;  and 
how  little  that  is,  he  is  sensible  enough." 

Swift  :    Hints  Towards  an  Essay  on  Conversation. 


II.  "  Keep  to  the  personal  note  throughout  the  book.  .  . 
Extract  from  Publishers'  Letter  to  the  Author. 


III.  "  He  who  pays  the  piper  calls  the  tune." 

Old  Saying. 


M844768 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

SPEAKING    GENERALLY 

APOLOGIES  for  Sport — Otter-hunting — Cost  of  Sport- 
Coarse  Fishing — Sport  and  Food — Popularity  of  Sea-fishing — 
Angling  Competitions— -Critics  of  Sea-fishing — Cases  where 
no  Skill  is  Required — Ways  of  Catching  a  Bass — Danger  and 
Discomfort — Sea-fishing  in  Winter — Night-fishing — Sea-sick- 
ness— Pier-fishing — South  Coast  as  Good  as  Anywhere  Abroad 
—The  Lessons  of  Failure  . .  . .  . .  . .  . .  p.  1 


CHAPTER  II 

EARLY   MEMORIES 

Lowestoft  in  1880 — Bournemouth  Pier,  1881 — Hastings  in 
the  Eighties — Pout-fishing  in  Sussex  and  Cornwall — Original- 
ity sometimes  the  Secret  of  Success — Pier  Crowds — A  Conger 
caught  and  a  Bass  Lost — Sport  with  a  Stingray  off  Adelaide — 
Rambles  among  the  Rocks — Digging  Lugworms  for  Bait — 
The  Unregenerate  Use  of  "  Night-hooks  "  —The  Aboriginals 
of  East  Sussex — Small  Game  at  Bognor — Wrasse  instead  of 
Mullet — Littlehampton — Imaginary  Bass  in  the  Arun — 
Fishing  in  Canals — Modern  Development  of  Bournemouth — A 
Good  Bag — Trouble  with  the  Steamers — Rocks  in  Bourne- 
mouth Bay — Dogfish — Pollack — Kent — Ramsgate  and  a 
Failure — Deal  and  Its  Competitions — The  Admiralty  Pier  and 
Other  Spots  at  Dover — Changes  at  that  Port — Early  History 
of  the  British  Sea  Anglers'  Society.  .  .  . .  .  .  p.  31 

vii 


Vlll  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  III 

BY   TIDELESS    SEAS 

Two  Memories — Warnemiinde  and  Leghorn — A  Deserted 
Pier — River  and  Sea  Together — A  German  University — Ros- 
tock— The  Warnow — Tyranny  of  Professional  Fishermen — 
An  Expedition  after  Pike — Fellow  Students — The  Season  at 
a  Baltic  Watering  Place — Easy  Fishing — A  Fillet  of  Bream — 
A  Fight  with  an  Octopus — Grey  Mullet  at  Last — A  Night 
with  Dynamite  Bombs — A  Private  Mullet  Stew — Mr.  Sher- 
ingham's  Bridge-fever — Spearing  Muraenas  by  Torchlight — 
A  Stroke  of  Luck  at  Naples  . .  . .  . .  . .  p.  63 

CHAPTER  IV 

POLLACK   AND    PILCHARDS 

The  Charm  of  Mevagissey — The  Realm  of  the  Pilchard- 
Hard  Work  of  the  Fishermen — Our  Bag  in  1894 — A  Burning 
Village — The  Late  Matthias  Dunn — Other  Cornish  Resorts — 
A  Day's  Pollack-fishing  at  Mevagissey — Catching  a  Shark— 
A  Lost  Anchor  and  a  Dead  Calm — Mixed  Fishing  nearer 
Shore — Catching  Squid — A  Night's  Congering — Harold 
Frederic  . .  , .  . .  . .  .  .  . .  p.  87 

CHAPTER  V 

SCHNAPPER   AND    BLACK    BREAM 

Difference  of  Surroundings — Little  Freshwater  Fishing  in 
Australia — Sydney  Harbour — An  Outing  after  Schnapper— 
Fishing  in  Broken  Bay — Fallen  Among  Sharks — Schnapper 
and  Sundries — Rods  Unsuitable — Losing  a  Big  Fish — Bright 
Colouring  of  Australian  Fishes — Middle  Harbour — Black 
Bream  in  Still  Waters— "  Berley  "— Blackfish— Rods  More 
Popular  in  Queensland — Possible  Legacy  of  "  Redspinner  " 
Flathead  and  Jewfish — Sharks  and  Catfish  in  Moreton  Bay— 
Calm-water  Fishing — Rock-fishing — Dreadful  Climbs — A  Re- 
lation of  Thackeray — "  Cungevoi  " — A  Caution  about  Sea- 
urchins — Leather  Jackets — Failure  to  catch  Hobart  Trum- 
peter and  Fitzroy  Perch — Shooting  Kangaroo  and  Duck — A 
Queensland  Estuary  and  Quinine.  .  .  .  . .  p.  127 


CONTENTS  JX 

CHAPTER  VI 

WITH    BASQUES   AND    MOORS 

Biarritz  in  March — Discouraging  Reports — A  Pelota  Match 
before  the  King  of  Sweden — Two  Kinds  of  Broken  French — 
Gitouche — Toujours  D'Artagnan — Good  Whiting-fishing — 
Peculiarities  of  Basque  Fishermen — A  Little  Altercation — 
Fishing  at  Tangier  with  Abslam — His  Fatalism  and  Patience 
—With  Jose,  who  lacked  both — Blackmouthed  Dogfish  at 
Casablanca — Barbel  in  the  Wad  Tensift  near  Morocco  City— 
Water-tortoises— Grey  Mullet  at  Mogador  ..  p.  163 

CHAPTER  VII 

BASS    AND    MULLET 

Bass  and  Mullet  Compared — Luck  of  Young  Fishermen — 
A  Mullet  Caught  on  Pollack- tackle — Another  on  a  Leger — 
The  Bass  in  Two  Different  Moods — Night-lines — Better  Sport 
on  Live  Bait — Attractions  of  Fishing  in  Estuaries — A  Morn- 
ing's Sport  in  the  Teign — Memories  of  that  River — Difficulties 
with  Buoy-chains  and  Weeds — Trouble  with  other  Fishermen 
—Remedies  Indicated — Bait  Not  Always  Procurable — The 
Grey  Mullet — Its  Appetites  and  Habits — My  Repeated  111 
Luck — Visit  to  Mr.  Gomm  at  Margate — Experts  beneath 
Margate  Jetty — A  Day's  Success — Importance  of  Groundbait 
— A  Mullet  at  Last — Importance  of  Local  Guidance  with 
Mullet  and  Bass „  .  p.  177 

CHAPTER  VIII 

A    FORLORN    QUEST   AND    SOME    COMPENSATIONS 

[  ^Success  and  Failure — Welsh  Adders — Other  Failures  :  Arun 
and  Teign  Mullet — Poole  Bass — Bexhill  Cod — Lulworth 
Pollack — Eddy  stone  Whiting — Sydney  Grouper — Queensland 
Perch — Maldon  Brill — The  Worst  Failure  of  all  :  Madeira 


X  CONTENTS 

Tunny — Origin  of  Plan  to  Catch  them  on  the  Rod — Prepara- 
tions and  Arrangements  for  the  Trip — Arrival  at  Funchal— 
Our  First  Outing — We  catch  a  Turtle,  but  no  Tunny — Our 
Second  Failure — We  Follow  the  Tunny  to  Porto  Santo — 
Camp  three  nights  on  the  Ilheo  de  Cima — With  C.  B.  Cossart 
Fishing  in  the  Rock-pools — Barbary  Type  of  Our  Fishermen- 
Bringing  Spiders  Home  lor  the  Zoo — We  Catch  a  Variety  of 
Fish  in  Trammels — Other  Rod-fishing  :  Sargo-fishing  at  Sun- 
set— Novel  Way  of  Getting  Crab-bait — The  Birds  of  our 
Island — Padre  Schmitz — Trailing  for  Garoupa — A  Last  Try 
ior  Tunny — A  Rough  Sea  for  Fishing — Chances  of  Catching 
Madeira  Tunny  on  the  Rod — Different  Classes  of  Tunny- 
Difficulties — Mr.  Holder's  Advice — Fishing  for  Mackerel  and 
Muraena  at  Funchal — Torches  and  Groundbait — An  Incanta- 
tion— Farewell  to  Madeira  !  .  .  .  .  .  .  p.  215 

CHAPTER  IX 

H.EC    OLIM    MEMINISSE    JUVABIT  p.    271 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

TUNNY  Boats  off  the  Coast  of  Madeira  ...          ...          ...    Frontispiece 

Lazy  Mackerel  Fishing    ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  7 

The  Pier  Fisherman          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  19 

The  Peaceful  Scenes  of  River  Fishing  ...          ...          ...          ...  26 

Low  Tide  in  the  Harbour            34 

Hastings  Pier         ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  36 

The  Beach,  Hastings        37 

Hastings,  from  the  Cliff    ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  45 

Early  Morning  at  Folkestone      ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  51 

Ramsgate  at  Daybreak    ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  52 

The  Rocky  Shore              59 

A  Muraena  on  the  Rod     ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  81 

Mevagissey :  the  Pool      ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  88 

Mending  the  Nets              97 

Mevagissey  Quay ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  105 

The  Schnapper      129 

The  Nannygai        132 

In  Botany'Bay       138 

The  Rock  Fishers'  Idea  of  Pleasure       146 

Catching  Shad  in  the  Urn  Erbeya          165 

A  Bridge  over  the  Tensift,  Morocco  City           ...          ...          ...  171 

Moors  hauling  a  Shore- Seine      ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  174 

Drifting  beside  Foreign  Hulks    ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  183 

A  well-known  Bass  of  Hi  Ibs 189 

Netting  Salmon  in  the  Upper  Teign      ...          ...          ...          ...  192 

Baiting  with  Sand-eel       197 

Where  the  Lyn  nears  the  Sea 201 

Mullet  Fishing  under  Margate  Jetty       ...          ...          ...          ...  206 

Bringing  Small  Tunny  Ashore     ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  212 

Bringing  the  Tents  Ashore           ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  233 

"Bei9ana"              237 

Where  Sargo  lie  in  the  Weeds 241 

Camping  on  the  Ilheo  de  Cima  ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  246 

Tunny  Boats  at  Cama  de  Lobos             ...          ...          ...          ...  255 

The  End  of  Murasna         ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  258 

Spada  for  the  Market       261 

Slippery  Foothold              263 

The  Bold  Coast  of  Madeira         267 

Nearing  the  End   ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  274 


XI 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY 

Apologies  lor  Sport — Otter-hunting — Cost  of  Sport — 
Coarse  Fishing — Sport  and  Food — Popularity  of  Sea-fishing — 
Angling  Competitions — Critics  of  Sea-fishing — Cases  where 
no  Skill  is  Required — Ways  of  Catching  a  Bass — Danger  and 
Discomfort — Sea-fishing  in  Winter — Night-fishing — Sea-sick- 
ness— Pier-fishing — South  Coast  as  Good  as  Anywhere  Abroad 
—The  Lessons  of  Failure. 

AN  honest  Scotsman  once  sat  in  a  bar  at  Hud- 
dersfield  and  listened  with  ill-concealed  impatience 
to  the  shallow  pretexts  with  which  one  apologetic 
tippler  after  another  addressed  himself  to  the  lady- 
in-waiting.  The  first,  it  seemed,  suffered  from  a 
sudden  pain  in  his  head  ;  the  second  had  been 
compelled  to  work  and  forego  his  sleep  the  night 
before  ;  a  third  had  only  that  moment  been  the 
recipient  of  news  of  a  family  bereavement. 

"  Miss,"  roared  Donald  at  length,  when  he 
could  stand  it  no  longer,  "  just  gie  me  a  dram 
o'  whisky— because  I  LIKE  IT  !  " 

Outspoken  Donald  always  comes  to  my  mind 

whenever  I  hear  a  sportsman  apologising  for  his 

i 

2— (2272) 


2  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

love  of  fishing,  shooting,  or  hunting.  I  should 
not  dream  of  apologising  even  for  having  once  had 
ideas  about  the  beauties  of  otter-hunting,  though 
for  me  its  joys  are  of  the  past.  I  have  seen  it 
north  and  south.  I  have  driven  across  the  Menai 
Bridge  with  the  late  Mr.  Assheton-Smith,  with 
whom  I  was  staying  at  Vaynol,  at  an  hour  when 
we  should  both  have  been  better  in  bed.  The 
whole  forenoon  we  scoured  the  ponds  and  streams 
of  Anglesea  for  an  otter  that  may,  or  may  not, 
have  existed  there.  I  have  no  good  reason  for 
supposing  either  that  it  did,  or  that  it  is  not 
there  still.  I  once  walked  with  that  crack  pack, 
the  Culmstock,  fourteen  miles  in  a  downpour  of 
rain,  round  Bolham  Weir  and  Bampton.  Strange 
to  say,  hounds  did  not  find  on  that  occasion.  Next 
week  I  was  out  with  the  Dartmoor.  Hounds 
found  a  water-hen. 

In  spite  of  the  outcry  against  "mudded  oafs" 
and  :<  flannelled  fools,"  sport,  which  does  not 
necessarily  mean  dreaming  of  other  people  play- 
ing cricket,  or  backing  horses  without  ever  going 
to  a  race,  seems  in  some  form  or  other  necessary 
to  the  primitive,  well-balanced  mind.  Though  a 
good  sportsman  should  not  grudge  his  hobby  what 
he  can  reasonably  afford  without  prejudicing  the 
interests  of  those  dependent  on  him,  the  amount 
spent  is  no  gauge  whatever  of  the  sportsman.  A 
passion  for  riding  may  be  indulged  by  playing  polo 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  3 

at  Hurlingham  or  pony-racing  over  Ramsgate 
sands.  As  good  fishermen  sport  with  roach  on 
the  Lea  as  with  salmon  in  the  Tay.  Dives  shoots 
stags,  and  Lazarus  rabbits,  but  each  can  play  the 
game ;  nor  is  he  who  drives  a  70  horse-power  motor 
necessarily  a  better  sportsman  than  his  poorer 
neighbour  who  drives  a  1 -horse-power  dog-cart. 
These  are  platitudes,  yet  they  are  often  ignored. 
While  some  games,  like  hockey  and  football, 
seemingly  afford  little  range  of  expenditure,  others, 
like  golf  or  polo,  can  obviously  be  adapted  to  a 
variety  of  income. 

In  the  sport  of  fishing,  the  range  of  expenditure 
is  a  very  wide  one  indeed.  The  ambition  most 
costly  to  gratify  is  the  command  of  high-class 
trout-fishing  in  the  vicinity  of  London.  Indeed, 
both  trout  and  salmon  are  expensive  objects  for 
the  angler,  unless  he  is  prepared  to  travel  in  search 
of  them  far  from  the  comforts  of  civilisation, 
spending  time  and  money  on  the  journey  and 
seeking  his  sport  in  remote  northern  lakes  and 
rivers  so  inaccessible  to  the  world's  business 
centres  as  to  be  not  yet  overfished.  The  cheapest 
fishing  in  this  country  is  that  known,  somewhat 
unfortunately,  as  "  coarse,"  a  term  used  by 
naturalists  to  distinguish  members  of  the  carp 
family,  eels  and  one  or  two  other  groups  from  the 
"  game  "  salmon  and  trout  and  their  kind.  No 
offence  whatever  can  have  been  intended  towards 


4  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

those  who,  from  choice  of  necessity,  angle  only  for 
the  "  coarse  "  fish,  seeing  that  Izaak  Walton  him- 
self dubbed  the  carp  "  Queen  of  Rivers,"  and  drew 
his  companion's  attention  to  the  choice  sport 
afforded  by  barbel.  It  perhaps  needs  no  argu- 
ment to  shew  that  the  habits  of  the  tench  and  eel 
may  fairly  be  described  as  "  coarse  "  by  com- 
parison with  those  of  the  Salmonidce,  while  as  food, 
at  any  rate  in  any  hands  but  those  of  a  German 
cook  skilled  in  the  dressing  of  freshwater  fish, 
most  of  the  "  coarse  "  fish  are  contemptible. 

The  precise  extent  to  which  considerations  of  the 
cuisine  should  have  weight  with  the  sportsman 
in  choosing  his  quarry  is  always  a  debateable 
question,  and  one  that  hardly  gains  much  by 
discussion.  On  the  one  hand,  the  old  foraging 
spirit,  in  which  Esau  went  forth  after  venison, 
burns  in  every  sportsman,  while  the  most  plausible 
platform  justification  of  game-preserving  is  that  it 
cheapens  game  in  the  food-market.  On  the  other 
hand,  we  eat  neither  otters  nor  foxes,  and  if  any 
justification  has  to  be  given  for  the  field-sports 
of  which  these  are  the  objects,  it  has  to  take  the 
shape  of  a  rather  questionable  appeal  to  the 
damage  they  do  as  vermin  of  the  farm  or  trout- 
stream,  a  feeble  argument  of  which  the  critics  of 
sport  are  not  backward  to  make  capital.  On  the 
other  hand,  we  have  the  undeniable  fact  that,  as 
the  little  girl  retorted  when  reproved  for  eating 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  5 

a  wasp  alive,  tastes  differ.  There  are  not  in 
British  seas  three  fishes  that  give  the  fisherman 
better  sport  than  the  bass,  pollack  and  grey  mullet, 
yet  not  one  of  them,  save  perhaps  when  quite 
small,  is  to  my  mind  pleasant  eating,  though 
some  folks  appreciate  them,  and  I  never  find  any 
difficulty  in  giving  them  to  grateful  friends.  Food, 
however  reasonable  a  motive  of  sport,  has  long 
ceased  to  count  for  much,  and  there  are  few  anglers 
so  successful  that  they  could  not  buy  at  market- 
price  as  much  as  they  catch  for  a  fraction  of  what 
it  cost  when  caught  for  sport. 

In  the  matter  of  the  expense  entailed,  sea-fish- 
ing probably  ranks  midway  between  the  two  kinds 
of  sport  previously  named.  On  the  one  hand, 
it  is  free  from  the  heavy  rentals  charged  for 
stretches  of  salmon-water  ;  on  the  other,  it  can 
rarely  be  regarded  as  quite  rent-free,  like,  for 
instance,  roach-fishing  from  the  banks  of  Thames 
or  Lea,  because,  unless  pursued  from  a  crowded 
beach  or  an  overfished  and  disturbed  harbour,  there 
is  usually  something  to  pay  for  admission  to  a 
pier  or  hire  of  a  boat.  The  sport  is  a  develop- 
ment of  comparatively  recent  date.  Twenty  years 
ago,  anyone  who  unpacked  a  rod  on  a  pier  was 
almost  as  certain  of  drawing  a  crowd  as  if  he  had 
produced  a  performing  bear.  To-day,  a  score  of 
rods  wave  unnoticed  from  the  piers  at  Deal, 
Brighton,  Plymouth  and  a  hundred  other  resorts 


6  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

east  and  west,  while  the  old-fashioned  throw-out 
line  is  less  in  evidence  every  year.  Influential 
clubs,  societies,  federations  are  established  round 
the  island,  and  anglers  assemble  at  the  different 
watering-places  to  take  part  in  monster  competi- 
tions. Of  such  functions  the  patient  reader  of 
what  follows  is  asked  to  expect  no  account.  I 
was  never  present  at  an  angling  competition 
and  there  is  no  reason  for  supposing  that  I  ever 
shall  be.  It  would  be  ungracious,  and  it  could 
serve  no  useful  purpose,  to  criticise  meetings 
which  give  great  pleasure  and  do  little  harm.  I 
simply  do  not  like  them  and  therefore  stay  away. 
In  view  of  the  hold  which  it  has  of  late  years 
taken  on  the  public,  apology  for  sea-fishing  is  no 
longer  looked  for  as  it  used  to  be.  Occasionally, 
of  course,  it  is  still  named  in  clubs  with  a  snort 
of  contempt.  Most  clubs  cultivate  a  species  of 
Culex,  which  buzzes  around  on  hot  afternoons  and 
irritates  its  neighbours.  There  is  no  bye-law 
which  empowers  the  committee  to  get  rid  of  ob- 
noxiously dogmatic  members  who  were  so  ingen- 
ious as  to  reserve  their  opinions  until  elected, 
and  the  only  thing  is  to  put  up  with  them.  I  was 
tackled  in  this  way  in  a  provincial  club  not  long 
ago  by  a  man  whose  only  sport,  as  I  afterwards 
learnt,  was  occasional  golf  of  the  foozling  order. 
He  had  nothing  else  to  do  one  morning  and  evi- 
dently thought  that  I  was  similarly  employed, 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  7 

so  he  introduced  the  subject  by  saying  that  he 
heard  I  was  an  enthusiastic  sea-fisherman,   and 


LAZY    MACKEREL    FISHING 


that  sea-fishing  required  no  skill.  The  matter 
was  not  argued  to  a  conviction,  and  I  have  since 
met  him  only  in  the  hall . 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  some  forms  of 


8  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

sea-fishing,  in  which  skill  is  at  a  discount,  but  to 
class  in  one  category  every  style  of  salt-water 
angling  is  about  as  reasonable  as  bracketing 
deerstalking  and  pigeon-shooting  from  traps. 

Fishing  for  mackerel  from  a  sailing-boat,  or 
:t  plummetting  "  as  it  is  called  on  parts  of  the 
Cornish  coast,  is  one  of  the  modes  in  which  no 
skill  is  required.  A  heavily  leaded  line  is  towed 
astern,  and  the  way  on  the  boat  hooks  three 
mackerel  out  of  four  that  tamper  with  the  bait. 
All  the  fisherman  has  to  do  is  to  haul  in  the  line 
the  moment  he  feels  a  fish  on  it,  take  the  mackerel 
off  the  hook,  put  on  a  fresh  bait  if  necessary,  and 
fling  the  lead  over  the  side  again.  Shelling  peas 
is  a  problem  to  it  !  As  a  means  of  picking  up 
fresh  bait  on  the  way  out  to  the  pollack-grounds, 
this  manner  of  fishing  has  its  uses,  and  it  may 
even  amuse  those  with  whom  a  sail  occupies  the 
same  position  with  regard  to  fishing  as,  with  so 
many  hunting  folk,  a  gallop  with  regard  to  venery  ; 
but  it  cannot  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination 
be  seriously  reckoned  as  artistic  sport.  Very 
little  higher  in  its  demands  on  skill  is  the  old  style 
of  hand-lining  for  small  pout  or  whiting.  You  bait 
the  hooks  (unless  you  prefer  to  let  your  boatman 
do  so)  and  let  the  lead  run  out  till  it  touches 
bottom  ;  then  you  haul  in  the  obliging  fish  that 
hook  themselves  on.  Worse  in  a  measure  than 
either  of  these  is  the  too  common  practice  of  baiting 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  9 

a  hook,  throwing  the  line  out  from  a  pier-head, 
and  leaving  it  to  take  its  chance,  trying  it  every 
few  minutes  to  ascertain  if  any  fish  is  fighting 
for  its  liberty  at  the  other  end.  Most  of  us  have, 
it  must  be  admitted,  fished  in  this  unsportsman- 
like manner  in  unregenerate  days,  but  there  is 
very  little  more  skill  or  sport  in  such  ways  than 
in  the  setting  of  night-lines. 

Yet  the  existence  of  such  practices  should  no 
more  condemn  sea-fishing  generally  than  some 
ways  in  which  poachers  use  guns  should  cast  dis- 
credit on  shooting.  The  old  style  of  fishing  with 
handlines,  which  may  be  found  in  caricature  in 
back  numbers  of  Punch,  is  no  longer  in  general 
favour  with  those  who  make  a  study  of  the  sport. 
The  variety  of  ways  in  which,  for  example,  the 
bass  may  be  caught  by  the  fisherman  will  com- 
pare favourably  with  that  associated  with  any 
fish.  I  do  not  for  one  moment  contemplate  in- 
stituting comparison  between  the  bass  and  the 
salmon,  for  I  know  far  too  little  of  the  latter  fish 
for  such  comparison  to  carry  any  weight.  Of  the 
bass  alone  it  suffices  to  say  that  it  may  be  taken 
on  a  fly,  on  live  bait,  with  dead  bait,  or  on  a  spin- 
ner. The  dead  bait  may  be  used  with  float- 
tackle  in  mid-water  or  with  a  heavy  lead  on  the 
ground.  The  fish  may  be  sought  from  piers, 
from  rocks,  from  beaches  of  sand  or  shingle,  in 
sheltered  estuaries  or  in  the  open  sea,  at  high  tide, 


10  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

low  tide,  or  any  time  between.  Since  it  is  caught 
at  sea,  as  well  as  in  rivers,  it  gives  an  even  greater 
range  of  situation  than  the  salmon,  whose  wander- 
ings in  salt  water  are  still  a  profound  mystery. 
We  catch  it  only  in  our  rivers,  at  a  period  when, 
paradoxically  enough,  it  is  not  feeding  in  the  nor- 
mal sense  of  the  word  ;  during  the  remainder  of  the 
year  it  is  putting  on  flesh  very  rapidly,  living 
probably  in  water  too  deep  for  either  trawlers  or 
hooks  to  disturb  it.  The  bass,  it  is  true,  is  not 
taken  in  our  estuaries  at  all  times,  but  less  mys- 
tery attends  its  absence  from  the  shallows,  since 
it  is  taken  in  the  trawl  almost  all  the  year  round. 
As,  moreover,  it  enters  estuaries  in  pursuit  of 
small  fishes,  and  not  for  spawning  purposes,  its 
movements  are  less  regular.  Thus,  in  the  River 
Teign,  in  Devonshire,  more  detailed  reference  to 
which  will  be  found  later,  we  did  not,  during  the 
five  summers  1900-4,  catch  more  than  a  few 
small  fish  before  the  second  or  third  week  of  June, 
whereas  in  the  present  summer  (1905)  a  resident 
angler  and  his  boatman  made  a  catch  weighing 
in  the  aggregate  40  Ibs.,  largest  fish41bs.,  during 
the  last  week  of  May,  the  continued  warm  weather 
of  the  previous  fortnight  having  doubtless  acce- 
lerated the  arrival  of  the  brit  shoals,  to  prey  on 
which  the  bass  come  inshore. 

The  bass  has  been  selected  as  a  type  of  fish 
that  is  many  things  to  many  men,  but  the  same 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  11 

might  be  said  of  the  pollack  or  mackerel,  either 
of  which  will,  under  suitable  conditions,  take  the 
same  variety  of  natural  or  artificial  baits,  though 
both  are  fish  of  the  open  sea,  rarely  entering 
brackish  water. 

These  three  fishes  alone  prove  how  erroneous 
it  is  to  speak  or  write  of  "  sea-fishing,"  derisively 
or  otherwise,  as  if  there  were  any  homogeneity 
in  so  protean  a  sport.  There  is  not  more  differ- 
ence between  mayfly-fishing  for  trout  and  babbing 
for  eels  than  between,  let  us  say,  handline-fishing 
for  conger  at  midnight  and  bass-fishing  with  a 
trout-rod  at  mid-day,  or  between  using  a  stout 
line  and  heavy  lead  for  schnapper  on  Australian 
reefs  and  throwing  a  single  fly  for  billet  into  the 
deep  water  alongside  Filey  Brigg.  No  man  with  any 
sense  of  logic  could  speak  disparagingly  and  col- 
lectively of  all  these  styles  of  catching  sea-fish 
as  requiring  no  skill. 

Two  considerations  appear  to  have  prejudiced 
the  sport  of  sea-fishing  in  the  eyes  of  many  people, 
who  might  otherwise  have  learnt  its  delights,  and 
these  are  the  fear  of  danger  and  the  impatience 
of  discomfort.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  danger 
may  usually  be  avoided  with  a  little  care  ;  and 
discomfort  is,  after  all,  a  relative  term,  for  what 
irks  one  man  leaves  his  fellow  unmoved.  No  one 
can  prevent,  or  always  even  anticipate,  a  sudden 
squall  in  apparently  fair  weather,  but  there  can 


12  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

rarely  be  any  need  to  start  from  shore  with  the 
least  evidence  of  a  coming  change  in  the  sky. 
Certain  simple  rules  of  safety  also  govern  the 
manner  of  getting  in  and  out  of  boats,  of  launch- 
ing or  returning  on  open  beaches,  of  climbing 
over  slippery  rocks,  or  of  handling  such  fishes  as 
are  armed  with  spines  willing  to  wound  and  not 
afraid  to  strike.  Now  and  then  one  meets  with 
a  man  who  wilfully  disregards  these  precautions 
and  reckons  himself  a  better  sportsman  for  doing 
so.  (In  reality,  that  word  "  sportsman  "  is  sadly 
in  need  of  revision.  Indeed,  I  am  looking  for- 
ward with  curiosity  to  its  definition  in  the  New 
English  Dictionary  now  in  course  of  publication.) 
Such  a  man  is  a  fool,  and  for  folly  like  his  there 
is  but  one  remedy.  Whether  your  sport  be 
motoring,  big  game  shooting,  or  skating,  danger 
should  always  be  avoided  where  possible.  There 
are  but  two  forms  of  recreation  in  which  to  court 
it  is  to  command  applause  ;  these  are  mixed 
hockey  and  football. 

Discomfort,  as  has  already  been  said,  means 
differently  to  different  people.  The  luncheon- 
basket  does  not  as  a  rule  contain  champagne  and 
truffles,  but  it  may  do  so  without  having  any 
prejudicial  effect  on  sport,  provided  you  catch 
your  fish  first  and  lunch  on  the  way  home.  The 
smacks  and  luggers,  in  which  we  usually  go 
a'fishing,  are  not  as  a  rule  fitted  out  in  imitation 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  13 

of  His  Majesty's  State  Barge,  but  they  may 
be  so  decorated  to  order.  Of  the  little  discom- 
forts which  no  expenditure  will  avert,  a  little  salt 
water  on  the  face  and  hands  should  hurt  no  one  ; 
and  those  who  go  sea-fishing  in  clothes  that  they 
mean  to  use  ashore  deserve  all  they  get.  The 
seat  up  to  windward,  the  sudden  duck  of  the  head 
when  the  sail  comes  over,  may  not  make  up  the 
comforts  of  a  camp-stool  in  a  Thames  punt,  but 
the  brisk  sail  is  more  health-giving. 

At  the  same  time  there  are  forms  of  discom- 
fort, for  which  I  confess  to  having  parted  with 
my  earlier  enthusiasm.  Fishing  in  winter  and 
fishing  at  night  time  are  for  me  only  rare  experi- 
ences where  once  such  zeal  was  chronic.  I  have 
done  that  winter-fishing  with  the  maddest  ;  blown 
on  my  fingers  before  daybreak  on  Deal  pier  and 
knocked  the  rime  off  my  sea-boots  in  many  a  boat 
that  cleaved  wintery  seas,  but  ever  since  my 
return  from  the  Australian  Colonies  I  saw  no 
humour  in  such  sallies,  and  my  fishing  has  been 
an  intermittent  idyll  of  summer  seas  and  estuaries, 
with  corn  on  the  hills,  not  snow,  with  the  shriek 
of  the  swifts  in  my  ears,  not  the  calling  of  wild- 
fowl, with  early  sunrises  and  long,  warm  sunsets, 
not  with  that  hurried  transition  between  day  and 
night  that  chills  those  whom  it  finds  on  the 
water.  Everyone  to  his  taste.  I  bask  in  flannels, 
others  shiver  in  tarpaulins.  True,  I  have  to  give 


14  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

up  fishing  for  half  the  year  and  give  the  cod  and 
whiting  the  go-bye  but  I  am  content  to  amuse 
myself  for  the  other  half  with  bass  and  pollack, 
mackerel  and  mullet,  and  then  send  my  rods  to  the 
maker.  I  must  own  to  having  an  alternative 
amusement  for  the  short  days,  thanks  to  the  kind- 
ness of  friends,  whose  hospitality  stands  the 
yearly  test  of  a  more  than  averagely  miserable 
performance  with  the  gun.  Were  it  not  for  such 
interludes  on  the  moors,  among  the  roots,  or 
beside  the  coverts,  it  may  be  that  the  sulking  cod 
and  hungry  whiting  would  still  win  me  forth  as 
they  did  of  yore,  but  for  ten  years  at  any  rate 
their  spell  has  not  worked,  and  a  predisposition 
to  rheumatism  makes  me  grateful  that  this  is  so. 
Now  and  then,  on  a  more  than  commonly  balmy 
November  day,  I  still  go  after  the  whiting  and 
mackerel,  but  the  Babbacombe  ground  lies  too 
far  away  from  Teignmouth  to  be  reached  those 
short  afternoons  with  any  comfort,  unless  you 
have  the  aid  of  steam  power.  Sometimes  a 
friendly  motor-boat,  of  which  several  are  owned 
in  the  harbour,  gives  the  ' '  Hirondelle  "  a  tow 
out  and  back,  which  is  not  only  a  saving  of  time, 
but  also  sparing  of  my  boatman's  labour,  as  it 
is  a  dreadful  pull  on  the  very  calm  days,  on  which 
alone  fishing  is  much  pleasure.  The  most  enjoy- 
able hour's  fishing  that  I  remember  on  that  ground 
was  with  poor  Aubrey  Harcourt,  in  October, 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  15 

1900.  He  had  asked  me  to  go  with  him  on 
a  fishing  cruise  on  the  "  Heloise,"  and  I  joined  at 
Cowes,  from  which,  after  staying  the  night  at  the 
Squadron  Castle,  we  got  away  next  afternoon 
and  had  a  splendid  run  to  the  West  Bay,  our  chief 
amusement  being  the  loss  of  box-kites,  of  which, 
easily  amused  with  such  toys,  he  had  bought  up 
a  stock  in  Southampton.  Daybreak  next  morn- 
ing found  us  lying  off  Teignmouth  in  a  dense  white 
fog,  and  at  high  water  the  red-bearded  pilot  took 
us  into  the  river,  not  without  a  word  of  protest 
from  the  Scotch  skipper.  That  was  the  week 
of  very  low  springs,  and  the  little  there  was  to 
spare  under  her  keel  that  night  gave  me  a  very 
agreeable  quarter  of  an  hour  with  the  Scotchman 
on  deck  next  morning,  before  mine  host  was  out 
of  his  cabin.  Never  again,  he  vowed  with  truly 
boreal  vigour,  not  for  all  Mr.  Harcourt's  (qualified) 
guests,  would  he  ever  take  yacht  of  his  into  such 
a  (minutely  described)  river.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
not  only  did  "  Heloise  "  leave  the  river  as  spick 
and  span  as  she  entered  it,  but  she  was  there  again 
for  a  week,  same  skipper  and  all,  two  years  later. 
On  our  second  afternoon,  Harcourt  fancied  a 
couple  of  hours  fishing,  so  my  boatman  got  some 
mussel  bait  ready,  and  after  tiffin  we  fared  forth  in 
the  yacht's  gig,  towed  by  the  tug,  which  we  hired 
for  the  occasion.  It  was  a  perfect  autumn  after- 
noon, with  not  a  breath  of  air  to  stir  the  sea,  and 


16  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

in  a  little  over  an  hour's  fishing  the  basket  was  a 
hundred  and  twenty-five  whiting  and  mackerel, 
the  latter  taking  the  bait  so  greedily  at  the  top 
of  the  water,  that  it  was  only  by  using  a  heavy 
lead,  to  get  the  hooks  past  them,  that  we  could 
pick  up  the  whiting  at  the  lower  levels.  While 
the  fun  was  hot,  Harcourt  was  very  amused,  but 
he  never  pretended  to  be  a  fisherman,  and  the 
first  lull  in  the  biting  was  the  signal  to  go  back 
to  the  yacht  and  there  fly  the  last  of  our  kites. 
That  night  it  came  on  to  blow,  and  we  went  down 
to  Plymouth  ignominiously  by  train,  leaving  the 
yacht  to  follow  round,  and  next  afternoon  we 
spied  her  beating  round  the  Yealm,  but  it  was  too 
rough  for  any  more  fishing  that  trip.  Two 
months  later  I  spent  ten  days  at  Nuneham  for 
the  shooting,  having  great  times  in  the  Pinetum 
and  Lockwood,  where  pheasants  and  wild  duck 
fell  together.  I  can  see  Harcourt  before  me  now 
as  he  stood  on  the  little  bridge  and,  shooting  with 
his  father's  old  hammer-gun  and  black-powder, 
brought  down  bird  after  bird.  Walking  with  the 
beaters,  tapping  lustily  with  sticks,  and  adjuring 
the  running  birds  with  nautical  warmth,  were  the 
skipper  and  steward  of  the  yacht,  their  professional 
uniform  striking  a  strangely  discordant  note  in  the 
woodland  scenery.  The  only  approach  to  fishing 
on  that  occasion  was  when  Alfred  Shaw,  also 
of  the  party,  taught  me  how  to  catch  a  pike 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  17 

Nottingham  fashion.  That  wonderful  bowler  is 
not  so  well  known  as  a  fisherman,  but  the  accuracy 
with  which  he  threw  from  the  reel  into  a  tiny 
patch  of  deep  water  among  the  reeds  was  beauti- 
ful to  watch,  though  I  found  it  impossible  of  ac- 
quisition in  so  short  a  time.  Still  his  patience 
was  inexhaustible,  and  we  spent  some  very  agree- 
able hours,  in  the  intervals  of  shooting,  I  casting 
with  great  precision  into  the  thickest  of  the  reeds, 
and  the  two  of  us  then  punting  across  to  disen- 
tangle my  trace  and  line. 

The  interest  of  an  occasional  night's  conger- 
fishing  cannot  be  gainsaid,  and,  of  the  two, 
there  is  far  less  discomfort  on  a  warm  and  calm 
night  in  August  than  on  the  cold,  rough  seas 
of  November.  The  stillness,  the  twinkling  lights 
of  fishing  fleets,  the  strange  sounds  from  unseen 
birds  and  porpoises,  the  thrilling  sensation  of 
fighting  with  a  big  fish  in  the  darkness,  all  combine 
to  afford  an  experience,  which  every  fisherman 
should  be  able  to  call  his  own,  but  which  soon  loses 
its  first  novelty.  It  is  therefore  not  without 
satisfaction  that  I  have  learnt  the  whereabouts  of 
isolated  lighthouse-rocks  and  other  sites,  where 
large  conger  may  be  caught  in  broad  daylight 
any  fine  week  in  August.  The  blackness  of 
night,  to  say  nothing  of  losing  your  rest,  is 
a  comfortless  handicap. 

Sea-sickness   is   the   worst   form  of  discomfort, 

3-(2272) 


18  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

with  which  the  salt-water  angler  has  to  contend. 
Scrope,  author  of  one  of  the  most  delightful  books 
ever  written  on  salmon-fishing,  owned  himself 
too  sick  to  trust  himself  on  the  sea,  so  that  his 
criticism  of  sea  fishing,  on  grounds  already  alluded 
to,  is  wholly  without  value.  Anglers  with  a  pre- 
disposition towards  the  distressing  malady  need 
not  therefore  conclude  that  sea-fishing  and  com- 
fort cannot  be  made  synonymous.  They  can 
either  fish  from  the  beach  or  the  pier,  or  they  can, 
better  still,  choose  a  holiday  resort  with  an  estuary 
that  affords  fishing  grounds  as  smooth  as  the 
Thames  at  Oxford.  There  are  many  rivers  in  Eng- 
land, of  which  the  tidal  reaches  give  in  summer 
bass  of  10  Ibs.  and  over,  and  in  autumn  codling 
and  whiting  in  numbers.  Round  the  island  of 
Santa  Catalina,  in  California,  the  tuna,  or  tunny 
the  largest  fish  which  sportsmen  seek  with  the 
rod,  is  taken  of  immense  weight  in  water  nearly 
as  calm,  while  in  many  an  Australian  creek  the 
sea-fishing  is  most  artistic  where  no  ripple  stirs 
the  surface,  and  the  boat,  moored  fore  and  aft, 
lies  as  still  as  on  a  pond.  Now  and  again,  during 
a  spell  of  very  fine  July  weather,  we  also  get  the 
open  sea  as  calm  as  this  six  or  eight  miles  from 
land;  but  such  conditions  cannot  be  relied  upon 
for  long  together,  and  those  who  have  any  fear 
of  sickness  will  do  well  to  choose  an  estuary,  where 
they  can  be  sure  of  calm  water,  no  matter  from 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY 


19 


what  direction  the  wind  blows.  Next  best  to  an 
estuary  is  a  place,  like  Looe  or  Mousehole,  with 
an  island  immediately  opposite,  for  this  usually 
affords  smooth  water  on  one  side  or  the  other. 


THE    PIER    FISHERMAN 

Looe  is   doubly   favoured,   having  both   estuary 
and  island. 

To  night-fishing  and  fishing  in  winter  time  let 
me  here  add  a  third  recantation,  pier-fishing.  A 
few  piers  contrive,  by  charging  a  high  entrance 
or  fishing  fee,  to  exclude  all  but  anglers  from  the 
stages.  On  the  Prince  of  Wales'  Pier,  at  Dover, 
for  instance,  the  charge  for  fishing  is  one  shilling 


20  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

a  day,  higher,  I  believe,  than  on  any  other  in  the 
Kingdom.  At  Folkestone  Harbour,  the  proprie- 
tary railway  company  charges  fourpence  to  any- 
one wishing  to  fish  from  the  splendid  pier  that  has 
lately  been  built  at  great  cost.  Such  charges 
look  high,  but  they  are  really  beneficial  to  the 
angler,  since  they  keep  the  crowd  at  a  distance, 
and  the  crowd  is  the  chief  drawback  of  pier-fishing. 
Fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago  I  spent  many  happy 
days  under  various  piers,  often  alone  with  the 
plosh  of  the  water  against  the  limpet-covered 
piles.  Not  even  sport  was  essential  to  the  charm 
of  those  hours,  for  there  was  so  much  to  watch  : 
the  dory  stalking  its  prey  with  sidelong  stealth, 
the  pollack  dashing  out  on  unsuspecting  victims 
from  its  weed  zareba,  the  crabs  scuttling  in  a 
follow-me-leader  race  over  the  clusters  of  mussels, 
sometimes  even  a  trusting  guillemot  or  puffin 
diving  within  a  stone's  throw  after  sand-eels  that 
sought  vain  shelter  behind  the  posts.  On  calm 
days,  when  the  light  was  good  and  the  water  clear, 
one  looked  down  into  nature's  aquarium,  where 
no  restraining  glass  modified  the  natural  behaviour 
of  the  inmates.  Those  delights  have  left  such 
pleasant  memories  that  it  would  need  very  little 
inducement  to  return  to  my  first  love,  though 
this  has  been  wanting  in  the  Devon  town  where 
I  have  spent  the  last  few  summers,  for  the  pier, 
however  convenient  to  bathe  from,  is  of  little 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  21 

more  use  to  the  fisherman  than  the  parade.  More- 
over, I  returned  from  abroad  ten  years  ago  to 
find  the  piers  no  longer  peaceful,  but  thronged 
with  many  kinds  of  humanity  and  giving  for  the 
most  part  the  poorest  of  sport.  Now  and  again, 
it  must  be  admitted,  one  hears  of  better  catches 
on  piers  than  in  boats,  but  these  are  the  exception. 
Nevertheless,  a  cod  weighing  18  Ibs.  and  a  lobster 
of  8  Ibs.  are  a  proud  record  for  one  week,  and  these 
go  to  the  credit  of  Deal,  while  Clackton  can  show 
a  bass  of  over  14  Ibs.,  and  the  neighbouring  resort 
of  Walton  boasts  of  a  pier-skate  of  10  Ibs.  Some- 
times, too,  piers  yield  most  unexpected  booty, 
and  those  who  angle  from  such  structures  must 
expect  anything  from  a  crab  to  a  victim  of  ship- 
wreck. During  the  present  summer,  for  instance, 
a  Brighton  angler,  fishing  on  one  of  the  piers, 
landed  a  garfish,  a  customer  that  we  usually  look 
for  with  the  mackerel  shoals  some  miles  from  shore. 
Among  recent  records  of  the  jetty  at  Yarmouth, 
from  which  sport  is  at  times  better  than  from  the 
longer  pier,  is  a  diving-bird,  of  a  species  apparently 
unknown  in  the  Tollhouse  Museum,  which  took 
a  fisherman's  hook  and  was  duly  brought  to  the 
net.  As  another  proof  of  the  strange  company 
found  in  the  neighbourhood  of  piers  I  may  finally 
mention  a  newt,  which  showed  signs  of  having 
been  but  recently  swallowed  by  a  whiting  caught 
off  the  pier  at  St.  Leonards.  A  good  deal  of 


22  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

speculation  was  printed  with  regard  to  that  newt, 
but  there  is  no  great  difficulty  in  concluding  that  it 
was  washed  out  to  sea  from  either  Fairlight  Glen, 
or  from  the  east  side  of  Dungeness,  for  newts 
abound  in  the  famous  Warren  at  Folkestone, 
living  in  little  ponds  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
the  shore. 

I  hope  that  the  modest  geographical  range  of 
the  few  reminiscences  recalled  in  the  following 
pages  may  not  disappoint  those  who  seem  to  labour 
under  the  false  impression,  for  which  I  am  in  no 
way  responsible,  that  I  have  fished  every  sea  from 
Shoreham  to  Shanghai.  A  triangle  on  the  Mer- 
cator  map,  having  Christiania,  Funchal  and  Sydney 
at  its  corners,  would  include  all  the  bays  that 
I  have  fished  and  more  that  I  have  not.  Some  of 
the  fishing  scenes  within  those  limits  I  have  en- 
deavoured, with  I  know  not  what  success,  to  depict 
less  for  the  practical  instruction  of  those  who  may 
visit  the  waters  reviewed  than  perchance  to  amuse 
a  few  who  lack  the  opportunity  or  inclination  to 
go  abroad.  There  is,  for  one  constitutionally 
addicted  to  travel,  but  tied  by  work  to  England, 
a  grain  of  consolation  in  the  retrospect,  which 
others  may  like  to  share.  Those  foreign  memories 
are  very  sweet  and  very  often  mitigate  the  bitter- 
ness of  thwarted  plans  for  further  foray  of  the  kind  : 
the  "fond  credulity  of  silly  fish"  in  the  Baltic,  the 
romance  of  nights  spent  on  the  Mediterranean, 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  23 

the  unaffected  hospitality  of  brothers  of  the 
angle  in  Australia,  the  merry  Basque  knaves 
with  whom  I  fished  at  Biarittz,  the  blaspheming 
Spaniards  and  pious  Mussulmin  who  took  me  out 
at  Tangier  and  Dar-el-Beida,  the  glories  of  spring 
weather  at  Madeira  all  have  their  place  in  my 
affections.  Yet  it  may  fairly  be  doubted  whether, 
for  all  their  schnapper  and  a  score  of  other  fishes 
that  we  know  nothing  of  in  our  cold  northern 
seas,  any  coast  north  or  south  of  the  Equator, 
east  of  Greenwich  or  west,  can  offer  on  the  whole 
better  sport  than  a  little  knowledge  and  patience 
will  discover  on  the  coast  of  Britain  that  faces 
south  between  Dungeness  and  the  Land's  End. 
Discarding  for  the  moment  the  hundred  bays  and 
estuaries  of  the  east  and  west  sides,  the  unrivalled 
rythe-fishing  among  the  Scottish  isles,  with  almost 
virgin  grounds  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland,  we 
may  find  in  four  out  of  the  six  Channel  counties 
every  kind  of  sea-fishing  known  in  South  Britain. 
The  chalk  foreshore  of  Kent,  the  sandy  bays  and 
shingle  beaches  of  Sussex,  and  the  rocky  grounds 
of  Devon  and  Cornwall  yield  the  finest  chance  of 
bass  and  mullet,  or  mackerel,  cod,  pollack,  whit- 
ing, conger,  every  sea-fish,  great  and  small,  that 
means  anything  to  the  fisherman  or  epicure.  Here 
and  there,  over-fishing  has  unquestionably  worked 
the  evil  on  the  home  grounds,  of  which  it  is  capa- 
ble, but  the  fishes  most  favoured  by  the  sportsman, 


24  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

the  bass,  the  pollack  and  the  grey  mullet, 
are  in  no  danger  of  being  trawled  much  nearer 
to  extinction,  since  that  devastating  engine  cap- 
tures them  only  incidentally  and  not  of  set  pur- 
pose. The  pollack  keeps  to  the  rocks,  and  the 
worst  intruder  in  its  stronghold  is  the  trammel 
or  handline.  The  other  two  thrive  in  sheltered 
estuaries  and  shallow  creeks,  equally  beyond 
reach  of  the  most  effectual  commercial  methods 
of  capture.  Now  and  again  we  hear  accounts 
of  bass  being  driven  away  by  dynamite,  but  such 
practices  are  much  less  rife  with  us  than  on  south- 
ern shores,  where  indeed  the  indiscriminate  use 
of  bombs  has  ruined  once  productive  home 
grounds. 

No  attempt  has  been  made  in  the  following 
pages  to  conceal  failures.  At  most,  explanation 
of  the  circumstances  under  which  they  were 
scored  is  offered  for  the  reader  to  accept  or  reject, 
and  not  to  excuse  them  would  be  more  than  human. 
One  chapter,  indeed,  will  be  found  to  treat  of  little 
else.  Part  of  the  charm  of  fishing  lies  in  its  light 
and  shade,  in  the  success  which  follows  on  the 
failure,  sometimes  thanks  to  lessons  learnt  in 
time.  It  rarely  happens  that  the  loss  of  a  fish 
is  unaccountable.  For  the  moment  perhaps  the 
angler's  face  wears  an  expression  of  baffled  purpose 
attributable  only  to  ill  luck,  and  he  may,  if  in 
company,  even  keep  up  the  pleasant  fiction  of 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY  25 

ignorance  where  to  lay  the  blame.  In  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  knows  right  well  that  he  forgot  to  test 
that  knot  tied  hurriedly  at  starting,  or  that  he 
used  yesterday's  hook,  of  which  he  saw  the  gut 
was  frayed  when  he  unhooked  the  last  fish.  In 
other  cases,  he  knows  that  no  part  of  his  tackle 
was  at  fault,  but  that  his  own  manner  of  fishing 
brought  about  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Too 
great  a  strain,  or  too  little  ;  too  prolonged  a  fight, 
or  too  much  a  hurry  to  end  it  ;  too  much  or  too 
little  confidence  in  his  tackle  ;  such,  according 
to  circumstances,  are  the  explanation.  Failure 
in  shooting  does  not  convey  the  same  morals.  A 
miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile,  and  little  good  comes  as 
a  rule  of  analysing  the  cause.  You  do  not,  when- 
ever you  miss  a  bird,  examine  your  gun  or  your 
cartridge.  If  you  did  so,  your  host  would  not 
unreasonably  conclude  that  you  were  suffering 
from  sunstroke.  Failure  to  hit  the  birds  may  be 
a  matter  of  temperament  (as  it  is  with  a  man  I 
have  shot  with  as  long  as  I  can  remember  shooting 
at  all)  or  of  abnormal  condition.  I  assume  that 
the  gun  fits,  though  you  occasionally  see  men  out 
with  guns  that  fit  them  about  as  well  as  their  wife's 
boots  would.  When  a  man  misses  bird  after  bird 
he  will  sometimes  tell  everyone  that  he  was 
carousing  the  night  before,  and  it  is  then  long  odds 
that  he  is  a  teetotaller  and  was  abed  by  ten.  In 
fishing  no  such  excuses  serve,  or  are  indeed  wanted. 


26  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

There  is  individuality  in  a  fish  fighting  for  its  exis- 
tence that  cannot  be  looked  for  in  birds,  driven 
or  otherwise ;  and  even  with  both  the  fisherman 
and  his  tackle  all  that  could  be  desired,  an  un- 
usually big  or  cunning  fish  will  sometimes  make 
good  its  escape. 


THE    PEACEFUL    SCENES   OF   RIVER   FISHING 

Of  such  few  experiences  of  river  fishing  as  have 
fallen  in  my  way  this  retrospect  takes  no  account. 
Indeed,  I  am  the  poorest  of  performers  with  the 
fly-rod,  and  my  most  recent  efforts,  over  the 
broad  pools  of  the  lovely  Orchy,  left  the  salmon 
unmoved,  while  on  Loch  Etive,  where  fresh 
mingles  with  salt,  and  sea-trout,  brown  trout,  and 


SPEAKING  GENERALLY 


27 


lythe  (i.e.,  pollack)  may  die  on  the  same  hook  in 
successive  casts,  I  was  scarcely  more  fortunate. 
The  pike  of  a  snow-bound  Norfolk  Broad,  the 
barbel  at  Datchet,  the  roach  in  a  pond  very  famous 
for  those  fish,  have  alike  voted  me  the  most  trans- 
parent of  deceivers. 

Forth  then  fares  my  tale,  over  the  seas  of  memory, 
over  the  world's  waters.  It  is  good  to  get  away 
from  the  present,  to  join  hands  once  again  with 
dead  or  absent  shipmates,  to  feel  the  sting  of 
Pacific  spindrift  and  the  grandeur  of  the  tropical 
storm.  It  is  also  good  to  get  back  from  the  dream 
to  the  reality,  from  the  far  off  seas  and  coral 
strands  when 

"  The  Coastwise  Lights  of  England  give  you 
welcome  back  again  !  " 


EARLY   MEMORIES 


II 

EARLY  MEMORIES 

Lowestoft  in  1880 — Bournemouth  Pier,  1881 — Hastings  in 
the  Eighties — Pout-fishing  in  Sussex  and  Cornwall — Original- 
ity sometimes  the  Secret  of  Success — Pier  Crowds — A  Conger 
caught  and  a  Bass  Lost — Sport  with  a  Stingray  off  Adelaide — 
Rambles  among  the  Rocks — Digging  Lugworms  for  Bait — 
The  Unregenerate  Use  of  "  Night-hooks  "—The  Aboriginals 
of  East  Sussex — Small  Game  at  Bognor — Wrasse  instead  of 
Mullet — Littlehampton — Imaginary  Bass  in  the  Arun— 
Fishing  in  Canals — Modern  Development  of  Bournemouth — A 
Good  Bag — Trouble  with  the  Steamers — Rocks  in  Bourne- 
mouth Bay — Dogfish — Pollack — Kent — Ramsgate  and  a 
Failure — Deal  and  Its  Competitions — The  Admiralty  Pier  and 
Other  Spots  at  Dover — Changes  at  that  Port — Early  History 
of  the  British  Sea  Anglers'  Society. 

IN  order  to  stretch  this  retrospect  to  that  quarter 
of  a  century  which  is  commonly  accepted  as  the 
minimum  range  allowed  to  the  vanity  of  auto- 
biography, I  must  conjure  up  dim  memories  of 
the  Lowestoft  quays  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  eighty,  where,  close  beside  a  drawbridge,  that 
was  usually  open  when  one  had  to  catch  a  train, 
we  angled,  unsuccessfully  for  the  most  part  but 
with  the  application  of  zealots,  for  the  smelts  that 
foregathered  among  the  piles.  A  fond  parent 
misspent  much  of  his  leisure  in  holding  firmly  to 

31 


32  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

my  trousers  in  order  that  I  might  not  be  drowned 
in  the  dock.  I  have  often  thought  that  if  in  a 
drowsy  moment  he  had  relaxed  his  hold  ....  so 
have  others;  but  it  is  too  late  for  vain  regrets. 
The  smelts  are  recalled  only  as  few  and  far  between, 
also  as  occasioning  much  unpleasantness  with 
a  typical  Mrs.  Lirriper  who  did  not  like  the  job 
of  cooking  such  fry  ;  but  the  rod  I  shall  never  for- 
get. Since  those  unsophisticated  days  the  same 
hands,  grown  stronger  and  more  difficult  to  please, 
have  grasped  all  manner  of  length  and  weight, 
of  bamboo,  greenheart,  hickory,  yet  never  again 
so  strange  an  implement  as  we  used  for  those 
Lowestoft  atherines,  a  Japanese  pattern,  each 
joint  of  which  packed  within  the  next,  and  the 
whole  into  the  butt  from  which  it  could  be  ex- 
pelled telescope  fashion  by  blowing  down  a  hole. 
When  not  actually  employed  in  its  legitimate 
work,  such  a  rod  afforded  endless  variety  and 
recreation  by  being  discharged  against  the  ears 
of  friends  and  acquaintances,  who  received  the 
salute  according  to  their  individual  temperament, 
but  when  a  cousin  had  missed  the  loss  of  one 
eye  by  about  an  eighth  of  an  inch,  these  innocent 
pleasures  were  sternly  interdicted.  Sea-fishing 
for  sport  has  been  taken  more  seriously  in  the 
years  that  have  since  elapsed,  but,  though  I  have 
since  visited  Lowestoft' s  marine  laboratory,  in 
which  Mr.  Garstang  sifts  the  evidence  of  North 


EARLY  MEMORIES  33 

Sea  investigations,  I  shall  always  remember 
the  place  five  and-twenty  years  ago.  Always, 
alas,  I  shall  associate  its  quays  with  the  merry 
laughter  of  one  who  fished  beside  me,  and  who 
later  played  for  his  school  at  Lord's,  but 
whom  the  gods  loved  too  well  to  leave  with  us 
below. 

It  cannot  be  pretended  that  those  early  fishing 
memories  are  very  vivid,  for  my  diaries  date  back 
only  as  far  as  1885,  and  the  previous  period  has 
left  few  landmarks.  There  was  some  primitive 
pier-fishing  at  Bournemouth  in  the  summer  after 
the  Lowestoft  visit,  chiefly  for  sand-smelts  and 
flat-fish.  Save  when  an  affectionate  relation  could 
be  persuaded  to  finance  a  day's  boat,  which  used 
to  mean  half-a-crown  an  hour,  an  extortion  miti- 
gated more  recently  by  the  energy  of  the  British 
Sea  Anglers'  Committee  and  its  agents  round  the 
coast,  those  early  memories  are  bound  up  with 
piers  and  harbours,  Bournemouth,  Hastings, 
Bognor,  Littlehampton  and  Portsmouth  among 
the  rest.  The  summer  of  1882  was  spent  far  from 
the  noisy  shore,  on  gliding  stretches  of  the  winding 
Mole,  near  Esher,  where  I  succeeded  in  catching 
a  number  of  very  small  roach,  and  failed  to  account 

I  for  a  single  very  large  pike,  of  which  I  dreamed  all 
through  my  holidays.  For  the  rest  of  the  early 
eighties,  in  fact  for  the  next  three  summers, 
Hastings  Pier  was  the  scene  of  much  slaughter 
4 -(2272) 


EARLY  MEMORIES  35 

of  whiting-pout,  a  confiding  fish  that,  to  my  un- 
spoilt taste,  gave  capital  sport  on  a  light  rod  and 
fine  gut  tackle.  Early  and  late  on  half  a  hundred 
August  mornings  I  would  squeeze  under  the 
turnstiles  before  the  official  hour  of  opening,  a 
breach  of  the  bye-laws  with  which  I  reconciled 
a  not  too  squeamish  conscience  by  the  reflection 
that  I  held  a  monthly  ticket.  The  fishing  was  of 
the  simplest  and  never  frustrated  our  modest  am- 
bitions. The  rod  was  put  together  on  the  upper 
deck,  for  fear  of  losing  a  joint  through  the  grating 
down  below,  and  the  small  hooks  on  the  gut  pater- 
noster were  baited  with  fragments  of  peeled  boiled 
shrimp  or  raw  mussel.  Then  a  favourite  position 
was  chosen  with  due  regard  to  the  direction  of 
the  wind  and  set  of  the  tide,  and  within  an  hour 
or  two  the  wicker  creel  was  once  more  too  full  of 
bronze  pout  for  the  lid  to  shut  down.  The  best 
of  these  were  fried  for  luncheon  or  even,  when  I 
could  tear  myself  from  the  waterside  in  time,  for 
breakfast,  at  which  meal,  eaten  within  a  few 
minutes  of  their  having  swum  to  their  destruction, 
they  were  much  better  eating  than  many  a  more 
pretentious  fish  bought  several  days  after  it  is 
caught.  As  one  of  the  rock-dwelling  fish  not 
commonly  caught  in  the  trawl,  the  pout  is  rarely 
seen  at  the  fishmonger's,  in  spite  of  which  it  is, 
if  perhaps  less  delicate  food  for  the  convalescent 
stomach,  quite  as  agreeable  eating  as  the  true 


36 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


whiting  and  rather  less  insipid.  On  some  parts  of 
the  Sussex  coast,  it  is  true,  the  trawlers  fish  over 
the  rough  ground,  but  even  so  they  catch  few 
pout.  In  Cornwall,  on  the  other  hand,  some  of 
the  hookers  anchor  their  small  boats  over  favourite 
gulleys  and  catch  these  fish  by  the  hundred,  but 


HASTINGS     PIER 


they  fetch  only  a  low  price  and  are  invariably 
bought  up  by  the  "  jowders,"  who  retail  them 
among  the  farms  and  villages  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. I  have  caught  pout  in  Cornwall  weighing 
a  couple  of  pounds,  and  at  Folkestone  I  lately 
saw  one  brought  ashore  that  must  have  weighed 
more  than  three,  but  one  of  half-a-pound  was  a 
monster  in  those  days  under  Hastings  Pier. 


EARLY  MEMORIES  37 

The  only  other  fishes  that  we  lads  used  to  catch 
there  was  an  occasional  lean  plaice  or,  after  a 
spell  of  east  wind,  a  weever,  evil  incarnate,  which 
was  treated  with  either  foolhardy  indifference  or 
exaggerated  terror.  One  man  I  remember  to 
this  day  with  respect.  He  used,  all  through  the 
August  of  1884,  to  catch  large  bass  at  high  tide, 


THE    BEACH,    HASTINGS 

some  of  them  fine  fish.  Baiting  with  squid,  which 
he  was  known  to  procure  from  the  trawlers  that 
send  their  harvest  ashore  each  morning  opposite 
the  fishmarket,  he  used  a  couple  of  handlines, 
always  fishing  inside  the  pier,  among  the  piles.  On 
calm  days,  morning  or  afternoon  as  the  tide  suited, 
he  would  take  off  his  shoes  and  socks,  roll  up  his 
breeches  above  the  knee,  and  stand  in  the  water 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  east  stage.  Whether  his 


38  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

purpose  was  to  get  clear  of  the  crowd,  or  to  reach 
deeper  water,  we  never  asked,  but  the  plan  suc- 
ceeded, and  day  after  day  he  earned  our  unappre- 
ciated adoration  by  stalking  off  the  pier  with  several 
good  fish.  I  always  respected  not  so  much  his 
success,  which  was  due  solely  to  the  deadly  bait 
which  he  alone  used  at  the  time,  as  his  indifference 
to  the  chaff  launched  at  his  bare  legs  by  envious 
rivals,  or  by  such  festive  trippers  as  herded  on  the 
upper  deck.  Had  these  latter  indeed  been  con- 
tent with  launching  chaff  only,  all  might  have 
been  well.  But  the  August  excursionist  of  the 
roughest  type  always  was  a  muddy  knave,  and  not 
all  the  solicitude  of  a  County  Council,  which  places 
Charles  Lamb  on  the  Index  Expurgatorius  of 
school  prizes,  can  do  much  to  mend  him. 

Fifteen  years  later  I  came  across  another  case 
of  profitable  contempt  of  the  carping  crowd,  this 
time  at  Littlehampton,  where  a  crafty  angler 
waded,  without  regard  to  the  jeering  of  the  Philis- 
tine, out  into  the  surf  and  there,  casting  with 
some  bait,  of  which  he  contrived  to  keep  the  secret, 
more  than  once  caught  a  creel  load  of  bass  and  other 
fish.  In  sea-fishing  at  any  rate,  though  a  respect 
for  local  methods  is  not  always  out  of  place,  he 
often  succeeds  who  throws  tradition  to  the  winds. 

Those  were  happy  mudlarking  days  at  Hastings 
twenty  years  ago.  Of  clothing  we  wore  no  more 
than  decency  prescribed  ;  if  anything,  rather  less  ; 


EARLY  MEMORIES  39 

and  if  more  bait  was  urgently  needed  before  the 
turn  of  the  tide,  off  sped  one  of  the  company  to 
the  fishmonger's  in  Robertson  Street,  without 
wasting  the  precious  moments  in  replacing  shoes 
and  stockings  that  had  been  removed  that  he 
might  fish  far  from  the  dry- footed  crowd.  Hastings 
Pier  knew  me  and  my  tackle  at  intervals  down  to 
the  year  1889,  since  which  time  I  have  not  passed 
its  turnstiles  at  any  rate  in  angling  mood.  One 
afternoon  that  August,  when  the  discoloured 
waves  were  still  rolling  in  after  a  three  days'  gale 
from  the  south-west,  I  baited  a  throw-out  line 
with  half  a  bloater  and  flung  it  out  in  the  surf. 
Within  five  minutes  it  stiffened  out,  as  if  it  had 
got  foul  of  a  torpedo,  and  I  soon  had  a  lively 
conger  of  six  or  seven  pounds  slipping  about  on 
the  gratings.  So  grisly  a  prey  would  not  evoke 
raptures  to-day,  but  it  is  when  we  are  grown  more 
fastidious  in  our  sport  that  we  recall  with  regret 
the  unsophisticated  times  when  that  delighted 
which  might  now  disgust.  Anyhow,  I  killed  the 
conger  before  an  admiring  crowd  and  stalked  off 
the  pier  as  proud  as  if  I  had  found  an  okapi. 
(This  is  a  shocking  anachronism,  for  which  Sir 
Harry  Johnston  will  hardly  forgive  me,  but  it 
conveys  some  idea  of  my  pride.)  Nor  was  the 
congei  done  with,  for  a  slice  of  it  figured  that 
night  in  a  very  excellent  brown  stew  with  sweet 
herbs,  which  my  landlord,  sometime  cook  in  a 


40  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

mess  at  Gib.,  contrived  to  make  out  of  such 
unpromising  material. 

The  next  day,  the  same  line,  indeed  the  same 
hook,  gave  me  a  keen  disappointment,  which  was 
however,  no  more  than  I  deserved.  In  the  brutal 
fashion  of  pier-fishing  of  those  days,  I  lowered 
the  greater  part  of  a  fresh  herring  on  the  hook, 
made  all  fast,  then  went  upstairs  to  buy  a  paper, 
or  light  a  cigarette  or  something  equally  irrelevant. 
Thither,  almost  immediately,  flew  a  breathless 
attendant  with  the  intelligence  that  there  was 
something  pulling  at  my  line  "  like  the  devil." 
There  was  hardly  enough  line  out  for  his  diagnosis 
of  the  disturbance  to  be  taken  literally,  so  I  sus- 
pected a  bass.  Sure  enough,  a  fine  fellow,  thirty 
inches  or  so  by  the  looks  of  him,ten  or  twelve  pounds 
weight  by  the  pull,  was  soon  brought  struggling 
to  the  surface.  The  manner  of  his  undoing  re- 
flected no  credit  on  either  of  us,  but,  if  he  had 
been  over  greedy,  he  was  now  over-strong.  Having 
fretted  the  hook  against  the  post,  a  favourite 
trick  with  bass,  if  allowed  enough  slack  line,  he 
gave  a  final  wrench  and,  just  as  the  pier-master 
gave  him  a  stab  with  the  gaff  that  only  hastened 
matters,  he  fell  back  with  a  splash  that  brought  a 
sympathetic  groan  from  the  bystanders. 

Memory  recalls  a  similar  wave  of  unappreciated 
sympathy  amid  very  different  scenes.  Instead 
of  a  south  coast  pier  in  the  strong  light  of  an 


EARLY  MEMORIES  41 

August  morning,  the  scene  shifts  to  the  poop  of 
the  R.M.S.  "  Oceana  "  lying  at  anchor  in  the  moon- 
lit stillness  of  Largs  Bay,  Adelaide.  Just  as  the 
dressing-bugle  sounded  for  dinner,  a  line,  which 
I  had  fitted  up  with  a  hook  on  treble  wire  and 
baited  with  a  whole  mullet  from  the  ice-chest, 
was  pulled  out  of  my  hand  and  sped  away  over 
the  side,  being  brought  up  only  where  it  was  made 
fast  to  a  rail.  Once  or  twice  I  managed  to  shift 
the  other  party  a  few  yards  nearer  the  surface, 
but  invariably  he  tired  of  such  promotion  and 
sank  back  irresistibly  to  the  depths.  The  second 
bugle  went  ;  the  passengers  went  below  to  dinner  ; 
the  moon  rose  over  the  bay.  And  still  I  stood  by 
the  line,  growing  more  excited  every  moment, 
for  the  captive  showed  signs  of  approaching  ex- 
haustion, and,  as  it  did  not  behave  like  any  shark 
of  my  acquaintance,  I  began  to  hope  that  it  might 
be  something  eatable,  which  would  at  any  rate 
compensate  for  the  mess  which  its  despatch  might 
soon  make  on  deck.  Alas,  I  was  still  ignorant 
of  the  gifts  that  Australian  seas  hold  for  those 
who  woo  them  with  bait.  What  I  had  in  fact 
secured  as  the  price  of  my  dinner  was  a  gigantic 
sting-ray,  for,  just  as  the  passengers  trooped  along 
the  deck  from  the  saloon  companion,  I  brought  it 
to  the  surface,  gleaming  white  in  the  moonbeams, 
its  long  tail  thrashing  the  molten  silver  like  a  flail. 
A  crowd  soon  gathered  about  me,  and  that,  of 


42  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

course,  was  the  beginning  of  the  end,  though, 
when  I  come  to  contemplate  any  other  sequel, 
it  seems  impossible  that  the  captain  could  have 
viewed*  with  equanimity  his  trim  decks  being  made 
a  shambles  for  such  dirty  prey.  But  the  captain's 
courtesy  was  not  put  to  so  severe  a  test.  With 
some  difficulty,  in  the  face  of  expert  advice  from 
about  fifty  people,  the  only  two  who  really  gave 
me  any  help  being  both  dead  and  gone  (Aubrey 
Harcourt  and  another),  I  steered  the  now  dis- 
pirited ray  round  to  the  port  gangway,  which 
was  down  for  such  passengers  as  might  return 
late  from  Adelaide,  and  the  ship's  butcher,  a 
brawny  zealot  with  a  fearful  knife,  stepped  down 
to  stab  the  fish  and,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
and  as  was  perhaps  best  for  all  parties  concerned, 
severed  the  line  in  his  haste.  Belly  upwards, 
with  not  another  kick  left  in  him,  the  great  ray, 
which  looked  about  the  area  of  a  full-sized  bil- 
liard table,  sank  slowly  out  of  sight,  the  moon 
showing  its  whereabouts  to  the  last.  Once  again 
the  disappointed  fisherman  was  the  recipient  of 
that  beautiful  and  inexpensive  gift,  sympathy. 
Anglers  are  churlish  knaves  and  do  not  always 
appreciate  it  as  they  ought.  They  sometimes 
use  opprobrious  language  when  condoled  with 
over  a  broken  cast.  And  fishing  is  called  the 
gentle  craft ! 

But  I  digress.     When  we  were  not  fishing  from 


EARLY  MEMORIES  43 

Hastings  Pier,  rambles  among  the  rocks,  which 
the  ebb  tide  uncovers  over  a  considerable  area 
along  the  Sussex  foreshore,  gave  us  both  bait  and 
recreation  in  getting  it.  Mussels,  limpets  and 
crabs,  both  hermit-crabs  and  the  green  kind  just 
changing  its  shell,  were  the  chief  contributions. 
The  soft-backed  green  crab  is  irresistible  and 
defenceless,  and  is  in  fact  promptly  swallowed  by 
any  fish  that  encounters  it,  acting  no  doubt  on 
that  principle  of  universal  brotherhood,  which 
Prince  Kropotkin  has  so  touchingly  described  as 
permeating  the  animal  world.  Lugworms,  a  dis- 
gusting, though  deadly,  bait  for  almost  every 
kind  of  fish,  were  dug  in  quantity  by  the  long- 
liners  on  the  sandflats  out  near  Bopeep  and  Bex- 
hill,  but  we  could  procure  enough  for  our  purpose 
on  the  sands  among  the  rocks.  Our  only  diffi- 
culty in  this  quest  was  with  the  bathing-machine 
proprietors,  who  declared,  not  unreasonably,  that 
our  worming  forays  left  pitfalls  that  would  drive 
their  clients  elsewhere.  The  schoolboy,  happy, 
primitive  savage,  finds  pleasure  even  in  digging 
a  lugworm  from  its  lair.  Twenty  years  later  he 
would  sooner  write  out  a  thousand  Greek  lines. 
Still,  there  is  a  moment's  interest  when,  having 
dug  deep  enough,  you  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
unsavoury  recluse  disappearing  in  his  burrow,  like 
a  train  entering  a  tunnel.  You  drop  the  spade, 
fall  on  your  knees  beside  the  shaft  and,  thrusting 


44  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

your  arm  into  the  wet  sand  up  to  the  shoulder, 
grip  him  firmly  but  lightly  between  your  fingers 
and  draw  him  forth  without  even  breaking  his 
tail,  which  comes  away  like  a  lizard's  if  roughly 
handled. 

Another  form  of  "  sport  "  among  those  rocks 
was  the  setting  of  "  night-hooks/'  A  single  hook 
was  attached  by  four  feet  of  watercord  to  the 
middle  of  a  stick  of  firewood.  The  hook  was 
baited  with  a  dab's  head,  and  the  stick  buried  a 
foot  deep  in  the  wet  sand  near  low-water  mark. 
Next  tide,  we  were  down  there,  waiting  for  the 
water  to  uncover  the  grounds,  that  we  might  go 
the  round  like  Indian  trappers,  and  occasionally 
(very  occasionally)  hope  told  a  flattering  tale,  for, 
ere  the  tide  was  quite  out,  we  could  descry  the 
struggles  of  some  tethered  captive,  pulling  in  vain 
against  the  halter.  I  shame  to  say  that  on  one 
occasion  a  bass  of  nearly  10  Ibs.  was  taken  by 
this  barbarous  method.  Boys  will  be  boys,  of 
course,  but  they  should  be  lightly  caned  when  they 
develop  poaching  tricks  of  this  sort. 

With  the  exception  of  an  uneventful  outing 
now  and  then  in  a  boat,  the  only  other  fishing  that 
I  recall  at  Hastings  in  those  days  was  from  the 
East  Groyne.  From  it  we  used  to  catch  both 
conger  and  freshwater  eels,  the  latter,  which  breed 
only  in  the  sea,  having  no  doubt  found  their  way 
westward  from  Rye  harbour.  Many  doubt  the 


EARLY  MEMORIES 


45 


necessity  of  salt  water  for  spawning  eels,  yet  not 
so  many,  after  all,  as  doubted  Galileo.  We  had 
to  use  stout  handlines,  and  the  two  elements  of 
interest  in  those  excursions  were  first  the  contin- 
ual fouling  of  our  tackle  in  the  rocks,  from  which 


HASTINGS,    FROM    THE    CLIFF 

they  were  recovered  by  other  folk  at  low  tide,  and, 
secondly,  the  adroitness  with  which  some  of  the 
fishermen's  lads  aimed  stones  at  us  from  seemingly 
inaccessible  ledges  on  the  face  of  the  cliff;  By 
great  good  luck,  a  belated  member  of  this  gilded 
youth  was  caught  red-handed  by  a  couple  of  out- 
raged sportsmen  less  than  a  week  after  one  of 


46  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

them  had  removed  the  bandages  from  a  cracked 
face,  and  the  straggler  was,  in  my  presence,  so 
effectually  massaged  that  the  assault  and  battery 
ceased  from  that  day.  Must  I  be  quite  frank  ? 
Much  of  the  charm  went  out  of  those  expeditions 
under  the  new  regime.  Schoolboys,  like  women, 
need  excitement ;  and  what  the  chance  of  win- 
ning money  at  bridge  is  to  the  ladies,  the  chance 
of  a  broken  head  in  a  street  fight  is  to  the  lads. 

Very  different  were  the  conditions  of  the  mild 
sport  that  we  had  from  the  pier  at  Bognor.  At 
that  resort  the  tide  recedes  so  far  at  times  that 
bathers  have  to  wade  a  good  half-mile  nearer  to 
France  before  they  can  get  depth  enough  to  swim 
in.  The  water  alongside  the  pier  is  very  shallow. 
No  steamers  come  (or,  in  1886,  came)  so  close  in, 
so  that  flat-fish  gathered  there  in  quantity,  and 
they  could  be  seen  taking  the  lugworm  off  the  hook. 
I  used  also  to  watch,  and  even  imitate,  the  local 
amusement  of  spinning  for  bass  from  the  side  of 
the  pier,  the  spinner  being  simply  let  down  on 
a  line  and  carried  out  by  the  tide.  During  a  stay 
of  six  weeks  I  saw  exactly  one  bass,  a  small  fish, 
taken  in  this  manner,  by  a  stranger. 

Bognor,  if  a  wretched  fishing  station  in  itself, 
was  at  least  a  convenient  centre  from  which  to 
make  expeditions  east  to  Littlehampton  and  west 
to  Chichester.  At  the  former  I  fished  according 
to  text-book  for  grey  mullet  and,  according  to 


EARLY  MEMORIES  47 

nature,  caught  wrasse  of  larger  size  than  any 
others  I  ever  caught  in  this  country,  save  at  the 
mouth  of  Dartmouth  Harbour,  where,  six  years 
later,  I  took  some  of  great  weight  during  a  cruise  on 
an  uncle's  steam-yacht.  To  Littlehampton  I  paid 
another  visit  eleven  years  later,  which  may  as 
wrell  be  dismissed  here,  though  out  of  its  chrono- 
logical order.  On  that  occasion  I  stayed  at  that 
uninspiring  port  for  six  weeks,  solely  to  catch  grey 
mullet,  and  did  not  catch  one.  Day  after  day  I 
was  up  before  the  sun  and  soon  busy  fishing  either 
in  my  boat  with  Pelham,  made  fast  to  the  east 
extension  works,  or  out  on  the  beacon  in  company 
with  a  number  of  gentlemen,  who  reside  in  the 
town  and  reduce  mullet-fishing  to  a  science.  I 
reduced  it  to  nothing  beyond  the  capture  of  about 
two  hundred  undersized  bass,  wrasse,  pipe-fish, 
blennies  and  river-eels,  live  stock  in  sufficient 
number  and  variety  to  start  an  aquarium  on, 
but  of  mullet  never  a  sign.  Nor  were  my  visits 
to  Arundel  after  gigantic  bass  any  happier  in  their 
results.  On  that  peaceful,  though  hurrying, 
stream  I  sat  through  more  than  one  tide  with 
Slaughter,  a  propitious  cognomen  which  events 
proved  highly  inappropriate.  A  lively  dace  was 
pitched  on  pike-tackle  among  the  reeds,  and 
Slaughter  encouraged  me  with  the  imminent  pros- 
pect of  a  bass  about  a  yard  long.  All,  he  said, 
that  was  necessary  was  that  there  should  still  be 


48  .  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

salt  water  enough  in  that  reach ;  and  from  the 
moment  the  tide  turned  to  ebb  he  continually 
tested  this  by  dipping  his  finger  in  the  river  and 
putting  it  to  his  lips.  This,  no  doubt,  lent  a  real- 
istic touch  to  the  proceedings,  but  we  should  have 
killed  just  as  many  bass  in  Arundel  Cathedral, 
and  from  each  attempt  I  went  home  ever  sadder, 
but  never  wiser.  At  Chichester,  the  canal  was 
the  attraction.  More  power  to  those  who  hold 
railway  stock,  canals  are  not  a  great  success  in 
this  country  as  regards  their  original  purpose, 
but  to  anglers  they  are  of  considerable  use.  In 
the  canal  at  Chichester  we  used  to  catch  heaps 
of  small  roach  and  bream,  and  occasionally  a  fish 
of  better  size,  while  grunting  eels  serenaded  us 
those  warm  summer  evenings  from  their  mud- 
holes  beneath  the  opposite  bank. 

Bournemouth  in  1888  was  vastly  altered  from 
our  memories  of  it  seven  years  earlier,  but  the 
pier-fishing  had  not  improved  with  the  rest, 
though  the  sand-smelts  were  as  plentiful  and  as 
confiding  as  ever.  Improved  finances  permitted 
of  more  boating,  and,  with  or  without  my  favourite 
henchman,  Maynard,  I  made  a  few  good  catches, 
chiefly  near  the  outlet  of  the  sewer,  beyond  the 
pier-head.  Only  twice  in  my  life  have  I  con- 
sciously fished  near  such  an  attraction,  at  Bourne- 
mouth, and  on  the  coast  of  Australia.  Even  the 
latter  memory  lies  buried  under  the  ashes  of  ten 


EARLY  MEMORIES  49 

years  of  contrition,  and  in  future  I  shall  sacrifice 
fish  to  atmosphere.  But  I  anticipate.  Maynard, 
a  bearded  mariner  of  Guernsey  origin,  has  since 
those  days  found  in  regular  service  in  Borough 
employ  relief  from  the  more  precarious  livelihood 
of  owning  boats  for  hire.  Bournemouth  indeed 
bears  some  resemblance  to  the  East  in  the  multi- 
tudes of  its  public  servants.  It  takes  about  five 
men  and  a  boy  to  measure  the  front  of  a  shop  or 
the  distance  between  two  lamp-posts,  so  that  the 
Borough  survey  runs  no  risk  of  lacking  efficient 
checking. 

What  the  quality  of  the  sport  round  that 
sewer  may  be  nowadays  I  have  no  personal 
knowledge,  though,  judging  from  the  num- 
ber of  boats  and  birds  that  assemble  there  in 
fine  weather,  it  still  seems  as  safe  a  draw 

as  one   of  Mr. o's    plays.      I    do   not     press 

the  comparison.  Alas,  that  we  fishermen  lack 
the  broadmindedness  of  theatrical  managers 
and  grow  too  nice  to  appreciate  the  irresistible 
groundbaiting  afforded  by  a  sewer  !  Perchance 
we  were  better  sportsmen  in  those  fragrant  days 
when  we  steeled  our  senses,  anchored  as  near  the 
fish  as  possible,  and  played  the  dashing  mackerel 
and  resisting  plaice  on  the  lightest  of  tackle.  One 
day  that  August  I  fished  with  a  Frenchman  for 
several  hours,  and  our  boat  came  back  to  the 
pier  probably  rather  more  than  80  Ibs.  heavier  than 

5—  2272) 


50  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

it  had  left  it  in  the  morning.  As  some  indication 
of  the  greedy  manner  in  which  the  fish  were  biting 
that  day,  I  may  mention  that  my  camarade  lost 
a  plaice,  which  carried  away  a  yard  of  gut  and 
three  hooks  ;  and  then  he  recaught  the  fish,  tackle 
and  all,  less  than  half  an  hour  afterwards. 

The  only  drawback  of  that  ground  (the  sewer 
we  accounted  in  those  days  of  singleness  of  pur- 
pose a  distinct  gain)  was  that  it  lay  in  the  track 
of  steamers  calling  at  the  pier.  When  backing 
out  to  change  the  course  for  either  Swanage  or 
the  Island,  these  would  at  times  nearly  swamp  the 
anchored  boats,  though  a  little  care  and  courtesy 
on  the  part  of  the  captains  might  easily  have  given 
us  a  wide  berth.  Eight  years  later,  one  of  the 
skippers,  whose  course  is  run,  nearly  upset  my 
boat  with  his  wash  and  so  alarmed  a  lady  who 
was  fishing  with  me  that  I  reported  him  to  his 
owners  and  had  him  cautioned  against  a  repetition 
of  such  buffoonery.  I  mind  him  well,  a  red- 
headed fellow  ;  and  his  remarks  on  the  occasion 
of  his  reprimand  were  classical. 

It  was  not  until  1897  that,  in  company  with 
another  enthusiast,  who  owned  a  most  convenient 
Berthon  boat,  I  varied  this  sewer-fishing  with 
investigations  of  the  rocky  grounds  off  Durley 
Chine  and  further  west,  where  we  caught  pout 
and  conger  and  one  or  two  good  sized-dogfish, 
mostly  of  the  kind  called  nurses,  some  of  which 


EARLY  MEMORIES 


51 


were  embarrassing  neighbours  in  so  fragile  a  craft. 
There  must  have  been  something  more  humor- 
ous than  we  at  the  time  recognised  in  the  picture 


EARLY   MORNING   AT    FOLKESTONE 


of  two  men  sitting  bare-legged  in  an  anchored 
Berthon,  their  knees  drawn  up  under  their  chat- 
tering teeth  and  the  rough  back  of  a  lusty  dogfish 
squirming  about  their  ankles  !  With  pollack  we 
never  had  any  notable  success  that  season,  though 


52 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


three  years  earlier,  with  another  friend,  home  on 
furlough  from  Rangoon,  I  caught  several  on  the 
long  June  evenings,  whiffing  over  the  rocky  ground. 
We  used  either  rubber  eels  or  salmon-flies,  the 
latter  extravagance  being  learnt  from  Alderman 
Newlyn,  several  times  Mayor  of  the  Borough  and 
a  very  keen  fisherman. 


RAMSGATE    AT    DAYBREAK 


Of  late  years  the  coast  of  Kent,  thanks  chiefly 
to  the  popularity  of  Deal  with  London  anglers, 
has  assumed  great  importance  in  the  annals  of 
the  sport.  Odd  days  of  luck  I  have  had  there,  as 
well  as  at  Margate,  Ramsgate,  Dover  and  Folkes- 
tone, but  the  county  has  not  treated  me  as  well 
as  some  further  west.  My  brightest  memory  of 
Ramsgate  is  of  the  last  week  of  May,  1889,  a  brief 


EARLY  MEMORIES  53 

respite  after  months  of  cramming  at  high  pressure 
for  the  I.C.S.  Open  Competition,  which,  under 
the  old  regulations,  began  on  the  first  of  June. 
The  fishing,  close  to  a  buoy  outside  the  harbour, 
was  successful ;  the  examination  was  not.  That 
failure  rankled  for  fifteen  years,  until  a  distin- 
guished Indian  Civilian,  my  neighbour  at  some 
literary  dinner  or  other,  congratulated  me  on  my 
failure  on  the  ground  that  men  of  my  complexion 
always  "  went  a  mucker  "  in  the  East.  Whether 
allusion  was  intended  to  whiskey-pegs  or  fever,  I 
do  not  remember  having  asked,  but  his  assurance 
that  ten  years  of  India  would  probably  have  done 
for  me  was  comforting,  even  had  other  consolation 
been  wanting. 

From  Deal  Pier  I  have  done  both  summer  and 
winter  fishing,  though  I  never,  as  already  stated, 
took  part  in  those  monster  competitions,  which 
have  brought  a  little  fame  and  fortune  to  that 
ancient  town.  No  useful  purpose  can  be  served 
by  criticising,  from  a  purely  personal,  and  perhaps 
eccentric,  standpoint  functions  which  afford  much 
harmless  amusement.  I  simply  do  not  like  them, 
but  the  reason  why,  I  cannot  tell.  I  cannot, 
however,  let  the  opportunity  pass  of  criticising 
what  has  always  seemed  to  me  an  extraordinary 
condition  of  the  weigh-in.  It  is  that  dogfish  are 
not  allowed  to  count.  Why  not  ?  Surely,  the 
test  of  skill  is  not  the  capture  of  fishes  that  are 


54  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

best  to  eat ;  and,  if  it  were,  I  fancy  that  dogfish 
have  far  more  admirers  than,  for  instance,  pollack. 
It  is  not  possible  for  the  most  skilful  fisherman 
to  prevent  a  dogfish  seizing  his  bait,  and  when  it 
does  so  it  requires  just  as  much  patience  and 
adroitness  to  play  and  kill  it  as  any  other  fish  of 
the  same  size.  The  unfairness  of  such  a  regula- 
tion is  that  a  competitor's  boat  may,  through  no 
fault  of  either  his  or  his  boatman's,  be  anchored 
over  a  shoal  of  dogfish,  and  he  may  waste  half  his 
day  playing  and  unhooking  the  vermin  without 
getting  any  nearer  his  goal.  As  I  have  already 
owned  to  taking  no  personal  interest  in  these 
functions,  such  dispassionate  criticism  may  be 
regarded  as  gratuitous,  but  the  condition  seems 
to  me  likely  to  operate  unequally,  and  on  that 
ground  alone  I  have  ventured  to  take  exception  to 
it.  That  crabs  and  mussels  should  be  excluded 
seems  equitable,  since  it  would  be  possible  by 
leaving  a  large  bait  lying  on  the  rocks  to  catch 
quantities  of  the  former,  and  a  bare  hook,  with  no 
bait  at  all,  would,  skilfully  manipulated,  dredge 
pounds  of  the  latter.  But  to  shut  out  the  dogfish 
which  takes  a  bait  in  the  same  way  as  other 
kinds  that  count,  seems  to  me  an  arbitrary  rule 
calling  for  at  any  rate  explanation. 

At  Dover  I  fished  a  good  deal  in  the  spring  and 
summer  of  1892  while  staying  with  an  old  and 
valued  friend,  Surgeon-General  Paske,  a  survivor 


EARLY  MEMORIES  55 

of  some  of  the  hot  scenes  in  the  Mutiny  and  a 
devoted  sea-fisherman.  He  has  never  deserted 
Dover,  and  has  since  those  days  caught  fine  bass 
and  pollack,  as  well  as  some  of  the  few  grey  mullet 
ever  taken  on  a  rod  in  the  Granville  Dock.  Thanks 
to  his  acquaintance  with  the  powers  that  were, 
we  were  allowed  to  fish  from  the  Turret,  then  at 
the  extremity  of  the  Admiralty  Pier,  now  only 
half  way  along  that  structure,  which  has  grown 
to  the  dimensions  of  the  sea-serpent.  We  also 
used  to  hire  a  boat  and  fish  near  a  buoy  under  the 
shadow  of  Shakespeare  Cliff,  in  days  before  finan- 
ciers dreamt  of  Kent  Coal,  and  at  both  places 
we  caught  numbers  of  pollack,  codling  and  whiting. 
That  lofty  pier  was  not  very  convenient  for  fishing, 
though  the  difficulty  of  getting  leave  lent  it  a 
fictitious  value,  and  there  was  of  course  the  advan- 
tage of  immunity  from  the  crowd.  It  was  a  bles- 
sing, difficult  of  exaggeration,  to  be  free  of  the 
ordinary  loafer,  who  is  always  prying  into  baskets, 
always  asking  silly  questions,  his  hand  rarely  out 
of  your  creel,  his  nose  never  out  of  your  face.  The 
many  changes,  which  Government  improvements 
and  other  developments  have  made  in  the  harbour 
have  not  improved  the  sport,  while  the  busy 
trawling  fleet,  that  once  fished  the  Varne  and 
Ridges,  is  all  but  extinct,  only  a  few  fishing  boats 
nowadays  creeping  in  and  out  of  the  dock  gates. 
Those  once  prolific  grounds  have  been  indeed 


56  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

almost  depleted  by  our  friendly  neighbour's  steam- 
trawlers. 

More  than  one  reference  has  been  made  to  the 
British  Sea  Anglers'  Society  ;  and,  as  not  many 
of  the  original  members  continue  to  take  active 
part  in  its  administration,  which  is  nevertheless 
in  the  hands  of  an  energetic  committee  that  it 
would  be  hard  to  equal  and  perhaps  impossible 
to  beat,  it  may  perhaps  be  of  interest  if  I  set  down, 
as  I  have  not  seen  it  given  elsewhere,  a  brief  ac- 
count of  the  circumstances  that  led  to  its  inception 
twelve  years  ago.  Of  these  I  may  be  supposed 
to  have  some  knowledge,  for,  little  use  as  I  have 
been  to  it  during  these  last  few  busy  years,  it  is 
a  matter  of  great  pride  to  me  to  remember  that 
this  prosperous  society,  numbering  over  a  thousand 
members,  had  its  origin  in  a  short  article  which 
I  wrote  on  the  subject  of  such  a  society  in  the  early 
days  of  1892.  The  article  was  offered  to  the  ang- 
ling editor  (now  the  editor)  of  the  Field  and  by 
him  rejected  for  want  of  space.  Sea-angling,  it 
must  be  remembered,  was  not  treated  at  that 
time  with  the  indulgence  accorded  to  it  by  editors 
to-day,  and  Mr.  Senior  had  to  be  careful  not  to  give 
undue  prominence  to  a  comparatively  unknown 
sport.  Later  that  year  a  little  paper  called 
Pleasure,  since  extinct,  projected  a  series  of  articles 
on  Pleasure  Clubs,  and,  as  a  natural  sequence, 
"  Why  not  a  Sea-Fishing  Club  ?  ''  appeared  with 


EARLY  MEMORIES  57 

the  rest.  It  was  read  by  a  very  energetic  journalist 
and  fisherman,  Mr.  Shrubsole,  then  connected 
with  another  sporting  paper,  also  defunct,  but 
very  admirable  at  its  best — I  allude  to  Rod  and 
Gtm,  then  edited  by  Mr.  D.  S.  Meldrum,  and  owned 
by  Mr.  Watson  Lyall — and  he  begged  me  to  con- 
vene a  meeting  that  might  give  shape  to  my  pro- 
posals. "  Fools  step  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread/' 
and  without  a  moment's  hesitation  I  acted  on 
the  suggestion.  The  meeting  was  held  in  a  room 
in  Swallow  Street  on  February  3rd,  1893,  and 
Mr.  C.  H.  Cook,  better  known  in  the  angling  world 
as  John  Bickerdyke,  was  good  enough  to  take  the 
chair.  Among  those  present  was  the  late  Gerald 
Geoghegan,  a  keen  sea-fisherman  and  a  warm 
supporter  of  the  Society  almost  to  the  day  of  his 
tragic  end.  As  a  result  of  the  meeting,  a  provis- 
ional committee  was  formed,  and  within  a  week 
Sir  Edward  Birkbeck,  Bt.,  then  in  the  House  of 
Commons  and  closely  identified  with  the  sea- 
fishing  industry,  was  persuaded  to  accept  the 
presidency.  Mr.  R.  B.  Martin,  M.P.,  was  shortly 
afterwards  elected  Hon.  Treasurer,  and  the  secre- 
tarial duties  fell  to  myself.  In  that  capacity, 
since  a  labour  of  love  always  engages  our  best 
efforts,  I  posted  within  the  next  three  months 
upwards  of  fourteen  hundred  autograph  letters. 
By  the  end  of  March,  the  membership  was  sixty  ; 
a  month  later  it  had  increased  to  one  hundred  and 


58 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


thirty  ;  and  in  the  spring  of  1895,  when,  on  my 
departure  for  the  Colonies,  I  had  to  relinquish  my 
duties  to  a  successor,  we  numbered  over  three 
hundred.  To-day,  thanks  to  the  untiring  labours 
of  an  able  committee,  the  Society  has  upwards 
of  a  thousand  members  and  may  at  length  be 
said  to  be  doing  some  of  the  useful  work,  of  which, 
with  the  limited  material  at  their  disposal,  its 
first  promoters  could  only  dream. 

In  thus  giving  these  few  details  of  the  founding 
of  the  B.S.A.S.,  as  it  likes  to  be  called,  I  have 
anticipated  the  following  chapter  in  point  of  time. 
Most  of  my  fishing  in  the  years  1890  and  1891 
was  done  in  other  seas  than  our  own. 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS 


Ill 

BY  TIDELESS  SEAS 

Two  Memories — Warnemiinde  and  Leghorn — A  Deserted 
Pier — River  and  Sea  Together — A  German4  fUniversity — Ros- 
tock— The  Warnow — Tyranny  of-  Professional  Fishermen— 
An  Expedition  after  Pike — Fellow  Students — The  Season  at 
a  Baltic  Watering  Place — Easy  Fishing — A  Fillet  of  Bream — 
A  Fight  with  an  Octopus — Grey  Mullet  at  Last — A  Night 
with  Dynamite  Bombs — A  Private  Mullet  Stew — Mr.  Sher- 
ingham's  Bridge-fever — Spearing  Muraenas  by  Torchlight— 
A  Stroke  of  Luck  at  Naples. 

As  I  idly  turn  the  leaves  of  those  old  angling 
diaries  of  ninety  and  ninety-one,  two  widely 
different  pictures  come  vividly  before  me.  In 
the  first,  I  am  on  a  pier,  not  unlike  that  at  Little- 
hampton,  past  which  a  river  also  runs  swiftly  to 
the  sea.  But  this  river  flows  north,  and  as  we 
gaze  out  to  sea  towards  the  ending  of  the  day, 
the  sun  is  setting  on  our  left,  behind  Denmark. 
The  gentle  swell  of  waves  that  roll  between  the 
piers  rocks  my  painted  float,  yet  when  this  goes 
boring  under  water  it  is  to  the  pull  of  a  river-bream 
or  perch.  The  gutteral  flow  of  German  falls  not 
too  harshly  on  the  accustomed  ear,  and  each  time 
my  slender  rod  bends  in  the  fray  ejaculations  of 
'  Wunderbar  f  "  "  Donnerwetter  nock  mal !  "  break 
from  those  who  stand  around,  some  mere  specta- 
tors, others  vainly  wooing  with  the  coarsest  of 

63 


64  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

homage  fish  spoilt  for  such  overtures  by  the  fine- 
ness of  my  Redditch-gut.  There  is  no  envy  in 
my  neighbours,  some  of  whom  are  fellow-students 
(alas  for  the  studies  !)  at  the  old  University  round 
the  bend  of  the  river,  and  they  could  scarcely 
feel  more  pleasure  in  catching  these  silly  fish 
themselves  than  they  apparently  derive  from 
watching  me. 

The  view  dissolves,  and  in  its  place  I  dimly  see 
a  white  breakwater  faintly  reminiscent  of  that  at 
Plymouth.  It  is  a  night  of  June,  not  a  common- 
sense,  businesslike  night  of  northern  latitudes, 
but  the  sensuous  night  of  Boccaccio's  rose-gardens, 
a  night  on  which,  as  that  shrewd  and  friendly 
student  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  M.  d'Humieres,  would 
say,  Englishmen  wisely  flee  to  sport  as  sanctuary 
from  greater  mischief.  The  imperfect  darkness 
of  the  summer  sea  cannot  veil  the  silhouette  of 
anchored  feluccas,  while  the  great  inner  harbour 
of  Leghorn  is  sparsely  dotted  with  the  side-lights 
of  anchored  steamers.  These  beacons  of  traffic 
are  fewer  than  of  yore,  for  one  commercial  crisis 
after  another  has  brought  the  port  of  the  Medici 
to  the  verge  of  stagnation,  and  by  day  the  vast 
deserted  quays  painfully  recalled  Hawthorne's 
mournful  picture  of  the  Salem  Customs  House. 
The  flickering  rays  of  a  candle-lamp  at  my  feet 
rest  on  the  queer,  distorted  form  of  a  little  crippled 
barber,  my  constant  companion  on  these  forays. 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  65 

In  that  twisted  shell  dwells  a  sporting  instinct, 
which  abhors  the  easy  slaughter  with  bombs 
preferred  by  many  of  his  compatriots.  He  is 
not  favoured  by  nature,  poor  little  chap.  He  is 
gobbo,  and  he  is  lame,  and  they  say  that  he  is  also 
half-witted.  That  he  is  even  what  the  aristocrat 
in  the  Mikado  called  a  "  very  imperfect  ablu- 
tioner  "  is  apparent  even  in  this  wan  light.  Yet 
as  true  a  sportsman  at  heart  as  ever  I  fished  with, 
and,  for  an  Italian,  a  miracle.  He  never  reviled 
his  Maker  when  luck  went  against  him,  but 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  tried  again.  He  has 
just  hauled  a  kicking  par  ago  on  his  fine  line  of 
black  horsehair,  and  has  affixed  a  wriggling  shrimp 
to  his  hook  for  another  cast  into  the  blackness. 
See,  now,  he  gathers  all  there  is  of  him  together 
for  a  supreme  effort,  and,  though  there  is  no  weight 
to  carry  it,  beyond  that  of  the  hook  and  shrimp, 
the  line  flies  out  over  the  water  to  its  full  length. 
He  is  under  the  sod,  my  gobbo,  these  five  years  and 
more,  as  good  now  as  the  straightest  giant  of  them 
that  lie  up  there  on  the  hill,  where  the  sad  olive 
trees  wave  at  the  edge  of  the  Mediterranean. 

It  was  on  the  edge  of  the  Baltic,  in  the  last 
days  of  March,  1890,  that  I  had  my  first  taste  of 
the  havoc  that  fine  tackle  could  make  among  fish 
absolutely  lacking  in  the  higher  education.  All 
my  sport,  save  a  little  make-believe  in  Boulogne 

6-(2272) 


66  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

Harbour  five  years  earlier,   had  been   at   home, 
where   the   piers   were   so   crowded   with   anglers 
eager   to   impart   information   that   the   listening 
fishes  were  as  clever  then  as  Rhodes  Scholars  are 
to-day.     On  Warnemunde  Pier,  however,  when, 
in  a  couple  of  hours  I  took  at  the  first  effort  nearly 
sixty  good-sized  plaice  and  bullheads,  I  felt  like 
the   First   Man  ravishing  the  innocent   spoils  of 
Nature.     These  silly  fish  were  as  trusting  as  tame 
carp  in   a  pond  ;   naturally  so,   for,   accustomed 
only  to  the  rare  visits  of  summer  anglers  armed 
with  lines  as  thick  as  school  pencils,  they  saw  only 
the   bait     and    had    no   suspicion    of    treachery. 
Some  of  them  weighed  over  2  Ibs.,  and,  as  both 
plaice  and  bullheads  are  long-lived  animals,   all 
the  best  that  I  took  back  with  me  to  Rostock, 
where  I  was  nominally  attending  chemistry  lec- 
tures at  the  University,  leapt  on  the  kitchen  table 
before  being  turned  into  something  more  admira- 
ble than  they  were  by  Nature.    Nor  were  the  fresh- 
water fishes  of  that  estuary  more  difficult  to  lure 
than  their  marine  neighbours.    Four  months  later, 
when  they  had  settled  their  domestic  affairs  and 
had  come  down  to  the  sea  to  recuperate  in  the 
more    tonic  brackish  water  of   the   threshold,   I 
had  the  yet  stranger  experience  of    occasionally 
catching  sea-  and  river-fish  in  successive  casts,  and 
some  of  the  bream  and  perch  were  almost  good 
enough  to  turn  a  Thames  fisherman  in  these  days 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  67 

green  with  envy.  I  recollect  one  August,  in  an 
hour  before  lunch  and  two  hours  of  the  afternoon, 
catching  thirty  of  these  fish  weighing  36  Ibs., 
which  would  be  a  good  account  to  give  of  three 
hours  anywhere  in  England.  Fishing  only  gave 
such  results  when  the  tide  was  running  out  and 
the  river  deposits  thickened  the  water.  At  other 
times,  particularly  just  before  high  water,  the 
estuary  was  so  clear  that  even  my  tackle  rarely 
deceived  the  fish,  while  the  lines  of  my  German 
friends  might  just  as  well  have  been  used  for  flying 
kites. 

I  have  admitted  with  the  callousness  bred  of 
advancing  years,  that  often  enough  I  ought  not 
to  have  been  fishing  on  that  pier  at  all.  I  had 
entered  myself  for  the  "  Semester  "  as  a  student 
of  chemistry,  one  of  the  early  loves  that  jilted 
me  with  the  rest,  at  Rostock  University.  My 
"  Matrikel  "  was  no  very  complicated  installation, 
and,  so  far  as  I  can  recollect,  it  consisted  chiefly 
in  paying  my  respects  to  the  Deacon  of  my  Faculty 
and  my  fees  to  the  "  Qucestor"  after  which  I  was 
duly  enrolled,  and  circulars  daily  came  addressed 

to  me  as  Herrn  Stud.  Chem A  number 

of  lectures  I  honestly  attended,  as  much  for  the 
excellent  practice  they  afforded  in  accustoming 
the  ear  to  technical  German  as  for  the  really  inter- 
esting demonstrations  made  by  the  lecturer,  him- 
self a  favourite  pupil  of  the  great  Bunsen.  The 


68  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

botanising  rambles  were  also  fascinating,  but 
the  resulting  hours  with  the  microscope,  when 
lovely  flowers  were  vivisected  and  their  fragments 
labelled  with  appalling  designations  that  sounded 
like  Homeric  oaths,  put  me  out  of  conceit  with 
academic  botany.  When  neither  attending  lectures 
nor  fishing,  I  was  acquiring  a  wide  range  of 
idiomatic  German,,  salon  and  cellar  alike  contribu- 
ting to  a  vocabulary  that  has  since  served  me  at 
odd  times  ;  learning  how  to  ride  bareback  in  a 
manege  presided  over  by  a  rough  but  most  efficient 
ex-Uhlan  for  instructor  ;  or  dreaming  away  the 
days  in  a  little  boat  that  I  kept  on  the  further 
side  of  the  river,  whence  I  would  look  up  from 
some  puzzling  passage  in  the  Leiden  des  Jungen 
Werthers  or  Wahlverwandtschaften  to  watch  the 
sunbeams  move  along  the  Lutheran  spires  of  that 
pious  Hanseatic  burgh.  Now  and  again,  the 
University  would  hold  me  for  a  week  of  days,  or 
growing  confidence  in  the  saddle  would  lend 
delight  to  long  rides  over  pitiless  white  chaussees, 
past  farmhouse  and  barracks,  between  endless 
fields  marked  only  by  heaps  of  stones,  since  your 
Mecklenburger  dreads  hedges  as  harbouring  both 
birds  and  insects  hostile  to  agriculture.  Econo- 
mically perhaps  he  has  reason  on  his  side  ;  but  oh, 
the  horror  of  that  unbroken  landscape  ! 

On  the  whole,  however,  that  lair  among  the 
sighing  reeds  was  first  favourite,  though  on  days 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  69 

when  the  tide  suited,  we  would  cast  loose  the 
painter  and  drift,  on  the  last  of  the  ebb,  past 
timber-yards  that  had  known  prouder  days  at 
the  zenith  of  the  League,  and  sail  out  between 
the  piers,  perchance  meeting  the  afternoon  steamer 
from  Gjedse,  getting  back  to  our  boathouse  after 
tea,  on  the  return  of  the  tide,  such  tide  as  there  was. 
Compared  with  the  seas  that  I  had  known,  with 
the  Channel,  where  it  uncovered  reefs  of  rocks 
at  Hastings  or  miles  of  sand  at  Bognor,  with  the 
harbours  of  Folkestone  and  Shoreham,  dry  at  low 
tide,  the  Baltic  seemed  almost  deficient  in  that 
phenomenon.  The  "  Bad  Anstalt"  where  little 
swimming,  but  much  kummel  and  social  inter- 
course, occupied  the  fashion  all  those  hot  summer 
days,  stood  in  an  almost  unvarying  depth  of 
water,  whereas  on  the  English  coast,  it  would  have 
been  alternately  flooded  and  left  sky-high  above 
the  receding  seas. 

Our  fishing  in  the  salt  or  brackish  water  at 
Warnemtinde  was  so  public  during  July  and 
August  that  the  ordinarily  neglected  pier  became 
the  daily  resort  of  many  lookers-on,  a  class  of 
which  Germany,  like  some  other  countries,  gives 
generous  measure.  Such  sport,  however,  as  we 
stole  from  the  upper  waters  of  the  river  was 
strictly  under  the  rose.  All  rights  were  apparently 
vested  in  the  netsmen,  who  caught  pike,  perch 
and  other  kinds  of  fish  in  most  wasteful  fashion 


70  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

yet  would  not,  by  fee  or  favour,  let  any  angler 
so  much  as  wet  a  hook.  Angling  therefore  in  the 
ordinary  way  was  out  of  the  question.  Yet 
surely  I  remember,  one  July  evening,  stepping 
into  the  boat  with  a  Swedish  companion  in  sin, 
with  suspiciously  bulging  pockets,  and  stepping 
ashore  three  hours  later  with  our  jackets  tightly 
buttoned  over  booty  that  the  kindly  darkness 
hid  from  inquisitive  eyes.  Handlines,  of  course, 
had  to  be  used,  and,  as  the  river  teemed  with  fish 
in  an  abundance  on  which  not  even  the  prodigality 
of  the  netsmen  could  make  much  impression,  my 
first  and  last  experience  of  catching  freshwater 
fish  without  a  rod  was  a  fruitful  one. 

Not  only  was  the  main  river  full  of  all  manner 
of  fish,  including,  so  tradition  had  it,  the  mighty 
wels,  but  every  fosse  and  ditch  to  which  its  spawn- 
laden  water  had  access  was  equally  well  stocked. 
There  were  pike  and  eels  in  the  much  netted 
ditch  beside  the  road  from  Rostock  to  the  sea, 
from  which,  on  clear  winter  nights,  we  watched 
great  strings  of  wild  swans  and  smaller  fowl  sailing 
across  the  cold  northern  skies.  The  Breitling,  a 
broad  near  the  river's  mouth,  was  reputed  a  rare 
haunt  of  large  pike,  and  one  Sunday  the  Goten- 
borger  and  myself  planned  a  great  piking  raid  and 
invited  several  friends.  After  a  too  elaborate 
luncheon  at  the  Hotel  Beringer,  we  sailed  out  into 
the  middle  of  the  Broad  and  stuck  fast  on  a 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  71 

sandbank.  My  Swedish  ally  had  served  as  midship- 
man in  his  country's  navy  and  knew  a  good  deal 
about  navigation.  So  we  all  got  out  and  stood 
up  to  our  waists  in  the  cold  water  and  shoved  her 
off.  Then  we  gladly  set  sail  for  the  quay,  recking 
less  of  the  biggest  pike  ever  spawned  than  of  a 
hot  schnapps  and  a  fire  at  which  to  dry  our  con- 
tinuations. That  was  not  the  only  time  the 
voracious  pike  lured  me  forth  to  my  undoing. 
Only  last  winter  I  journeyed  to  Norfolk  on  the 
same  errand,  spent  some  merry  evenings  in  the 
excellent  company  of  Mr.  Nicholas  Everitt,  whose 
book  on  Broadland  is  so  delightfully  illustrated 
by  himself,  and  also  sat  for  seven  hours  in  driving 
snow  on  Buckenham  Broad.  The  float  went 
under  only  once,  when  the  bait  had  got  foul  of 
the  reeds. 

With  the  coming  of  June,  when  we  moved  to 
some  convenient  rooms  at  Warnemiinde,  Am 
Strom,  the  University  saw  even  less,  and  the  river 
even  more,  of  me  than  before ;  and  three  or  four 
students  professed  themselves  willing  disciples 
of  the  gentle  art  and  deserted  their  academy  for 
the  seductive  sport  in  which  the  stranger  found 
such  unholy  joy.  O  excellent  Bursche !  The 
memory  of  your  scarred  faces  and  rotund  trunks 
and  honest,  kindly  hearts  has  stood  the  test  of 
fifteen  years,  and  will  be  green  for  many  more.  A 
little  quarrelsome  you  were,  when  not  maudlin,  in 


72  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

your  cups,  a  little  romantic  even  in  your  sober 
interludes,  but  your  genial  treatment  of  the  stran- 
ger within  your  gates  has  left  a  private  debt  that 
not  all  your  Fatherland's  public  hostility  towards 
her  rival  in  the  Weltpolitik  can  cancel.  For  all 
that  your  "  Future  lies  on  the  Water/'  you  were 
extremely  bad  fishermen,  but  as  comrades  I  doubt 
if  the  world  ever  held  your  betters.  Prosit  Blume  ! 
Like  watering-places  all  the  world  over,  War- 
nemiinde  threw  off  its  hibernating  lethargy  with 
amazing  despatch  at  the  coming  of  the  fashion. 
Hotels  and  shops  were  re-opened,  boats  refur- 
bished, accommodation  went  to  a  premium  where 
a  fortnight  earlier  had  been  a  city  of  the  dead. 
Carnival,  cotillon,  picnic,  concert  followed  in  an 
unbroken  whirl  of  gaiety.  Every  day  the  rank 
and  beauty  met  at  the  Anstal  or  in  the  hotel 
grounds.  All  the  summer  we  fished  on  the  bank, 
just  before  my  door,  and  it  would  be  no  exaggera- 
tion to  quote  the  average  bag  to  my  own  rod  at 
15  Ibs.  a  day.  It  was  the  success  merely  of  almost 
invisible  tackle  against  lines  that  would  have 
hanged  a  horse-thief.  The  bait  was  a  small  lob- 
worm dug  from  our  garden  and  used  with  no 
thought  of  scouring.  Often  not  half  a  minute 
elapsed  from  the  first  baiting  of  the  hook  to  the 
moment  when  the  red  float  rushed  away  under 
water  and  a  pound  perch  or  a  bream  of  twice  the 
weight  bent  the  rod  to  a  great  curve,  for,  with  so 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  73 

much  woodwork  around,  it  was  impossible  to  give 
the  captive  much  law.  A  final  dip  of  the  long- 
handled  net  settled  the  question,  and  the  fish  was 
removed  to  a  sunken  purse-net,  which  is  the 
German  equivalent  for  our  creel,  and  which  has 
the  advantage  of  keeping  the  fish  alive  until  the 
angler  ceases  operations  for  the  day.  Nor  is  it 
improbable,  though  I  do  not  insist  on  such  a  result, 
that  the  presence  of  these  fishes,  swimming  in  their 
net  so  near  the  baited  hooks,  may  act  like  decoy 
ducks  and  inspire  newcomers  with  confidence. 
Looking  back  on  those  sunny  summer  days  in 
Mecklenburg,  I  regard  the  fishing  of  the  float- 
and-line  kind,  as  the  best  I  ever  had  and  as  good 
as  I  am  ever  likely  to  see  again.  It  cannot  perhaps 
be  pretended  that  such  easy  fooling  of  uneducated 
fishes  is  a  very  high  ideal  for  a  sportsman,  who 
should  rather  find  his  satisfaction  in  cheating  the 
cunning  mullet  and  discriminating  bass  Yet  it 
would  be  idle  to  deny  that  the  memory  of  those 
heavy  catches  on  the  edge  of  the  Baltic  has  come 
down  through  the  mists  of  the  passing  years  with 
a  sweet  savour  that  counteracts  the  sadder  thought 
of  imaginary  mullet  at  Littlehampton,  brill  at 
Maldon,  bass  at  Poole  and  all  manner  of  other 
fish,  which  I  utterly  failed  to  catch  in  all  manner 
of  other  places.  Even  if  the  unconcealed  admira- 
tion of  unsophisticated  German  friends  did  now 
and  again  prompt  the  capture  of  more  fish  than 


74  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

enough,  the  result  was  not  wasted,  for  the  average 
German  cook  does  better  conjuring  with  fresh- 
water fish  than  the  average  English  cook  with  the 
choicest  maree.  Epicures  at  a  London  club  would 
shudder  if  offered  a  fillet  of  bream  or  roach,  but 
a  sliced  olive  and  a  spoonful  of  Moselle  work 
miracles,  and  the  pleasure  I  got  out  of  those 
deluded  Warnow  fishes  was  not  all  in  the  catching, 
From  this,  how  different  the  sport  at  Leghorn ! 
Well  I  remember  the  first  day,  when  I  went  forth 
alone  in  a  small  boat  and  dropped  anchor,  accord- 
ing to  my  boatman's  instructions,  about  two 
miles  outside  the  Mole,  baiting  up  a  horsehair 
line  with  a  paste  which  my  barber  had  compounded 
out  of  fresh  anchovy  and  arrowroot  biscuits. 
After  half  an  hour's  interval,  during  which  I  had 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  historic  interest 
of  the  Mediterranean  evidently  exceeded  its  at- 
tractions for  the  angler,  I  had  a  decided  bite  and 
struck,  only  to  become  aware  that  something 
extraordinary,  unfishlike,  was  going  on  at  the 
other  end.  A  little  negotiation  brought  to  view  a 
writhing  octopus,  a  hideous  creature  that  I  had 
never  before  seen  alive  outside  of  an  aquarium. 
As  its  arms  lashed  the  water,  visions  of  the  struggle 
with  the  pieuvre  in  Hugo's  wonderful  romance 
flashed  before  me.  But  this  was  an  insignificant 
looking  customer,  and  without  another  thought  I 
hauled  him  over  the  side.  The  next  moment  I 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  75 

devoutly  wished  that  I  had  cut  the  line,  thrown 
it  overboard,  made  any  sacrifice  short  of  sitting 
in  the  same  boat  with  that  grisly  thing,  which 
crawled  along  the  seat  in  such  uncanny  fashion 
that  I  retreated  to  the  very  bow.  For  some  reason 
or  other,  a  hint  perhaps  from  my  Guardian  Angel, 
I  had  brought  a  swordstick  out  with  me.  Why 
one  carries  such  weapons  in  foreign  countries  I 
know  not.  Perhaps  one  does  not,  but  I  was  some 
years  younger  in  those  days,  and  perhaps  a  course 
of  melodramatic  mediaeval  Italian  literature  of 
the  Niccolo  de'Lapi  order,  had  inflamed  me.  At 
any  rate,  that  swordstick  was  one  of  my  first 
purchases  in  the  country,  and  the  only  time  it 
served  any  purpose  whatever  was  in  my  encounter 
with  the  octopus.  Pinning  the  brute  with  the 
blade,  I  managed  to  beat  it  senseless  with  the 
sheath.  This  was  novel,  but  it  was  also  nauseating, 
and,  as  soon  as  the  octopus  was  at  rest,  I  weighed 
anchor  and  rowed  back  to  port.  The  sole  fruits 
of  my  outing,  a  polpo  weighing  about  6  Ibs.,  de- 
lighted the  owner  of  the  boat,  who  subsequently 
informed  me  that  it  had  tasted  better  than  chicken. 
He  garnished  it,  he  said,  with  heads  of  garlic, 
which,  to  an  untaught  palate  like  mine,  would 
only  have  added  insult  to  injury. 

Some  of  my  fishing  outings  by  day  were  taken 
in  company  with  an  American  friend,  and  we 
rowed  to  a  ruined  beacon  that  stood  alone  on  some 


76  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

rocks  and  there  caught  many  small  kinds,  but 
nothing  of  account.  Almost  all  my  night  fishing- 
was  directed  by  my  hunchback  barber,  and  great 
times  we  had  those  warm  June  evenings,  playing 
a  par  go  or  sargo  on  fine  lines  and  by  the  uncertain 
candle-light. 

The  most  interesting  fish  to  me  of  all  that  sum- 
mer was  the  grey  mullet.  Man  resembles  the  cat 
in  his  hankering  after  that  which  eludes  him  ;  a 
woman,  a  difficult  stroke  at  billiards,  or  a  fish  is 
the  more  prized  after  a  fight  for  the  mastery.  I 
had  never,  before  1891,  caught  a  grey  mullet 
weighing  more  than  a  few  ounces,  and  the  chance 
of  enjoying  sport  with  large  fish  of  that  species 
was  a  delightful  prospect.  I  had  been  informed 
by  the  very  charming  Government  engineer 
of  the  port,  Signor  Kaiser,  that  large  grey  mullet 
were  known  to  frequent  the  private  docks,  and  he 
assured  me  that  I  was  at  liberty  to  fish  for  them 
whenever  I  pleased.  Signor  Kaiser  and  his  aged 
mother  occupied  a  flat  in  the  same  house  as  my- 
self, on  the  Scali  degli  Olandesi,  and  I  recollect 
congratulating  myself  on  this  stroke  of  luck. 
Mullet  were  plentiful  at  Leghorn  in  those  days, 
for  dynamite,  which  had  done  its  baleful  work 
on  many  of  the  open  grounds,  had  been  excluded 
from  the  docks.  They  were  even  abundant  in 
the  canal  that  ran  through  the  town  ;  and  opposite 
my  study  window  men  used  to  angle  for  them 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  77 

from  the  parapet  with  long  rods  innocent  of  joint 
or  winch-fittings.  The  fish  was  played  tight-line 
fashion,  and  was  finally  lifted  over  the  man's 
shoulder,  where  it  might  alight  on  the  head  of  a 
passing  cabhorse.  Others  were  caught  out  at 
Calambrone,  where  a  man  let  out  a  bilancia  net 
for  hire,  in  great  demand  among  picnic  parties, 
who  made  great  catches  of  small  mullet,  anchovies, 
pilchards  and  other  fry,  the  whole  being  cooked 
and  served  hot  in  a  neighbouring  cottage. 

In  those  days,  and  probably  still,  the  amateur 
fishermen  of  Leghorn  belonged  to  the  working 
class.  If  their  employers  caught  fish  at  all,  it 
was  generally  with  the  aid  of  dynamite.  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  the  night  I  spent,  lying  awake  and 
imagining  myself  the  hero  of  one  of  Mr.  Le  Queux's 
wonderful  romances,  with  two  bombs  on  my 
dressing  table.  A  Livornese  acquaintance  had 
promised  to  show  me  one  of  these  deadly  imple- 
ments. I  had  protested  against  their  use  with 
more  warmth  than  courtesy,  and  he,  much  amused 
by  my  attitude,  perhaps  chose  an  original  way 
of  avenging  his  order.  Late  one  evening  his  valet 
came  to  my  room  with  a  small  parcel,  tied  up  in 
brown  paper,  and  a  note.  I  was  spending  the 
evening  elsewhere  in  the  building,  with  Kaiser 
and  his  mother  in  all  probability,  and  I  found  both 
on  my  table  when  I  turned  in.  I  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  bombs,  but  the  note  swiftly  brought 


78  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

them  back  to  my  thoughts.  Frankly,  I  did  not 
like  such  company,  for  I  am  no  reformer  of  times 
out  of  joint,  and  dynamite  never  attracted  me 
as  a  bedfellow.  At  first,  I  resolved  to  leave  them 
in  their  parcel  until  the  morning.  Then  curiosity 
got  the  better  of  nervousness,  and,  first  soaking 
the  thing  in  water,  with  some  vague  notion  of 
lessening  the  danger  of  an  explosion  I  cut  the 
string  and  found  two  ugly  looking  bombs,  each 
with  a  fuse  embedded  in  the  deadly  paste  and 
tightly  bound  round  with  string  to  prevent  its 
falling  out,  so  the  note  explained,  before  striking 
the  water.  At  an  early  hour  next  morning  I 
took  them  in  my  boat  and  dropped  them  unlit 
into  the  sea  half  a  mile  from  the  harbour.  Dyna- 
mite is  a  heinous  means  of  killing  fish,  save  in 
such  cases  as  that  of  a  white  man  with  a  big  camp 
to  feed.  With  responsibilities  of  that  kind,  no 
man  will  trouble  whether  the  method  is  sporting 
or  not  ;  all  he  asks  is  that  he  shall  find  food  for 
hungry  mouths. 

The  parapets  opposite  the  Scali  degli  Olandesi 
afforded  some  good  mullet  at  times,  but  the  pub- 
licity of  the  street,  with  the  too  intimate  admiration 
of  a  crown  of  lazzeroni,  did  not  tempt  me.  Fortun- 
ately, as  has  already  been  related,  I  was  made  free 
of  a  more  private  stew,  and  the  engineer  begged 
me  to  fish  in  the  docks  whenever  I  pleased.  I 
pleased  almost  every  morning  for  the  next  two 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  79 

months,  and  by  using  fine  float  tackle  and  baiting 
with  either  a  paste  made  of  white  cheese  from 
Sardinia,  or  a  kind  of  ragworm  which  could  be 
purchased  under  the  colonnades,  I  caught  a  few 
very  good  mullet,  the  first  indeed  to  be  entered 
in  my  angling  records.  I  used  to  go  into  the  yard 
with  the  gang  of  early  workmen,  for  they  had  a 
way  of  shutting  the  great  gates  and  leaving  no 
one  to  open  them  again.  This  may  have  been  an 
intentional  check  on  late  arrivals  ;  at  any  rate, 
it  took  me  regularly  along  the  Passegiata  soon 
after  sunrise.  Perfect  solitude  was  the  boon  of 
that  mullet-fishing.  The  sport  might  now  and 
then  have  been  brisker,  but  who  could  be  discon- 
tented amid  such  peace,  the  sun  sailing  day  after 
day  into  a  cloudless  sky,  the  saucy  swifts  scream- 
ing as  they  flew  to  and  fro  across  the  blue  ?  The 
peaceful  aloofness  of  those  docks  brought  me  some 
of  the  pleasure  that  Mr.  Sheringham,  in  his  charm- 
ing book,  finds  in  bridges.  He  is  right,  and  the 
angler's  bridge-fever  is  at  least  more  innocent 
than  that  which  infects  some  of  his  friends. 
Whether  the  bridge  spans  the  river  Severn  or  the 
Hythe  Canal,  whether  the  water  hurries  beneath 
his  feet  or  lacks  both  goal  and  source,  the  angler's 
heart  will  surely  respond  to  the  message  of  those 
mirrored  trees  and  grassy  banks.  There  was 
nought  to  break  the  quiet  of  those  mornings  with 
mullet,  unless  perchance  a  passing  labourer  gave 


80  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

courteous  greeting :  Buon  giorno  a  Lei !  If  a 
fisherman,  he  might  stop  to  ask  how  lack  was 
going,  and  endless  little  services  were  won  by  the 
gift  of  a  cigarette  or  even  a  mugine  or  two.  Often 
the  creel  was  light  ;  some  days  it  went  back  empty ; 
but  the  mere  result  had  no  bearing  on  the  enjoy- 
ment of  those  lovely  mornings,  with  a  dip  at 
the  Pancaldi  baths  before  going  home  to  break- 
fast. 

Perhaps  my  most  amusing  fishing  experience 
in  Italy  was  during  a  week  at  Naples.  One  after- 
noon I  had  spent  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  cool  and 
fascinating  Aquarium,  chatting  with  one  of  the 
professors,  Sr.  Salvatore  Lo  Bianco,  and  watching 
the  feeding  of  the  anemones  and  octopus.  To- 
wards sunset  I  strolled  back  to  my  hotel  along 
the  parade,  which  I  think  they  called  the  Chiata- 
mone,  when  I  came  across  a  ragged  sportsman 
angling  with  a  very  long  bamboo  from  the  pave- 
ment. He  looked  a  merry  wight,  so  I  forgot  that 
there  was  only  just  time  to  dress  for  dinner  and 
sat  on  the  parapet  beside  him.  We  smoked 
together  and  were  soon  deep  in  as  comfortable 
a  conversation  as  is  attainable  between  broken 
Tuscan  and  pure  Neapolitan.  We  discussed  rods, 
and  I  asked  him  to  let  me  feel  the  weight  of  his, 
which  must  have  been  thirty  feet  long.  With 
native  courtesy,  which  one  would  neither  look  for 
nor  find  at  home,  he  handed  it  to  me  as  if  it  were 


A    MUR^NA'ON    THE    ROD 


7— (2272) 


82  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

mine,  and  no  sooner  was  it  in  my  hands  than  down 
went  the  top,  and  I  was  in  a  good  fish,  which  circled 
in  vain  on  the  unyielding  line,  and  I  soon  raised 
a  black  sea-bream  of  probably  2^  to  3  Ibs.  Of  a 
certainty  none  of  his  other  fish  weighed  more 
than  as  many  ounces.  He  was  too  amazed  to 
do  more  than  stammer  his  thanks,  and,  as  I  turned 
away,  I  fancy  that  he  crossed  himself,  regarding 
the  black  bream  as  the  fruits  of  black  magic.  It 
certainly  was  a  ridiculous  coincidence. 

The  only  other  "  fishing  "  that  I  find  recorded 
in  those  journals  of  Italian  days  was  the  spearing 
of  muraenas  by  torchlight  among  the  rocks  near 
the  Naval  Academy.  Sea-urchins  abounded  in  the 
pools,  so  that,  even  apart  from  the  dreadful  teeth 
of  the  muraena,  we  were  wise  to  go  on  these  expedi- 
tions in  stout  boots.  These  made  progress  on  the 
slippery  rocks  exceedingly  difficult,  and  when 
anyone  fell,  out  went  his  torch,  and  the  moment 
a  sharp  shell  cut  his  leg  he  made  sure  it  was  the 
bite  of  a  muraena.  Why  we  ever  embarked  on 
such  grisly  traffic,  I  cannot  say,  but  at  the  time 
these  outings  were  voted  capital  fun.  Now  and 
again  we  caught  a  muraena  on  the  rod,  but  the 
brute  gave  less  sport  than  even  a  conger  of  the 
same  size,  while  the  risk  and  trouble  of  taking  if 
off  the  hook  are  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  amuse- 
ment. As  a  more  recent  renewal  of  my  acquaint- 
ance with  this  repulsive  eel  is  narrated  in  a  later 


BY  TIDELESS  SEAS  83 

page,  the  mursenas  of  Leghorn  need  not  be  ex- 
humed from  the  mists  of  time,  which  have  in  no 
way  softened  their  forbidding  outline. 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS 


IV 
POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS 

The  Charm  of  Mevagissey — The  Realm  of  the  Pilchard — 
Hard  Work  of  the  Fishermen — Our  Bag  in  1894 — A  Burning 
Village — The  Late  Matthias  Dunn — Other  Cornish  Resorts — 
A  Day's  Pollack-fishing  at  Mevagissey — Catching  a  Shark — 
A  Lost  Anchor  and  a  Dead  Calm — Mixed  Fishing  nearer  Shore 
— Catching  Squid — A  Night's  Congering — Harold  Frederic. 

TEN  years  ago  there  was  not  between  Rye  and 
Penzance  a  quainter  fishing  village  than  Meva- 
gissey. As  I  first  knew  it  in  1894,  it  was  a  little 
world  of  itself  apart  ;  but  ten  years  have  brought 
it  new  admirers,  and  a  little  of  the  primitive 
simplicity  is  worn  off  by  contact  with  these  town- 
mice.  Yet  even  to-day,  its  isolation  from  the 
railroad,  with  a  great  screen  of  hills  intervening, 
and  the  inadequacy  of  the  picturesque  little  har- 
bour to  shelter  anything  much  larger  than  a  mac- 
kerel-boat still  cut  it  off  by  land  and  sea  from  any 
concerted  invasion  by  the  crowd,  so  that  this 
little  village,  where  folks  are  busy,  either  fishing 
or  supplying  the  wants  of  those  who  do,  remains 
an  ideal  spot,  in  which  to  rest  a  little  while  from 
the  hisses  of  "  the  long-necked  geese  of  the  world." 
Coming  to  it  that  summer  from  the  crowded  scenes 
of  Bournemouth  and  Richmond,  I  was  caught  in 

87 


88  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

a  spell  that  time  has  not  weakened,  and  I  have 
paid  it  a  dozen  visits  since.  I  recall  now  my  first 
impressions  of  the  beautiful  drive  along  the  valley 
between  wooded  heights  and  beside  the  little 
torrent  of  turgid  clay  water  ;  then  the  climb  beside 
the  horses  as  we  surmounted  the  great  hill  that 


MEVAGISSEY  :     THE     POOL 

gave  such  sweeping  views  of  headland  after  head- 
land, even  to  the  Rame  thirty  miles  distant ;  and 
lastly  the  long  descent  into  the  peaceful  village 
nestling  between  its  guardian  cliffs.  The  eye 
dwelt  on  such  scenes  with  content,  and,  for  the 
rest,  the  angler's  nose  is  no  caviller.  The  domin- 
ion of  the  pilchard  was^a  little  aggressive,^but  if 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS  89 

there  was  monotony  in  the  gleam  of  its  scales  and  in 
the  reek  of  its  remains,  was  not  the  fish  the  cause  of 
that  beautiful  fleet  of  red-winged  craft,  that,  with 
hoarse  shouting  from  the  men  and  creaking  of 
cordage  from  the  masts,  streamed  out  between  the 
piers  at  the  moment  of  our  arrival  !  Our  waggon- 
ette slid  down  the  steep  track  on  a  gradient  so 
appalling  that  the  little  churchyard,  lying  in  a 
dell  on  our  right,  looked  like  being  our  next  change 
of  address.  It  was  nearly  high  water  that  first 
evening,  and  the  only  eyesore  in  the  harbour  was 
the  mass  of  unfinished  work  on  the  then  incom- 
plete pier.  Such  a  scene  held  no  place  for  these 
insignia  of  the  contractor.  Still,  the  pier  has 
been  a  great  boon,  and  the  generosity  of  the  laird 
of  Carhaeys  never  took  a  more  beneficent  direc- 
tion than  in  facilitating  its  completion.  There 
was  —  there  still  is,  and  I  hope  there  always  will 
be — another  great  project  under  discussion  at 
that  time,  the  linking  up  of  Mevagissey  and  the 
iron  road  by  a  light  railway.  Then  indeed  would 
the  little  place  fall  between  two  stools.  It  is 
wanting  in  the  elements  of  success  as  an  ordinary 
vulgar  watering  place,  particularly  for  the  child- 
ren's holidays.  The  sandy  beaches  are  some  dis- 
tance away,  and  the  cliffs  and  quays  are  unsafe 
for  children  at  play.  The  medical  adviser  would 
probably  pronounce  against  the  smell  from  the 
harbour  at  low  tide  (which  never  yet  did  any  harm) 


90  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

and  the  father  of  the  family  would  vote  the  place 
too  far  away  from  his  business.  On  the  other 
hand,  failing  in  its  appeal  to  a  new  set  of  customers, 
it  would  simultaneously  lose  the  old,  since,  with 
the  advent  of  the  railway,  its  great  charm  of  aloof- 
ness would  be  gone. 

If  on  that  occasion  I  was  charmed  with  the  place, 
I  could  hardly,  being  predisposed  in  favour  of  all 
honest  fishermen,  fail  to  be  satisfactorily  impressed 
by  such  types  as  our  host,  John  Blight,  or  our  attend- 
ant henchman,  George  Marshall.  John  is  a  flaxen- 
haired  giant,  standing  over  six  feet  in  his  socks, 
and  of  a  goodly  breadth  to  match.  For  years 
he  has  gone  forth  night  after  night  aboard  the 
Foam  (62  FY.),  fair  weather  or  foul,  after  mackerel, 
pilchards,  or  herrings,  according  to  season.  Jona- 
than Barron,  another  friend  of  mine,  is  owner 
of  the  Foam  and  another  boat,  but  they  all 
work  together  on  a  system  of  profit-sharing, 
which,  if  it  falls  hard  on  lean  times  keeps  one's 
independence  sweet  year  in  year  out.  George 
is  a  man  of  very  different  type,  more  stocky 
and  darker  of  complexion.  His  fishing  is  all 
single-handed  hooking.  Soon,  no  doubt,  his  son, 
one  of  a  large  covey,  will  lend  a  hand,  but  hitherto 
the  father  has  worked  his  lugger  alone,  sailing 
away  to  the  whiting  ground  before  daybreak 
and  returning  with  a  varying  harvest  in  time  for 
the  afternoon  market. 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS  91 

My  first  visit  to  the  place  was  with  an  ex-naval 
officer,  since  dead,  whom  only  failing  eyesight 
prevented  from  contesting  the  division  in  the  Con- 
servative interest.  He  was  a  marvellous  fisher- 
man with  the  handline,  considering  that  on  his 
bad  days  he  could  not  see  a  yard  in  front  of  him, 
but  the  rod  and  reel  he  was  of  course  unable  to 
manage.  With  Marshall  we  fished  on  board  the 
Eva,  as  trim  a  lugger  as  ever  tacked  across  St. 
Austell  bay,  from  the  middle  of  July  until  the 
last  day  in  August,  and  during  that  time  we  caught 
altogether  upwards  of  a  thousand  fish,  of  which 
309  were  mackerel,  243  pollock  and  206  whiting, 
the  balance  being  made  up  of  blue  and  porbeagle 
sharks,  of  which  we  caught  nine,  and  a  miscellany 
of  rays,  bream,  gurnard,  scad,  plaice,  dabs,  wrasse 
and  pout.  Though  we  caught  not  a  single  bass, 
and  only  indeed  made  one  half-hearted  attempt 
on  a  very  rough  day,  this  was  the  best  mixed 
fishing  that  I  had  taken  part  in.  No  exceptionally 
big  fish  were  included  in  the  bag.  The  best  shark 
(a  porbeagle)  turned  the  scale  at  30  Ibs.,  the  best 
conger  at  24  (I  killed  this  on  the  rod),  and  several 
pollack  at  12  Ibs. 

The  most  memorable  episode  at  Mevagissey 
that  far  off  July  was  a  raging  fire  one  Friday  night. 
Breaking  out  in  a  net  loft,  the  flames  ran  like 
lightning  along  the  congested  buildings,  their  pro- 
gress, favoured  by  a  drought  of  long  endurance 


92  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

and  by  a  breeze  enough  to  fan  them,  yet  too  slight 
to  help  the  fleet  home.  There,  not  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  port,  the  maddened  men  watched  their 
burning  homes  and  strained  furiously  at  the 
long  sweeping  oars.  Not  even  those  who  believed 
in  the  efficacy  of  prayer  dared  ask  for  more  wind, 
since  it  might  whip  the  flames  to  madness  and 
leave  only  smouldering  ashes  for  them  to  salvage. 
Matters  were  bad  enough  as  it  was,  and  chapels 
were  gutted  and  dwellings  ruined  beyond  recogni- 
tion during  the  next  two  hours.  Mothers  shrieked 
that  their  children  were  burning,  though  not  so 
much  as  a  face  was  singed.  Hysterical  folk, 
normally  the  most  uncompromising  of  teetotallers, 
begged  for  stimulants.  One  by  one  the  belated 
pilchard  boats  grounded  in  the  harbour  where  the 
tide  was  low,  and  anxious  fishermen,  scarcely 
waiting  to  make  everything  fast,  dashed  through 
the  mud  and  up  the  cobbled  street,  seeking  their 
women  and  bairns  and  making  confusion  worse 
confounded  in  the  quest.  No  loss  of  life  ;  not 
even  a  damaged  limb  ;  but  distracted  folk  so  lost 
to  calm  judgment  that  before  they  came  to  their 
sober  senses  they  had  flung  half  their  property 
into  the  Leet,  a  little  brook  that  ran  before  our 
cottage  and  under  a  row  of  sighing  elms,  letting 
the  water  irremediably  spoil  that  which  the 
flames  would  have  spared.  Everything,  from 
bedding  to  bibles,  was  cast  into  the  stream,  from 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS  93 

which  all  next  day  women  and  children  were  en- 
gaged in  removing  stacks  of  ruined  treasures.  The 
buildings  nothing  could  save,  but  so  prompt  is 
charity  in  even  the  poorest  stronghold  of  Cornish 
Methodism  that,  with  very  little  outside  help, 
the  subscription  subsequently  raised  realised  more 
than  the  amount  required  for  their  restoration r 
and  on  my  next  visit  I  found  fresh  chapels  on 
sites  where  last  had  been  heaps  of  debris. 

It  was  on  that  first  visit  to  "  Fishy gissey,"  as 
the  less  prosperous  Gorran  folk  call  it  in  derision, 
that  I  met  the  late  Matthias  Dunn,  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  of  Cornwall's  many  great  sons. 
How  well  I  remember  my  first  sight  of  him  :  the 
sturdy  figure  leaning  on  a  stout  stick,  the  features 
unspoilt  by  any  manner  of  excess,  rugged  with 
the  seal  of  all  weathers,  showing  perhaps  the  mark 
of  much  spiritual  wrestling,  for,  as  elder  of  his 
chapel,  he  would  have  had  to  unravel  many  knotty 
problems  of  exorcism  and  punishment,  such  as 
exercise  folk  in  that  primitive  valley  of  conscien- 
tious dissent.  The  face  was  stern  in  repose  and 
even  hard  in  argument,  but  ever  and  again  illu- 
mined by  a  smile  of  great  charm.  Beginning  life 
quite  humbly  in  the  fishing  community  of  his 
native  village,  working  in  later  years  in  the  employ 
of  the  sardine-factory,  Dunn  learnt  his  lessons 
straight  from  Nature's  book,  learnt  to  such  good 
purpose  that  his  information  was  eagerly  shared 


94  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

by  Couch  and  Day,  and  perhaps  too  by  some  less 
scrupulous  to  acknowledge  the  assistance  they 
owed  to  his  first-hand  observation  of  sea  life. 
Whether  a  more  academic  training  would  have 
made  or  marred  the  man  it  is  not  easy  to  say,  for 
something  depends  on  the  point  of  view.  On  the 
one  hand,  he  sometimes  admitted  that  he  felt 
the  loss  of  such  education  when  contributing  to 
the  transactions  of  scientific  institutes,  or  to  the 
more  critical  pages  of  the  Contemporary  Review. 
He  was  impatient  to  find  men  who  had  not  half 
his  facts,  who  had  never  felt  Nature's  throbbing 
pulse,  so  facile  with  the  pen  as  to  carry  away  their 
readers  with  the  merest  dole  of  evidence  spread 
over  their  paper.  On  the  other  hand,  the  image 
of  Dunn  in  a  frock  coat,  lecturing  to  idlers  and  dul- 
lards from  the  platform,  is  not  a  pleasing  one,  and, 
if  one  may  judge  from  the  lack  of  spontaneous 
observation  in  the  bulk  of  current  biological  litera- 
ture, it  is  difficult  not  to  conclude  that  he  was  the 
better  for  what  he  regarded  as  his  defects.  Any 
fool  who  has  been  through  schools  can  lisp  a  Greek 
tag,  but  the  tense  grip  of  Nature,  the  birthright 
of  one  who  has  spent  long  nights  out  on  those 
mystic  seas  in  all  their  changing  moods,  is  not  im- 
parted by  men  in  gowns.  His  writings,  shorn  of 
"  frills,"  were  always  to  the  point.  Here  and  there 
as  I  look  them  through,  they  give  a  gleam  of 
humour  too  biting  to  have  been  always  appreciated 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS  95 

by  his  neighbours.  That  one  who  stood  intellect- 
ually head  and  shoulders  above  the  rest  should 
have  had  his  enemies  was  only  to  be  expected. 
He  was  not  always  perhaps  as  tolerant  of  his 
more  ovine  neighbours  as  he  might  have  been  ; 
though  eminently  just,  he  may  have  been  a  hard 
man  of  business  ;  indeed,  he  had  to  be  in  the  in- 
terest of  his  employers.  Yet  he  was  much  given  to 
acts  of  charity  when  later  prosperity  put  the  luxury 
of  almsgiving  within  his  reach,  and  it  is  quite 
certain  that  many  who  cordially  disliked  him  in 
life  came  to  a  juster  appreciation  of  the  man  after 
he  died.  You  might  without  difficulty  have  heard 
two  opinions  about  him  in  the  vi]]age  ten  years 
ago  ;  of  his  memory,  you  would  hear  but  one.  In 
his  speech  he  never  affected  any  but  the  simple 
dialect  of  the  fishermen.  :'  Master,  you'm  want- 
ing to  see  the  little  turbots."  Do  step  along  now  ; 
you'm  very  welcome."  And  we  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  comfortable  house  on  Polkirt 
and  were  shown  new  treasures,  which  perchance 
he  had  gathered  in  his  hand-net  before  we  were  out 
of  bed  that  morning,  for  almost  to  the  last  illness 
he  was  a  man  of  a  very  active  habit.  He  would 
display  baby  turbot  from  the  chalk  water  off  Pente- 
wan,  a  mackerel  of  abnormal  characters,  some  new 
larval  crustacean  that  he  had  discovered  in  the  pil- 
chards out  of  last  night's  catch.  There  was  always 
some  marine  curiosity  worth  the  visit,  yet  less  worth 


96  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

it  than  the  clever  theories,  the  bold  (sometimes 
even  a  little  too  bold  for  sober  scientific  discussion) 
speculation,  the  questions,  even  more  telling  than 
the  statements.  A  great  man  I  have  always 
considered  the  late  Matthias  Dunn,  not  merely 
by  contrast  with  his  smaller  fellows,  but  one  who, 
in  other  circumstances,  would  have  taken  by  right 
that  place  in  scientific  circles,  to  which  he  was 
by  those  who  knew  him  ungrudgingly  admitted. 
Three  sons  reign  in  his  stead,  one  of  whom,  named 
after  him,  narrowly  escaped  drowning  last  summer 
under  peculiarly  sad  circumstances,  and  indeed 
had  to  give  two  nephews  to  appease  the  cruel  sea. 
Many  a  visit  have  I  paid  to  Mevagissey,  the 
last  but  a  few  weeks  ago,  and  the  fishing  is  practi- 
cally as  good  as  ever.  That  for  the  fisherman  is 
the  great  charm  of  the  Duchy.  The  journey  is 
a  long  one,  I  grant.  Plymouth,  which  you  may 
travel  down  to  by  the  rural  South- Western  or 
the  more  coastwise  Great  Western  route,  seems 
the  Ultima  Thule  of  the  August  holiday,  and 
indeed  Plymouth  offers  sea-fishing  of  no  mean 
order,  but  it  is  worth  entrusting  yourself  a  little 
longer  to  the  G.W.R.,  and  making  your  head- 
quarters at  one  or  other  of  the  Cornish  ports,  even 
if  you  go  no  further  than  Looe  and  angle  for  bass 
in  the  mouth  of  the  river.  I  know  all  those  places, 
from  Looe  round  to  Padstow.  Fowey  has  its 
beautiful  river  ;  Falmouth  is  no  less  blessed  ;  there 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS 


97 


is  big  game  on  the  deeper  grounds  at  Stilly  ; 
and  one  of  these  days  Padstow  may,  in  spite 
of  some  natural  disadvantages  which  affect  in- 
dustrial rather  than  amateur  fisheries,  develop 
as  an  important  centre  for  the  sport.  Yet  I 
doubt  whether,  from  a  purely  sporting  stand- 


MENDING   THE    NETS 

point,  Mevagissey  has  a  rival.  For  those,  of 
course,  who  want  bands  and  frocks,  or  rather 
opportunities  for  exhibiting  frocks,  it  is  not 
the  place  at  all.  Ladies  can  wear  a  sleeve  that 
has  been  out  of  fashion  these  three  years  and  not 
attract  a  sneer.  Men  can  bask  the  livelong  day 
in  flannels.  The  only  music  is  that  of  harmoniums 

8— (2272 


98  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

and  chapel  choirs.  Entertainments  there  are 
none.  But  if  you  want  to  catch  fish,  if  you 
want  to  live  among  the  genuine  fishermen  who 
wrestle  with  the  deep  sea  for  their  bread,  if  you 
want  to  forget  for  a  little  the  petty  turmoil  of 
the  great  world  in  the  peaceful  isolation  of  a  little 
community  that  knows  nought  of  tariff  reform  or 
the  laws  of  bridge,  then  take  your  ticket  for  St. 
Austell  and  wire  Craggs  to  meet  you  with  a  wag- 
gonette. The  train,  moving  on  into  the  far  west, 
is  the  last  link  with  modern  civilisation,  and  he 
will  drive  you  through  beautiful  country  into  a 
new  world. 

Each  morning,  after  breakfast,  and  perhaps  an 
apologetic  glance  at  the  Morning  News  or  Mercury, 
according  to  that  political  bias  which  will  not  be 
shaken  off  even  on  a  holiday,  you  get  on  board 
the  lugger  at  the  inner  quay  or  outer  pier,  accord- 
ing to  the  depth  of  water  at  that  time  of  the  tide, 
and,  after  a  little  sculling  to  get  clear  of  the  har- 
bour, up  with  the  red  mainsail  and  little  mizen,  and 
there  is  a  fair  run  or  dead  beat,  according  to  what 
ground  you  want  to  try.  As  soon  as  the  little 
lighthouse  is  astern,  out  go  the  mackerel-lines, 
one  over  each  side  and  a  lighter  one  astern,  and, 
with  luck  rather  than  skill,  you  catch  one  fish  or 
a  hundred.  It  is  all  a  matter  of  running  into 
large  shoals.  Now  and  again,  a  too  active  pollack 
of  four  or  five  pounds  seizes  one  of  the  hooks  and 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS  99 

breaks  away  with  it,  for,  with  so  much  way  on 
the  boat,  this  fine  gear  has  no  chance  of  holding 
the  heavier  fish.  Some  of  the  mackerel  are  fine 
fish,  though  the  majority  are  small,  as  the  best 
mackerel  are  taken  at  anchor  on  the  drift-lines. 
A  few  of  them  wi]l  later  make  useful  bait  for  the 
big  pollack,  towards  whose  haunts  we  are  steering 
our  course  ;  the  rest  will  swell  George's  sales  this 
evening.  It  is  a  blazing  hot  August  morning 
with  a  little  offshore  breeze,  which,  as  the  weather 
is  set  fair,  we  will  use  to  help  us  out  to  Tom 
Ash,  a  distant  rock,  so  called  for  a  reason  that  has 
not  survived  in  local  tradition,  where  lie  the  big- 
gest pollack  caught  in  the  neighbourhood.  We 
shall  have  a  long  sail  of  it,  two  hours  or  more,  for 
the  ground  lies  ten  miles  away  and  is  indeed 
nearer  to  Fowey  than  to  the  little  port  we  have 
just  left.  Still,  it  is  superb  weather,  and  the  mac- 
kerel are  coming  in  thick  enough  on  the  plummet- 
lines  to  make  the  time  pass  merrily.  We  shall 
not,  it  is  true,  get  more  than  half  an  hour,  or  at 
most  forty  minutes  of  fishing,  for  the  spring  tides 
are  very  strong  so  far  from  land,  and  on  Tom  Ash 
it  is  a  question  of  a  short  time  and  a  merry,  since 
it  would  require  very  heavy  leads  to  keep  the 
baits  down  except  at  slack  water.  Yet  better 
forty  minutes  of  Tom  Ash  than  a  cycle  of  the 
grounds  nearer  land,  where  the  pollack  run 
scarcely  heavier  than  mackerel  and  are,  weight 


100  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

for  weight,  not  half  as  plucky.  Indeed,  on  this 
occasion  we  lose  a  few  minutes,  for,  instead  of 
arriving,  as  we  had  hoped,  the  slack  quarter  of 
an  hour  before  low  water,  we  reach  the  ground  at 
dead  low  tide  (which  is  later  out  here  than  inshore), 
and  by  the  time  George  has  picked  up  the  distant 
marks  on  the  hazy  shore,  beyond  Fowey  and  again 
westward  of  the  Gwingeas,  so  as  to  bring  the  Eva, 
with  plenty  of  rope,  just  over  the  top  of  the  reef, 
the  tide  is  just  beginning  to  drain  back  eastward, 
so  that  we  cannot  expect  even  a  full  half  hour  of 
slack  water.  That  should  suffice  us  if  only  the 
big  pollack  are  on  the  feed.  Each  hook  is  baited 
with  one  strip  of  pilchard  and  another  of  mackerel, 
a  combination  that  has  its  object,  for  the  oily  pil- 
chard, though  the  more  attractive,  is  easily  pulled 
off  the  hook,  and  it  is  the  more  abiding  mackerel 
that  tempts  the  pollack  to  take  a  second  bite  and 
thus,  with  the  angler  now  on  the  qui  vive,  meet 
his  doom.  Down  go  the  baits  and  leads  through 
the  clear  water.  We  dare  not  let  them  run  by 
their  own  weight,  with  the  check  off  the  reel,  for 
there  are  heavy  customers  out  here,  and  such  a 
piece  of  lazinesss  might  be  punished  with  disas- 
ter. So  we  pull  the  line  off  the  clicking  barrel,  a 
foot  or  so  at  a  time.  My  own  line,  which  is  of 
wire,  goes  down  almost  sheer,  for  it  takes  a  strong 
tide  to  move  a  wire  line  out  of  the  perpendicular, 
and  mechanically,  my  thoughts  elsewhere,  I  pull 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          101 

the  little  coils  off  the  reel,  when,  hey  presto  !  off 
flies  the  Kne  in  yards,  down  bores  the  pollack- 
steady  !  At  low  tide  there  are  many  fathoms  less 
water  here,  and  this  plunger  must  not  be  allowed 
to  fray  the  line  among  the  sharp  rocks.  A  strain 
is  therefore  put  on  the  stout  rod,  the  headlong  rush 
is  stayed,  and  the  broad  barrel  of  the  winch  is 
even  forced  a  few  turns  in  the  opposite  direction. 
But  such  a  fish  is  too  strong  to  lose  heart  so  easily, 
and  away  it  flies  again,  running  out  if  anything 
more  line  than  at  the  first  dash  for  freedom.  And 
now  the  reel  on  the  other  rod  is  singing  a  good 
second  ;  and  George,  too,  is  holding  on  to  a  tanned 
line,  that  strains  up  forward  over  the  gunwale. 
We  are  among  the  pollack  with  a  vengeance,  and 
must  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines.  George 
has  the  pull  over  us,  of  course,  since  he  fishes  for 
fish,  not  for  sport  ;  and  without  a  pause  he  hauls 
an  eight-pounder  to  the  surface,  and,  crooking  his 
forearm  round  its  gleaming  sides,  lifts  it  into  the 
boat  and  leaves  it  on  the  hook.  Then  he  runs  to 
my  assistance  with  the  short-handled  gaff,  for 
my  own  fish  is  so  near  that  I  can  see  its  dark  back 
looming  three  or  four  fathoms  down.  A  last  rush, 
however,  inspired  perhaps  by  the  dazzle  of  sun- 
light, takes  it  once  more  out  of  sight,  and  George 
has  even  time,  before  I  am  ready  for  his  good 
offices,  to  gaff  another  of  six  or  eight  pounds  on 
the  other  rod.  Then  at  length  my  own  is  brought 


102  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

to  the  gaff,  and  when  I  contemplate  the  thirteen 
pounds  of  him  lying  across  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
the  result  seems  worth  the  tiring  fight.  The  fun 
is  furious  while  it  lasts.  The  other  rod,  handled 
by  a  man  who  never  caught  a  pollack  before  in 
his  life,  accounts  for  a  fifteen-pounder  by  the  skin 
of  its  teeth,  for,  as  the  gaff  goes  in,  the  hook  comes 
out,  and  George,  in  no  mind  to  see  a  florin  sink 
out  of  reach,  nearly  falls  overboard  in  his  eager- 
ness to  secure  the  prize.  Fourteen  pollack,  aggre- 
gating probably  130  Ibs.,  nearly  fill  the  well,  and 
then  comes  a  lull,  interrupted  only  by  a  terrific 
pull  on  my  line,  which  I  next  reel  in,  minus  the 
trace.  Experience  of  such  tricks  has  long  since 
taught  us  that  only  a  shark  can  be  responsible 
and,  quick  as  thought,  George  has  a  whole  pilchard 
on  an  unleaded  line,  which  he  has  flung  its  whole 
length  over  the  stern.  We  keep  the  other  hooks 
in  and  wait  on  circumstances.  Within  ten  minutes 
the  shark-line  shows  unmistakeable  signs  of  having 
done  its  work,  and,  with  sundry  expletives,  so 
mumbled  in  his  beard  that  we  may  surely  let  them 
pass  for  ancient  Cornish,  George  hauls  a  great  blue 
shark,  twenty  or  thirty  pounds  by  the  look  of  him, 
up  to  the  bow  and  there  makes  him  fast  in  a  run- 
ning noose  over  the  tail.  Not  for  money  would 
we  have  that  writhing  azure  pirate  in  the  boat, 
for  the  smell  of  a  shark's  blood  on  a  hot  August 
day  is  not  to  be  confused  with  that  of  the  spice 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          103 

that  the  Queen  of  Sheba  gave  to  Solomon,  nor  is 
its  stench  to  be  got  out  of  the  planks  without 
much  scrubbing  and  the  healing  of  time.  The 
disturbance  made  by  the  shark  and  the  increasing 
strength  of  the  tide  conspire  to  put  an  end  to  our 
fishing,  though  it  is  one  thing  to  be  willing  to  move 
and  another  to  be  able.  First  of  all,  the  anchor 
refuses  to  budge  from  the  rocky  purchase  which 
George  so  successfully  found  for  it  before  we 
started  to  fish.  For  about  twenty  minutes  he 
pits  his  strength  and  skill  against  his  country, 
tugging  at  the  rope  till  the  veins  stand  out  on  his 
streaming  forehead ;  throwing  out  slack  coils  and 
suddenly  putting  on  a  strain ;  hoping  to  cheat 
where  he  could  not  straightforwardly  prevail,  but 
all  to  no  purpose.  We  row  and  even  sail  around 
the  unrelenting  rock,  and  when  at  length  the^pro- 
mise  of  compensation  induces  him  to  give  up  the 
struggle,  he  will  not  abandon  his  anchor  without 
having  first  made  fast  a  bundle  of  corks  to  the  rope 
in  case  we  should  come  out  again  at  low  tide  and 
be  better  able  to  recover  it.  That,  however,  was 
not  to  be  for  another  year.  For  we  now  realise 
that  the  wind,  never  very  strong,  has  completely 
died  away  and  that  the  bosom  of  the  sea  is  as  glass, 
a  beautiful  mirror  for  the  wheeling  gulls  and  plung- 
ing gannets,  but  very  little  appreciated  by  those 
who  have  to  row  a  ponderous  lugger  over  ten  miles 
of  its  surface.  So  still  is  the  air  that  we  can  even 


104  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

hear  the  pulsing  screws  of  a  couple  of  destroyers, 
fully  twenty  miles  away,  on  a  trial  between  Ply- 
mouth and  Polperro.  To  anyone  buried  in  a 
London  club,  it  may  not  sound  a  very  terrible 
ordeal  to  be  becalmed  ten  miles  from  port  on  a 
summer  sea,  but  it  is  astonishing  how  one  resents 
a  contretemps  of  the  kind  under  compulsion.  There 
is  nothing  for  it  but  to  lend  a  hand  with  the  long 
sweepers  and  whistle  for  the  wind.  George,  in 
the  laudable  desire  to  cheer  our  spirits,  still  further 
depresses  us  with  an  endless  dirge  relating  the 
Titanic  loves  of  the  Cornish  giants,  who  seem  to 
have  had  a  terrible  way  with  the  ladies.  At  last 
his  quick  eye  catches  the  thin  black  line  on  the 
water,  away  to  the  south,  and  the  little  puff  catches 
the  ready  sails  after  we  have  worked  like  galley- 
slaves  for  the  best  part  of  an  hour.  By  that  time, 
unaccustomed  to  such  labour  with  oars  that  bulk 
like  telegraph  poles,  we  are  reduced  to  pulp,  and 
while  George  crowds  on  all  the  sail  he  can,  we 
make  a  frantic  raid  on  such  of  the  bottles  as  yet 
contain  refreshment.  Happily  the  breeze  has 
come  to  stay,  and  we  are  soon  racing  in  past  the 
Gwingeas  and  Chapel  Point,  though  the  wind  has 
gone  round  to  the  S.W.  and  we  make  a  lot  of  lee 
way,  fetching  nearly  to  Black-Head.  One  tack, 
however,  just  runs  us  between  the  piers  and,  since 
it  is  three  parts  high  water,  right  to  the  inner  steps. 
Thus  ends  our  last  visit  for  the  year  to  Tom  Ash, 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS 


105 


for  our  resentment  at  such  shabby  treatment  by 
the  wind  needs  the  cooling  of  another  winter. 
Next  summer,  no  doubt,  remembering  only  the 
fights  with  the  big  pollack  and  the  pleasure  of 
euchring  the  shark,  and  forgetting  the  demoral- 


MEVAGISSEY    QUAY 

ising  pull  home,  we  shall  be  for  Tom  Ash  once  more 
the  first  fine  day. 

Not  always  is  it  fine  enough  to  risk  so  distant 
a  ground,  and  on  uncertain  days,  or  when  the 
wind  is  wrong,  we  content  ourselves  with  a  "  highest 
possible  "  of  six  or  eight  pounds  on  the  nearer 
goals  of  Moldeser  or  Martin  Vane.  Some  days, 
either  for  a  change  of  sport,  or  perhaps  with  the 


106  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

object  of  giving  George,  who  has  a  nestful  of  beaks 
to  fill,  a  chance  with  the  more  marketable  fish,  we 
go  for  the  silver  whiting  on  the  edge  of  the  last- 
named  ground.  So  precisely  has  he  learnt  the 
marks  on  shore  that  by  regulating  the  length  of 
cable  between  us  and  the  anchor,  he  can  put  us, 
when  at  Martin  Vane,  on  pollack  or  whiting  as  we 
wish.  The  worst  of  these  shallower  grounds  is 
the  trouble  we  have  some  days  with  the  chad.  The 
chad  is  a  small  red  bream,  giving  excellent  sport 
in  the  adult  stage,  or  even  when  of  intermediate 
size,  when  it  is  known  as  a  ballard,  but  in  extreme 
youth  as  exasperating  as  schoolboys  in  their  play 
hour.  I  remember  one  day,  on  a  ground  known 
as  Australia  (why,  nobody  either  knows  or  cares), 
the  chad  were  so  unremitting  in  their  attention 
to  our  hooks,  that  we  simply  beat  an  ignominous 
retreat.  The  little  vermin  could  not  have  driven 
us  away  more  effectually  had  they  been  the  largest 
of  sharks  !  Now  and  then  we  were  able  to  turn 
the  enemy  to  account,  for  a  slab  of  chad  makes  a 
good  bait  for  pollack  when  these  are  really  hungry, 
and  it  has  the  advantage  of  being  about  the  tough- 
est bait  of  all  those  in  general  use.  There  was 
another  small  and  insidious,  though  rarer,  spoil- 
sport on  those  grounds.  Of  a  sudden,  your  rod 
top  would  begin  to  twitch,  and  no  amount  of 
striking,  and  no  small  hook,  would  catch  the  in- 
truder. One  day  the  mystery  was  solved,  for 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          107 

George  lowered  over  the  side  a  dreadful  implement 
made  out  of  three  hooks  lashed  in  a  triangle,  like 
that  in  use  by  pike-fishermen,  but  with  the  barbs 
filed  off.  This  fearful  engine  he  jerked  about 
among  the  rocks  until  at  length  a  look  of  satis- 
faction spread  slowly  over  his  face,  and  he  brought 
up  a  wicked  looking  squid,  vainly  lashing  the 
water  and  discharging  what  remained  of  his  ink. 
As  it  is  absolutely  hopeless  to  go  on  fishing  when 
squid  are  on  the  path,  we  took  in  our  lines  and 
left  George  to  catch  three  or  four  more,  which  we 
resolved  to  turn  to  account  that  night  on  the 
conger-ground. 

The  conger  roams  at  night  all  over  the  rocky 
bay,  indeed  there  must  be  a  seething  progress  of 
congers  right  around  the  coast  of  Cornwall  as  soon 
as  the  sun  goes  down  behind  the  Land's  End. 
About  six  in  the  evening,  a  couple  of  hours  after 
the  departure  of  the  pilchard  fleet,  we  leave  the 
harbour  and  sail  eastward.  Soon  we  see  the  pil- 
chard boats  drifting  towards  us  from  just  beyond 
the  Gribbin,  having  in  fact  shot  their  nets  off 
Fowey.  The  breeze  is  too  light  to  put  out  the 
mackerel  lines,  so  we  resolve  to  depend  entirely 
on  squid  bait  until  at  any  rate  we  can  perhaps 
pick  up  a  pilchard  or  two  from  one  of  the  boats 
when  the  nets  are  hauled  later  on.  We  anchor 
in  beautifully  smooth  water  off  Charlestown  just 
as  the  church  clock  strikes  seven.  We  are  not 


108  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

more  than  half  a  mile  from  land  and  in  more  than 
six  fathoms  of  water.  It  grows  dusk,  for  the 
August  evenings  are  drawing  in  painfully,  and 
George  lights  a  couple  of  lanterns  and  brings  out 
the  squid,  no  longer  the  inky  flabby  stuff  it  looked 
this  morning,  but,  thanks  to  much  washing  and 
hammering  and  other  special  treatment,  firm, 
white,  and  glistening  like  china.  Each  of  us  has 
a  stout  line,  carrying  two  hooks  and  a  heavy  lead. 
We  might,  it  is  true,  have  brought  rods  for  such 
shallow  water,  but  I  have  not  yet  recovered  from 
the  memory  of  an  unmanageable  conger  of  twenty- 
four  pounds,  which  I  had  caught  on  the  rod  on 
this  very  ground  four  years  earlier.  Exhilarat- 
ing though  the  experience  may  have  been,  I 
registered  a  vow  to  use  handlines  for  conger  on 
future  occasions,  at  any  rate  when  fishing  in  the 
dark,  which  immeasurably  handicaps  the  angler 
and  favours  the  escape  of  the  fish.  On  that  parti- 
cular occasion,  the  conger  all  but  broke  the  rod, 
practically  strained  the  reel  beyond  recovery,  and 
broke  one  of  my  thumb-nails  by  a  sudden  down- 
ward rush  that  jammed  it  between  the  rod  and  the 
gunwale  of  the  boat.  This  was  already  excite- 
ment enough  for  the  money,  but  more  was  to 
follow,  for,  having  been  coaxed  on  deck  with  three 
or  four  inches  of  gaff  in  its  belly,  its  first  act  of 
sweet  surrender  was  with  a  flick  of  its  tail  to 
kick  over  our  only  lamp,  which  George  had 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          109 

carelessly  left  on  the  seat.  Great  business  ensued, 
which,  however,  would  have  been  more  appro- 
priate in  one  of  those  rollicking  old  farces  at  the 
Vaudeville  of  other  days.  For  about  ten  minutes 
the  conger  was  slipping  about  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  in  unrestrained  enjoyment  of  life.  Mean- 
while George  and  I  were  not  idle,  for  he  belaboured 
my  shins  with  the  handle  of  the  gaff,  and  I  hit 
him  once  on  the  elbow  and  twice  in  the  stomach 
with  a  bludgeon  specially  designed  for  pacifying 
conger.  The  last  was  a  very  palpable  hit  and 
fortunately  roused  George  to  great  deeds,  for  his 
next  blow,  planted  with  chance  accuracy,  laid  the 
conger  out.  We  were  then  able  to  light  the  lamp 
and  give  the  conger  that  attention  which  its  recent 
conduct  demanded.  As  I  rubbed  my  smarting 
ankles,  it  was  borne  home  to  me  that  rod-fishing 
for  conger  in  the  dark  is  a  pastime  for  either 
knights  in  armour  or  fools. 

To-night,  therefore,  we  are  using  lines.  The 
hooks  being  baited  with  a  slab  of  squid,  and  a 
tempting  little  tentacle  being  stuck  on  the 
point  of  each,  we  noiselessly  drop  the  leads 
over  either  side,  let  them  run  quietly  out  till 
they  bump  the  rocks,  then  pull  in  about  a 
fathom  of  line.  This  has  the  desired  effect  of 
letting  the  baited  hooks  lie  motionless,  with  just 
enough  slack  to  leave  them  unmoved  by  the 
slight  up  and  down  motion  of  the  boat.  Each 


110  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

grips  the  line  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  with- 
out disturbing  the  bait,  and  waits  for  the  first 
signal.  In  a  few  minutes  there  is  a  little  nibble, 
that  might  be  caused  by  no  more  than  a  stickle- 
back. This  gives  place  to  a  couple  of  determined 
pulls,  and  then  the  fisherman  responds  and  feels 
the  weight  of  a  very  proper  adversary.  By  mid- 
night we  have  caught  fourteen  eels,  the  largest 
weighing  about  15  Ibs.,  and  all  the  while  the  pil- 
chard-drivers have  been  passing  half  a  mile  (a 
little  more  or  less,  since  they  move  in  tiers)  to  sea- 
ward of  us.  And  now  our  bait  is  running  out,  and 
as  one  of  the  last  of  the  fleet  is  (as  we  can  tell 
from  the  hoarse  cries  of  the  sea-birds  round  his 
sides)  hauling  his  nets  within  a  few  hundred  yards 
of  us,  we  pull  up  the  anchor  and  George  rows 
alongside  for  half  a  dozen  pilchards  straight  from 
the  strangling  meshes.  Back  to  our  ground  we 
go,  or  as  near  as  we  can  hit  it  off  with  no  kindly 
assistance  from  landmarks,  but  something  is  at 
fault,  for  during  the  next  hour  we  catch  only  four 
more,  all  small  males  of  two  or  three  pounds  each. 
More  than  once  a  tell-tale  yawn  has  sounded  out 
of  the  darkness,  and,  as  nothing  is  more  catching 
than  this  admission  of  a  yearning  for  bed,  we  re- 
spond on  each  occasion.  From  George  comes  a 
yawn  more  terrific  than  the  rest,  so  we  give  the 
order  for  home,  and  up  comes  the  anchor  for  the 
last  time  and  back  we  sail  to  the  little  light  on 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          111 

the  harbour  with  our  slimy  spoils  at  our  feet.  Half 
the  pilchard  boats  are  already  snug  at  their  moor- 
ings ;  two  of  them  sail  in  abreast  of  us,  so  that  we 
have  merry  company  up  the  dark  alley  that  leads 
to  our  lodgings. 

I  have  elsewhere  confessed  that  night-fishing 
no  longer  attracts  me.  Here  and  there,  as  on 
the  Mole  at  Leghorn,  or  on  the  mackerel-grounds 
at  Funchal ,  it  is  no  doubt  a  case  of  angling  at  night 
or  not  at  all,  for  the  water  in  those  latitudes  is  so 
clear,  and  the  sun  so  bright,  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  deceive  the  fish  by  day  on  tackle  stout 
enough  to  hold  them.  In  the  muddy  water  of 
the  English  Channel,  however,  at  any  rate  east 
of  Plymouth  Sound,  between  which  and  the 
threshold  of  the  western  ocean  it  clears  sensibly, 
the  difficulty  is  less  to  prevent  the  fishes  seeing 
the  tackle  than  indeed  to  help  them  see  the  bait, 
which  must  in  some  places  hang  as  fruitlessly  as 
would  even  Mr.  Chamberlain's  loaf  before  the 
nose  of  a  starving  Londoner  in  the  thick  of  a 
November  fog.  Moreover,  the  nights  of  those 
southern  countries  are  often  much  more  agree- 
able than  the  days,  for  the  full  glare  of  the  sun 
is  at  times  unbearable  on  the  water.  Night- 
fishing  therefore  assumes  virtues  in  such  seas 
that  it  can  lay  no  claim  to  on  the  coast  of 
Britain,  where  there  is  no  need  to  seek  its  friendly 
concealment.  Anyone  on  a  holiday  can  find 


112  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

enjoyment,  even  beyond  the  mere  catching  of 
fish,  with  the  fair  summer  sea  around,  with  the 
play  of  sea-fow]  and  porpoises,  with  the  occa- 
sional passing  of  a  picturesque  sailing  ship  or 
more  business-like  torpedo-boat ;  but  he  must 
be  an  eccentric  sportsman  indeed  who,  after  some 
experience  of  the  sensation,  can  find  much  satis- 
faction in  staring  through  the  cold  darkness  of 
an  English  night  at  the  glow  of  his  boatman's 
pipe  and  hauling  an  occasional  eel  for  his  pains. 

Drift-line  fishing  for  mackerel  has  been  referred 
to  in  passing  as  the  method  by  which  the  largest 
fish  of  that  species  are  caught.  My  best  experi- 
ence of  drift-lines  was  on  a  Saturday  morning  in 
1894.  It  was  a  pity  that  it  was  a  Saturday,  for 
that  meant  no  afternoon  market  for  George  to 
sell  his  fish  at,  so  that  Nature's  bounty  was  wasted 
on  us.  We  anchored  on  Martin  Vane  in  a  glassy 
smooth  sea,  and  the  great  mackerel  were  darting 
to  and  fro  beneath  the  boat  literally  in  hundreds. 
The  water  was  so  still  and  clear  that  we  could 
watch  each  fish  take  the  bait  and  even  pull  it 
away  from  a  small  aspirant,  so  as  to  give  a  better 
fish  the  option.  We  caught  about  a  hundred  and 
then  left  off,  simply  tired  of  the  sport  and  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  the  fish  would  fetch  no  price 
worth  speaking  of  the  same  day  and  would  be 
absolutely  putrid  by  the  Monday.  These  large 
mackerel  give  pretty  sport  on  fine  gut  tackle,  but 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          113 

there  are  limits  to  one's  greed  under  circum- 
stances such  as  those  just  described.  Part  of  our 
success  was  no  doubt  due  to  having  the  ground 
to  ourselves.  As  it  was  Saturday,  none  of  the 
regular  fishermen  were  out,  but  might  be  found 
loafing  round  the  harbour  or  sitting  on  the  old 
benches  talking  parish  pump  politics  with  the 
gaffers. 

It  will  not  have  escaped  notice  that  the  bass 
has  so  far  received  but  scant  notice  in  these 
accounts  of  Mevagissey.  The  fact  is  Mevagissey 
is  not  a  first  rate  station  for  that  particular  fish. 
Looe,  Falmouth,  and  Padstow  all  offer  better 
chances,  though  much  of  their  other  fishing  is 
vastly  inferior.  Still,  an  occasional  big  bass  may 
be  caught  by  those  who  care  to  devote  much  time 
to  little  result.  Just  west  of  the  port  is  a  long, 
low  promontory  known  as  Chapel  Point.  On 
the  rocks  which  uncover  at  low  water  just  at  the 
end  of  the  Point,  I  once  flushed  a  covey  of  part- 
ridges, which  had  in  all  probability  run  before  me 
as  I  walked  slowly  down  the  fields  to  the  edge  of 
the  sea  and  were  reluctant  to  take  wing  until  the 
last  possible  moment,  though  as  it  was  only  the 
third  week  in  August,  they  ought  scarcely  to  have 
remembered  the  dread  gun.  So  unusual  a  spot 
for  partridges,  twenty  or  thirty  yards  below 
spring  low  water  mark,  suggested  a  query  whether, 
holding  a  game  license  a  fortnight  later,  I  should 

9—  2272) 


114  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

have  been  legally  entitled  to  shoot  the  birds 
when  at  length  they  flew  round  over  the  water. 
Etiquette  would  demand  that  I  should  not,  and 
in  any  case  the  law  would  probably  have  interested 
itself  in  me  at  an  earlier  stage  for  walking  through 
private  fields  with  a  gun  under  my  arm.  But  I 
might  equally  have  flushed  the  partridges  in  a 
boat  after  someone  else  had  walked  them  up. 
Should  I  have  been  within  the  law  if  I  had  shot 
them  over  the  water  ?  If  I  remember  right,  I 
propounded  the  query  in  the  Field  at  the  time, 
but  I  have  no  record  of  the  answer. 

For  the  moment,  however,  Chapel  Point  is 
recalled,  not  as  a  feeding-ground  for  partridges, 
but  as  the  shelter  from  the  force  of  the  South- 
West  gales,  under  cover  of  which  it  is  often  possi- 
ble to  enjoy  a  day's  fishing  when  the  sea  is  hope- 
lessly rough  outside.  There  are  small  pollack 
and  fair-sized  mackerel  off  Forth  Mellyn,  but  it 
is  better  to  spend  such  an  off  day  in  an  attempt 
to  catch  one  of  the  big  bass,  for  which  the  sands 
at  the  edge  of  the  rocks  are  a  rare  rendezvous 
after  breezy  weather,  for  at  such  times  the  shore 
is  strewn  with  offal  washed  round  from  the  har- 
bour. Several  such  endeavours  I  remember  as 
having  been  quite  futile,  but  on  one  occasion  at 
any  rate,  and  indeed  on  three,  we  went  out  to 
good  purpose.  The  Eva  was  moored  fore  and 
aft  in  shallow  water,  parallel  with  the  rocky  shore. 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          115 

A  whole  pilchard,  not  too  fresh,  since  the  bass 
likes,  when  raiding  the  shore  commissariat,  to 
scent  its  food  from  a  distance,  is  tied  on  the  hook 
in  a  peculiar  manner.  As  George  has  paid  parti- 
cular attention  to  the  strength  of  flavour  recom- 
mended above,  the  interesting  process  of  baiting 
is  left  to  him,  as  I  have  promised  to  dine  out  this 
evening  and  should  not  easily  get  such  flavour 
off  my  hands.  So  George  baits  the  hook,  and, 
standing  on  the  thwart,  swings  the  line  well  out 
on  the  sand,  so  that  the  bait  lies  at  the  edge  of 
the  rocks.  There  it  is  given  two  or  three  minutes 
to  settle,  and  then,  without  further  disturbing 
it,  I  gently  wind  in  the  slack.  That  accomplished, 
and  George  having  squeezed  two  or  three  more 
pilchards,  similarly  circumstanced  to  the  first, 
and  flung  them  out  around  my  line,  we  both  light 
tobacco  and  talk  over  old  times.  The  conversa- 
tion is  abruptly  checked  by  a  muffled  exclamation 
from  George,  who  points  to  the  rod  as  if  he  saw  a 
ghost.  True  enough,  there  is  the  slightest  per- 
ceptible twitching  of  the  top  ring,  and  a  couple  of 
slack  coils,  which  I  left  purposely  on  the  seat 
beside  the  reel,  are  narrowing,  as  the  line  creeps 
out  through  the  rings.  The  rod  is  a  stiff  one, 
about  sixteen  feet  long,  one  that  I  had  originally 
built  by  Messrs.  Watson  and  Hancock,  of  Hol- 
born,  and  well  adapted  to  this  work,  though 
designed  by  me  for  angling  from  the  high  Admiralty 


116  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

Pier  at  Dover,  from  parts  of  which  we  often  ex- 
perienced difficulty  with  the  shorter  rods  in  clear- 
ing the  projecting  buttresses.  My  hands  tightly 
grasp  the  butt  ;  the  check  is  on  the  winch  ;  and 
as  soon  as  all  the  slack  line  is  out,  I  sweep  the  rod 
back  over  the  shoulder,  and  the  maddened  bass, 
with  the  hook  driven  well  home  in  his  throat, 
goaded  by  the  unlocked  for  sting  in  that  seemingly 
harmless  offal,  races  off  as  if  nothing  would  stop 
him  short  of  the  French  coast.  Yet  the  increasing 
drag  of  fifty,  sixty,  seventy  yards  of  wet  line  gives 
him  pause  in  his  headlong  career,  and  I  manage 
to  get  his  head  round,  and  even  to  get  ten  or 
fifteen  yards  of  line  back  on  the  reel.  This  seems 
to  have  given  him  new  inspiration  ;  for  he  tries 
a  trick  that  I  have  had  played  on  me  by  both 
sharks  and  garfish,  but  rarely  indeed  by  bass, 
He  swims  with  all  his  might  towards  the  boat, 
slackening  the  line  faster  than  even  the  five-inch 
reel  can  get  it  home,  then,  of  a  sudden,  away  he 
dashes  at  right  angles,  in  under  the  cliff.  If  he  only 
knew  it,  the  odds  must  be  seven  to  three  in  his 
favour,  for  there  are  rocky  knives  at  hand,  against 
the  edge  of  which  the  line  would  cut  like  gossamer 
thread.  His  spirits  seem  to  have  recovered,  for 
he  is  now  careering  among  the  rocks  on  the  swirl 
of  the  rising  tide,  and  any  moment  may,  as  I  am 
fully  aware,  bring  the  closure.  Here  evidently 
is  no  ordinary  bass  tasting  steel  for  the  first  time, 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          117 

but  a  veteran  who  can  count  his  chances  and 
make  the  most  of  them.  This  I  quickly  realise, 
and  also  determine  that  if  the  line  is  to  break,  I 
may  as  well  do  the  trick  as  look  on.  Finesse 
must  be  thrown  to  the  winds.  Here  is  meat  for 
a  straightforward  match  of  muscle,  so  I  put  on  all 
the  strain  I  dare,  and  more  indeed  than  less  ex- 
treme case  would  warrant,  and  by  a  sheer  forcing 
game  the  great  head  is  pulled  once  more  towards 
the  boat,  and  half  the  battle  is  thereby  won  and 
lost,  for  a  good  fish  with  his  shoulder  to  the  line 
is  worth  two  of  another  with  his  face  to  the  foe; 
The  broad  tail  lashes  the  shallow  water ;  now,  and 
now  again,  the  reel  comes  to  a  standstill  between 
two  equal  and  opposing  forces,  but  my  position, 
a  few  feet  above  the  level  of  the  water,  gives  just 
the  advantage  without  which  I  believe  the  bass 
would  have  won  home,  and,  after  a  stand  up  fight 
that  must  have  lasted  nearly  half  an  hour  from 
first  to  last,  with  one  of  the  combatants  exhausted, 
and  the  other  not  wanting  any  more  exercise  for 
the  moment,  George  slips  the  gaff  into  the  flank 
of  an  eight  pound  bass  of  great  beauty,  whose 
scouring  in  the  recent  gale  has  burnished  it  to  a 
dazzling  sheen. 

Another  bass-ground  lies  just  round  Chapel 
Point,  beside  the  Gwingeas,  a  rock  which  stands 
out  of  the  water  like  a  lion  couchant  of  Herald's 
College.  We  never  in  all  our  experience  killed 


118  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

one  there,  but  one  afternoon  George  and  I  hooked 
what  he  graphically,  and  with  evidently  more 
regard  to  size  than  the  quality  more  definitely 
indicated,  described  as  a  "  snorter."  In  this 
fishing  also,  though  in  more  open  water,  the  boat 
is  moored  at  either  end,  broadside  to  the  rock,  and 
the  time  for  fishing  is  on  the  first  of  the  ebb,  when 
you  can  moor  a  hundred  yards  east  of  the  rock 
and  let  the  bait  drift  into  the  shadow  of  it.  The 
bait  is  not  in  this  case  flung  out,  but  is  dropped 
gently  over  the  side,  and  the  tide  does  the  rest. 
On  the  afternoon  in  question  we  were  fishing  not 
indeed  for  bass  at  all,  but  for  the  large  drift-line 
mackerel,  for  which,  on  its  day,  the  Gwingeas 
ground  is  as  good  as  any  in  the  bay.  We  must 
have  caught  some  weighing  over  two  pounds, 
using  the  fine  tackle  necessary  for  such  work,  with 
three  or  four  feet  of  single  gut.  In  a  drifting  boat, 
where  you  can  follow  the  fish,  there  would,  or 
should,  be  no  difficulty  in  killing  the  heaviest  bass 
on  such  tackle,  but  with  the  anchor  down  it  is  a 
very  different  matter.  Therefore,  when  one  of 
my  mackerel-lines  went  flying  over  the  side,  the 
wooden  winder  jumped  about  in  the  boat  as  it 
unwound  dangerously  near  the  end  of  the  line, 
we  knew  from  the  beginning  that  the  game  was 
up.  We  did  what  we  could.  I  let  the  line  go 
through  my  fingers  as  gingerly  as  possible,  and, 
as  George  was  putting  forth  all  his  strength  in  a 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          119 

heroic  effort  to  get  the  second  anchor  in,  I  actually 
so  far  tired  the  bass  as  to  bring  that  scaly  truant  to 
rest  and  even  coax  a  little  line  in  over  the  gunwale. 
Yet  it  was  to  no  purpose,  and  it  went  off  with  a 
final  rush  which  caught  me  hanging  out  of  the 
boat  with  the  winder  extended  at  arm's  length. 
For  all  I  know,  he  may  still  be  cruising  about 
those  seas  with  eight  and-forty-yards  of  line  trail- 
ing from  his  powerful  jaws,  though  more  probably 
the  poor  devil  got  tethered  to  some  sunken 
anchor  or  clump  of  seaweed  and  there  died  a  slow 
death  from  starvation,  to  be  finally  devoured  by 
crabs  who  would  murmur  at  the  poor  condition 
of  the  fare.  That  is  always  the  sportsman's 
regret  when  a  heavy  fish  breaks  away  with  hook 
and  line,  for  he  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  tor- 
ture to  which,  unless  by  rare  good  luck  the  hook 
comes  out,  the  fugitive  must  inevitably  be  exposed. 
For  this  reason,  I  always  deprecate  the  use  of 
very  fine  tackle  from  high  bridges  and  piers  where 
more  fishes  are  dropped  off  in  mid  air  than  brought 
to  the  creel.  At  Poole,  for  instance,  those  who 
fish  for  bass  from  the  Hamworthy  Bridge,  insist 
on  using  fine  gut  tackle.  As  most  of  this  fishing 
is  done  in  the  dark,  the  escape  of  the  fish  is  still 
further  favoured,  and  about  nine  out  of  ten  (some- 
times a  slightly  higher  average)  get  away,  often 
with  broken  tackle  in  their  jaws.  This  is  sheer 
cruelty.  If  you  must  fish  for  such  heavy  game 


120  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

from  a  parapet,  it  is,  paradox  though  this  may 
seem,  far  more  humane  and  sportsmanlike  to  give 
the  fish,  once  hooked,  little  chance  of  escape  and 
to  catch  it  on  a  Hne  that  would  hold  the  week's 
washing. 

With  one  more  recollection,  a  sad  one,  I  must 
take  leave  of  Mevagissey.  Just  as  that  first  visit 
in  1894  is  associated  with  memories  of  Matthias 
Dunn,  so  that  of  1897  brings  back  a  still  more 
remarkable  personality.  'A  year  earlier  I  had 
met  Harold  Frederic  at  the  National  Liberal 
Club,  at  a  time  when  we  were  both  contribut- 
ing to  the  Saturday  Review.  It  may  indeed 
have  been  in  Frank  Harris's  room  upstairs  that 
I  first  met  him,  but  my  first  memory  is  of  a 
spring  afternoon  at  the  club  in  Northumber- 
land Avenue,  where,  after  lunching  with  him,  I 
was  telling  him  of  the  Cornish  fishermen.  Frederic 
was  always  a  student  of  such  small  industrial 
communities,  and,  rather  diffidently,  I  suggested 
that  he  should  pay  me  a  visit  when  I  went  down 
in  August.  To  my  great  delight,  he  accepted. 
The  fishermen  in  due  course  interested  him  much  ; 
the  fishing  little.  He  was  the  slave  of  his  news- 
paper work,  and  often,  when  ten  miles  from  land, 
suddenly  made  notes  from  a  telegram  which  had 
to  be  sent  to  his  paper  in  New  York.  He  was  a 
keen,  but  not  a  good,  fisherman  ;  obstinate,  un- 
adaptable, loth  to  graft  local  methods  on  his  own 


POLLACKS  AND  PILCHARDS         121 

ways.  While  we  were  hauling  two  or  three  mac- 
kerel a  minute  on  our  leaded  lines,  he  preferred 
to  dangle  a  futile  spinning  bait  on  his  light  trout- 
rod  out  of  a  boat  sailing  four  or  five  miles  an  hour  ! 
That  was  poor  Frederic  all  over.  He  would  teach 
the  mackerel  to  take  the  bait  the  way  they  ought 
and  not  give  way  to  their  silly  prejudice  in  favour 
of  coarser  gear.  When  at  last,  in  response  to  a 
nod,  unseen  by  him,  George  slacked  the  sheet  and 
Frederic  actually  hooked  and  played  a  fine  mackerel 
just  as  the  Eva  was  coming  to  rest,  his  satisfaction 
knew  no  bounds,  and  his  good  nature  was  un- 
ruffled when  the  cause  of  his  sudden  success  was 
presently  explained. 

Frederic  had  an  extraordinary  way  with  the 
toilers  on  life's  way.  To  them,  alike  in  his  humble 
beginnings  and  brilliant  successes,  he  always  be- 
longed. He  could  take  liberties  with  the  most 
radically  disaffected  among  the  fishermen.  Once 
I  even  thought  that  he  would  offend  the  usually 
imperturbable  George,  who  is  not  without  his 
moments  of  dignity.  George  had  just  related 
some  more  than  usually  prolonged  history  of 
Mevagissey  society  and  paused,  breathless,  for 
our  appreciation,  when  Frederic,  a  little  less 
patient  that  morning,  perhaps  owing  to  some 
troublesome  letter  from  his  editor,  said,  "  Say, 
"  George,  boy  ;  that  wasn't  a  right  down  good 
"  story.  You  see,  dear  fellow,  I'm  paid  a  bit  to 


122  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

•"  teJl  stories  and  I  know  a  d-d  bad  one  when 
"  I  hear  it  !  "  Yet  George  never  refers  to  his 
memory  in  terms  other  than  affectionate. 

Unhappily,  his  obstinacy  was  not  always  so 
innocuous  to  himself  as  when  he  persisted  in  mis- 
sing mackerel  on  the  wrong  tackle.  On  one  Sun- 
day afternoon  for  instance,  I  took  him  over  to 
'  Troy  Town  "  to  introduce  him  to  "  Q,"  whether, 
as  a  surprise  visit  or  by  appointment  I  forget. 
At  any  rate,  we  found  "  Q,"  whom,  though  suffi- 
ciently my  senior  at  Gifton  to  have  left  the  school 
before  I  got  there,  I  had  known  for  some  years,  in 
his  garden  overlooking  the  beautiful  harbour,  and 
there  we  spend  a  very  pleasant  couple  of  hours, 
they  discussing  the  impending  completion  of  "  St. 
Ives,"  I  listening,  drinking  tea  and  enjoying  a 
sensation  as  near  contentment  as  was  proper  to 
a  day  without  fishing.  Then,  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening,  we  drove  back  to  Mevagissey  and  found 
that  the  family  had  put  our  supper  ready  and 
gone  to  evening  chapel  "  down  under."  Even 
as  we  walked  up  the  little  path  to  the  cottage,  the 
stern  Wesleyan  hymns  sounded  from  the  pious 
little  valley.  On  the  table  lay  a  brace  of  fine 
lobsters  from  the  store,  but,  alas,  the  sun  had 
got  at  them  before  the  cook,  and  they  were  tainted. 
A  Bournemouth  friend,  one  of  the  party,  who 
had  stayed  home  to  write  letters,  joined  with  me 
in  urging  their  removal  to  the  back  yard.  There 


POLLACK  AND  PILCHARDS          123 

were  a  few  trifles  such  as  a  pair  of  roast  chickens, 
some  fruit  pie,  cheese  and  saffron  cake  to  make 
up,  but  poor  Frederic  would  not  forego  the  lobsters. 
We  were  only  boys  !  He  would  show  us  how 
they  ate  lobsters  in  Utica.  He  did.  He  devoured 
the  larger  of  the  two  and  declared  that  it  was 
delicious.  We  held  our  peace,  fearful  least  the 
slightest  opposition  should  provoke  similar  treat- 
ment of  the  survivor.  Next  morning  at  ten,  when 
we  went  fishing,  he  was  very  peaceful  on  the 
bench  in  front  of  the  cottage,  mainly  interested 
in  rubbing  his  chest.  That  is  the  obstinacy  which 
killed.  Ten  days  before  the  end  came,  I  received 
a  wire  from  Kenley.  I  had  not  been  there  since 
one  summer'?  day  when  some  of  us  lunched  under 
the  spreading  tree.  Poor  Crane,  that  other  knight 
who  went  down  in  the  fray  with  his  emprise  but 
half  through,  Oswald  Barron,  famous  in  the 
exposition  of  heraldic  lore,  and  others  were  there 
then.  This  time  I  found  Harold  almost  alone, 
the  ghost  of  his  former  self.  All  that  Saturday 
we  discussed  his  convalescence,  of  which  he  was 
sanguine,  and  his  plans  for  touring  through  Italy. 
I  even  wrote  him  then  and  there  a  letter  to  Dr. 
Anthon  Dohrn,  the  eminent  Director  of  the 
Naples  Aquarium.  Alas  !  he  preferred  Christian 
"  science  "  to  medicine  to  the  end,  and  thus  expired 
one  of  the  few  brilliant  men  it  has  been  my  privi- 
lege to  call  friend,  on  the  very  day  when  Mr. 


124 


THE  SALT  OF   MY  LIFE 


Heinemann  was  to  have  published  his  last  book. 
Gloria  Mundi  !  What  more  would  the  glory  of 
the  world  ever  mean  to  him,  whose  large  heart 
and  large  body  we  took  to  Woking  and  left  a  little 
heap  of  undistinguished  ash  ! 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM 


V 
SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM 

Difference  of  Surroundings— Little  Freshwater  Fishing  in 
Australia — Sydney  Harbour — An  Outing  after  Schnapper— 
Fishing  in  Broken  Bay — Fallen  Among  Sharks — Schnapper 
and  Sundries — Rods  Unsuitable — Losing  a  Big  Fish— Bright 
Colouring  of  Australian  Fishes— Middle  Harbour — Black 
Bream  in  Still  Waters — "  Berley  "  — Blackfish — Rods  More 
Popular  in  Queensland — Possible  Legacy  of  "  Redspinner  " 
Flathead  and  Jewfish — Sharks  and  Catfish  in  Moreton  Bay— 
Calm-water  Fishing — Rock-fishing — Dreadful  Climbs — A  Re- 
lation of  Thackeray — "  Cungevoi  " — A  Caution  about  Sea- 
urchins — Leather  Jackets — Failure  to  catch  Hobart  Trum- 
peter and  Fitzroy  Perch — Shooting  Kangaroo  and  Duck — A 
Queensland  Estuary  "and  Quinine. 

FROM  the  open  waters  off  Mevagissey  to  the 
sheltered  creeks  of  Sydney  Harbour  and  Botany 
Bay  is  a  far  cry  ;  but  the  year  1895  found  me,  who- 
the  previous  summer  had  blinked  from  conger- 
grounds  up  at  the  Great  Bear,  fishing  for  a  change 
under  the  Southern  Cross.  The  work  done  by 
energetic  acclimatisation  societies  is  gradually 
repairing  the  meanness  with  which  Nature  has 
stocked  Australia's  rivers  with  fish.  It  is  doubt- 
ful whether  they  will  ever  afford  such  sport  as 
the  waters  of  Tasmania  or  New  Zealand,  where 
trout  grow  to  dimensions,  which  we  at  home 
associate  rather  with  salmon.  There  is,  however,. 

127 


128  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

•every  prospect  that,  judiciously  edited  by  man, 
they  will  yet  give  better  fishing  than  Nature 
intended.  They  may  indeed  have  arrived  at  that 
desirable  stage  already,  for  ten  years  of  effort  must 
be  placed  to  their  credit  since  I  knew  them.  In 
those  days  at  any  rate,  Australian  anglers  looked 
to  the  salt  water  for  practically  all  their  sport. 
Fortunately,  the  comparatively  few  indentations 
•of  that  unlovely  coastline  are  so  capacious,  withal 
so  sheltered  from  rough  weather,  that  landlocked 
in)ets  afford,  where  they  are  not  overfished,  all 
manner  of  excellent  sport  in  absolutely  stil]  water. 
That  Sydney  Harbour  itself  gave  much  fishing 
even  ten  years  ago  could  not  be  pretended,  for 
the  Australians,  careful  in  all  else  to  claim  their 
inheritance  for  themselves,  had  with  perverse 
apathy  given  over  the  fishing  to  Italians,  the  most 
wasteful  fishermen  perhaps  in  the  wide  world, 
with  the  result  that  the  beautiful  anchorage  was 
•denuded  of  its  fauna.  To-day,  if  the  same  policy 
has  persisted,  it  must  be  nearer  exhaustion  than 
ever.  The  most  plentiful  fish  within  the  Heads 
was  the  blackfish  of  Middle  Harbour,  where  lads 
used  to  angle  for  it  with  rods,  baiting  their  hook 
with  a  weed  which  they  obtained  from  the  quays. 
At  odd  times,  too,  I  saw  the  crew  of  the  pilot- 
steamer  Captain  Cook,  stationed  at  Watson's  Bay, 
haul  trevally,  just  within  the  South  Head,  as  fast 
as  they  could  bait  their  lines. 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM     129 

One  Saturday  in  June,  or  rather  as  Saturday 
was  giving  place  to  its  successor,  for  the  great 
clock  tower  of  the  Sydney  Post  Office  boomed 
forth  the  midnight  hour,  six  or  eight  members  of 
the  Kuriwa  Schnapper  Club  assembled  at  Circular 
Quay  and  filed  along  a  gangway  aboard  a  little 
tugboat,  each  greeting  the  coloured  skipper  as 


THE    SCHNAPPER 

he  reached  the  deck.  That  son  of  Ham  was  a 
favourite  with  all  hands  and  a  wonderful  fisher- 
man to  boot,  usually  catching  two  fish  on  his  line 
to  one  taken  on  any  other.  A  little  delay  was 
caused  by  two  members  arriving  late.  Both  of 
them  held  positions  in  the  Land's  Office,  but 
Government  business  could  hardly  be  held  respon- 
sible for  their  want  of  punctuality  at  that  hour. 

10— (2272 


130  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

At  the  quarter,  they  came  up  together  in  a  cab, 
and  we  got  away  just  as  the  last  of  the  ferry-boats 
came  gleaming  across  from  Neutral  Bay.  Past 
Garden  Island  and  the  anchored  warships  we 
dropped,  and  so  to  the  threshold  of  the  Ocean, 
where,  in  spite  of  the  night  being  calm  and  what 
little  wind  there  was  blowing  off  the  land,  a  gentle 
swell  at  once  sent  three  or  four  of  the  party  below, 
where  they  crouched  in  the  narrow  cabin  and 
made  believe  to  sleep  comfortably.  Although, 
in  this  upside-down  country,  what  would  have 
been  almost  the  longest  day  at  home  was  nearly 
mid-winter,  the  night  was  balmy  and,  as  the 
Pacific  lived  for  once  in  a  way  up  to  its  reputa- 
tion, the  rest  of  us  slept  pleasantly  enough  on 
deck.  As  we  passed  under  the  looming  brow  of 
the  North  Head,  the  course  was  abruptly  changed 
to  the  northward,  and  along  the  towering  coast, 
broken  here  and  there,  as  at  Manly,  by  an  interval 
of  sandy  beach,  we  went  at  half  speed,  since  there 
was  no  object  in  reaching  Broken  Bay,  our  desti- 
nation, before  daylight.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  we 
were  off  the  embouchure  of  the  lovely  Hawkesbury 
while  it  was  yet  dark,  and  for  the  last  hour,  before 
the  tug  lay  to,  I  had  been  towing  a  new  line  astern 
in  order  to  take  the  turns  out  of  it.  It  was  a 
stout  spun  line,  dark  green  in  colour,  which  I  had 
bought,  wound  on  a  cork,  at  a  shop  near  the  Town 
Hall,  and  better  for  this  ocean-fishing  than 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    131 

anything  one  could  have  taken  out  from  England. 
I  have  since  found  that  it  is  almost  identical  with 
the  lines  sold  in  America  for  tarpon-fishing. 

The  stoppage  of  the  paddles,  and  the  rocking 
of  the  boat  when  put  broadside  to  the  tide, 
brought  the  would-be  slumberers  tumbling  up 
the  steep  companion.  Good  hot  tea  was  served 
round  from  the  boiling  "  billy/'  and  everyone 
produced  his  own  rolls  and  eggs  and  meat.  An 
Australian  exacts  meat  with  every  meal  anywhere 
short  of  shipwreck.  The  meal  is  got  through 
quickly  with  a  running  commentary  of  speculation 
on  the  weather,  chaff,  argument  and  prevarication, 
the  not  uncommon  ingredients  of  angling  inter- 
course. Leads  and  hooks  are  inspected  again, 
and  knots  tested  carefully,  by  lantern  light,  though 
the  supremacy  of  night  is  already  in  question 
out  to  sea,  where  lie  New  Zealand  and  the  dawn. 
Two  of  the  crew  are  now  busy  cutting  up  the  bait, 
a  good  heap  of  mackerel,  squid  and  yellowtail, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  other  fishes,  old  wives  and 
grey  mullet  predominating.  The  last  are  put 
aside,  for  the  mullet  is  peculiarly  attractive  to 
sharks,  and  it  is  not  as  a  rule  necessary  to  offer 
any  special  inducement  to  these  spoil-sport  vermin 
to  hover  round  the  boat  when  the  lines  are  over 
the  side. 

And  now,  breakfast  being  at  an  end,  the  secre- 
tary of  the  club,  a  genial  official  in  the  Government 


132  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

Railway  Department,  makes  nine  small  heaps  of 
the  bait,  one  for  each  member  present  and  one 
for  the  skipper,  and  next  chalks  eight  places  along 
the  gunwale  on  the  port  side.  The  skipper  fishes 
from  the  bridge,  and  it  is  the  particular  care  of 
him  whose  place  is  just  beneath  to  keep  his  features 


THE    NANNYGAI 


clear  of  fish  swinging  on  their  way  aloft.  By  the 
time  these  preliminaries  are  through,  day  has 
got  the  upper  hand,  and  we  can  see  as  far  as  the 
first  bend  of  the  Hawkesbury  estuary.  Every- 
one takes  a  place  on  the  port  side,  according  to 
the  number  he|has  drawn  from  a  hat,  and  this, 
of  course,  gives  the  steamer  a  perceptible  list. 
We  are  about^ajnile  off  the  land,  and  the  tug,  her 
bow  pointing  to  the  beach,  drifts  north  ;  all  the 
lines  will  drift^out  towards  the  south.  Hooks  are 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    133 

baited,  and,  at  a  pistol  shot  from  the  secretary 
(since  everything  is  done  with  some  formality), 
down  fly  nine  leads  through  the  clear  water  to  the 
reef,  fifteen  fathoms  below  us.  Not  more  than 
three  or  four  minutes  elapse  before  three  of  them 
are  being  hauled  back  with  that  laboured  action 
which  indicates  an  objection  being  raised  at  the 
other  end.  To  have  got  right  among  the  schnapper 
at  once  seems  too  good  to  be  true,  and  so^indeed 
it  proves,  for  a  groan  from  the  stern,  where  these 
linesjhave  been  busiest,  proclaims  that  the  booty 
is  not  "  right  colour."  "  Right  colour  "  means 
scarlet,  the  livery  of  the  schnapper  and  of  many 
other  Australian  fishes,  including  the  little  nanny- 
gai,  which,  after  the  schnapper  itself,  is  the  most 
welcome,  since  it  is  regarded  as  the  harbinger  of 
the  larger  fish,  being  found  on  the  same  ground 
and  taking  the  same  baits.  Association  of  this 
kind  between  two  different  kinds  of  fishes  is  not 
uncommon,  and  at  home  we  associate  the  garfish 
and  mackerel  in  much  the  same  way.  In  this 
case,  it  was  not  even  silvery  morwong,  red  pigfish 
or  gaudy  sergeant-baker  ;  worst  of  all,  it  was  a 
small  school-shark  on  every  line,  females  all  of 
them  with  the  living  young  writhing  inside.  And 
now  two  more  lines  are  seized  by  sharks,  one 
parting  in  an  ugly  rush  that  means  a  monster. 
Our  master  of  ceremonies  gives  the  signal  "  Up 
lines!"  and,  having  acted  on  it,  we  steam  away 


134  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

northward  for  three  or  four  miles  to  try  another 
reef  that  may  perchance  be  free  of  such  vermin. 
The  plan  answers,  and,  within  a  short  time  of 
our  settling  down  to  work  again,  two  good  schnap- 
per,  great  red  bream  with  a  peculiar  hump  on  the 
forehead  (see  photograph  from  an  excellent  paint- 
ing in  the  possession  of  the  Imperial  Institute*) 
which  gives  the  fish  a  stern,  Roman-nosed  profile, 
are  kicking  on  the  deck.  Then  several  morwong 
soon  join,  and  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  every- 
one has  caught  something.  Hauling  a  schnapper 
of  five  or  six  pounds  weight  is  no  child's  play, 
for  the  water  is  moderately  deep,  the  fish  is  a  born 
fighter,  and  the  pull  on  the  line  is  of  course  increased 
by  the  broadside  drift  of  the  boat,  as  no  anchor  is 
down  during  the  fishing.  I  never  encountered 
at  any  rate  outside  of  the  excellent  fish-room  in 
the  Australian  Museum,  any  of  the  double-figure 
monsters  that  bulk  so  large  in  the  glorious  annals 
of  earlier  schnapper-fishing,  but  they  must  give 
fine  sport  indeed,  even  on  a  handline.  A  rod  would 
never  do  for  the  work.  I  confess  that  I  took  mine 
out,  something  that  I  had  had  specially  built  at 
home  for  the  work,  with  vague  dreams  of  carrying 
the  purism  of  the  B.S.A.S.  to  the  South  Pacific. 
I  also  confess  that  the  rod  was  never  taken  out 


*  For  permission  to  take  this  I  am  indebted  to  the  kindness 
of  Professor  Wyndham  Dunstan,  F.R.S. 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    135 

of  its  cover  until,  some  months  later,  I  used  it 
for  giant  perch  (which  I  never  caught)  in  a  Queens- 
land river.  It  became  quite  evident  on  my  way 
down  the  Harbour  for  my  first  schnapper  day, 
several  weeks  before  the  occasion  here  described 
from  my  journals,  that  it  would  be  hopelessly  out 
of  place.  The  sportsman  should  not  be  deaf  to 
the  teachings  of  local  custom,  for  it  more  often 
than  not  has  sound  reason  on  its  side.  The 
obstinacy  that  knocks  its  head  against  a  brick 
wall  is  not  more  disastrous  than  that  which  insists 
on  grafting  the  angling  methods  of  one  part  of 
the  globe  on  the  diametrically  opposite  conditions 
which  may  rule  the  sport  in  another.  I  was  get- 
ting on  fairly  well  on  this  occasion.  I  had  caught 
three  or  four  schnapper  and  several  smaller  fish, 
and  had  twice  lost  my  hook  in  "  New  South  Wales/' 
for  with  the  boat  drifting  over  such  rough  ground, 
fouling  the  bottom  means  the  instant  rupture 
of  negotiations.  At  last,  I  am  fast  in  a  monster. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it,  seeing  the  way  my 
line  is  flying  out,  and  some  of  the  others  pause 
in  their  own  fishing  to  watch  the  issue.  It  is  soon 
decided,  and  my  visions  of  a  record  schnapper 
are  dispelled.  The  gentleman  at  the  other  end 
after  nearly  pulling  me  over  the  side,  suddenly 
sends  me  falling  backwards  by  an  unexpected 
trick  of  swimming  up  towards  the  surface  and  thus 
slacking  the  line.  He  must  then  have  got  a  slack 


136  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

bight  of  the  line  and  bitten  it  through,  for  he 
sank  out  of  ken  with  the  lead  and  hooks.  Some 
guessed  a  shark;  others  thought  it  must  be  an 
extra  large  traglin;  it  did  not  seem  to  matter 
much,  and  I  went  below  for  another  lead  and 
some  more  line.  Before  I  was  ready  to  resume 
work,  our  old  enemies,  the  sharks,  had  found 
us  out  again,  for  one  or  two  members  of  the 
party  were  bringing  the  mournful  heads  of  mor- 
wong  and  nannygai  to  the  surface,  the  bodies 
having  been  severed  as  cleanly  as  on  the  operating 
table.  The  sun  is  now  well  up  over  the  horizon, 
and  its  rays  fall  on  little  heaps  of  slain,  each  piled 
on  the  deck  beside  its  captor.  How  different  are 
those  bright-hued  fishes  from  the  sober  pollack 
and  whiting  of  far-off  Mevagissey !  The  eye 
almost  wearies  of  their  brilliancy  and  longs  to 
dwell  on  a  single  grey  fish  like  we  used  to  catch 
at  home,  just  as  the  old  shellback,  tired  to  death 
of  brazen  tropical  skies,  prayed  for  the  sting  of 
a  Channel  fog  in  his  eyes.  So,  when  one  wanders 
in  the  luxuriant  fern  groves  of  tropical  Queens- 
land and  watches  the  raucous-voiced  parrots 
flying  in  all  the  pride  of  their  dazzling  plumage, 
regret  for  the  sober  but  tuneful  linnet  and  nightin- 
gale surges  in  the  homesick  breast.  We  do  not, 
it  is  true,  expect  music  from  fishes,  but  in  the 
matter  of  flavour,  the  smart  dwellers  in  those 
warm  seas  are  for  the  most  part  not  comparable 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACKJBREAM    137 

with  the  seedy -looking  sole  and  dory  of  northern 
latitudes.  A  few,  no  doubt,  are  quite  acceptable. 
The  schnapper  itself,  the  nannygai,  the  garfish 
are  all  fish  that  one  can  eat^  but  as  a  whole 
the  Australian  maree  is  poor  food  indeed.  The 
brilliant  raiment  is  easily  accounted  for  if  we 
remember  that  in  the  clear,  sunlit  seas  of  that 
continent  pronounced  reds  and  yellows  are  in 
reality  more  efficient  protection  from  prying  eyes 
than  the  darker  coat  of  the  cod  and  haddock  would 
afford. 

Again  the  signal  to  coil  lines ;  and  this  time  we 
steam  away  south,  well  satisfied,  all  but  one  or 
two  incorrigible  grumblers,  with  our  morning's 
work.  One  more  attempt  is  made,  by  way  of 
using  up  what  remains  of  the  bait,  on  the  Red 
Road,  a  reef  off  Manly,  but  without  adding  to  the 
catch  more  than  a  few  "  squires,"  the  schnappers 
that  are  to  be,  otherwise  red  bream  of  about  two 
or  three  pounds  weight.  Then,  as  it  is  Sunday, 
and  as  no  one  has  anything  to  take  him  back  to 
Sydney,  we  spend  the  remainder  of  the  day  in 
the  beautiful  creeks  of  Middle  Harbour,  where 
we  have  more  tea  and  food  and  try  for  a  black 
bream.  This  meets  with  little  success,  for  the 
most  fastidious  of  Australian  fishes  will  not  be 
wooed  without  much  preparation. 

Let  me  try  and  recall,  from  a  page  in  the  July 
diaries,  a  day  after  black  bream,  exactly  a  month 


138  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

later  than  this  schnapper  outing.  Those  who 
believe,  with  Scrope,  that  sea-fishing  requires 
little  or  no  skill  should  accompany  a  party  of 
Australian  bream-fishermen,  leaving  Sydney  by 
the  early  steam-tram  or  train,  according  to  their 
destination,  be  it  Botany,  Como,  or  some  other 


IN    BOTANY    BAY 


beautiful  sheltered  water  in  the  neighbourhood. 
A  boat  has  been  ordered  by  letter,  for  there  is  a 
run  on  all  available  craft  every  week-end.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  summer  is  the  season  for  the  best 
black  bream  fishing,  but  very  fair  catches  are 
sometimes  made  in  the  winter  months,  and  to-day, 
the  still,  fine  weather  promises  success.  The 
party  consists  of  three,  of  whom  two  are  experts 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    139 

and  the  third  one  who  is  ready  to  learn.  Each 
carries  a  small  handbag  containing  his  lunch,  or 
at  any  rate  the  solid  part  of  it,  his  line,  a  very 
fine  one  with  several  feet  of  single  gut  and  a  single 
sharp  hook,  and  a  small  jar  of  live  prawns,  so- 
called,  though  no  larger  than  our  common  shrimp 
at  home.  One  of  the  party,  entrusted  with 
that  department,  has  brought  a  billy  and  tea 
as  well  as  something  of  far  greater  importance  in 
the  day's  proceedings,  a  bundle  of  the  magic  com- 
pound known  as  '  berley."  This  Rabelaisian 
groundbait  is  cunningly  concocted  out  of  sour 
herrings,  condemned  tinned  salmon,  an  inex- 
pensive cheese  that  could  never  have  been  made 
for  eating  purposes,  and  as  much  bran  as  is  needed 
to  give  consistency.  There  may  have  been  one 
or  two  other  equally  disgusting  ingredients  ;  if 
so,  I  am  glad  to  forget  them.  The  smell  of  this 
outrageous  preserve  I  never  hope  to  forget,  for 
the  sour  venom  of  it  is  still  in  my  nostrils,  and  if 
ten  years  do  not  cure  you  of  such  a  memory,  it 
is  ineradicable.  In  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment, 
the  frightful  enthusiasm  of  the  angler,  which 
envisages  lugworms,  gentles  and  other  beastliness 
as  the  accompaniment  of  a  day's  pleasure,  hands 
are  dipped  in  the  mess  as  eagerly  as  were  it  a 
savoury  Moorish  kous-kous,  and  a  small  ball  of 
it,  well  kneaded  in  the  palm,  is  either  thrown 
close  to  the  line,  or  else  pinched  on  the  gut  just 


140  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

above  the  hook.  When  the  boat  has  been  paddled, 
with  as  little  fuss  as  possible,  to  some  favourite 
spot  close  to  the  rocks,  it  is  moored  at  either  end 
by  one  who  knows  the  locality,  so  that  the  baited 
hooks  wil]  lie  just  at  the  edge  of  a  grassy  mead 
where  big  bream  lie  and  feed  throughout  the  day. 
A  little  preliminary  berley  having  been  flung 
around  as  a  genera]  invitation,  each  hook  is  baited 
with  a  peeled  prawn  so  that  it  shall  be  as  far  as 
possible  hidden  within  that  semi-transparent  enve- 
lope. The  line,  of  finest  silk  twist,  is  now  uncoiled 
from  its  cork,  and  when  sufficient  lies  on  the  seat, 
the  hook,  with  a  scrap  of  lead  pinched  on  the  gut 
to  give  it  way,  is  swung  as  far  out  as  required.  It 
is  then  allowed  to  sink  to  the  bottom,  and  the 
slack  is  gathered  in,  after  which  a  keen  bream- 
fisherman  would  no  more  Jet  go  of  it  than  of  his 
hope  of  salvation.  For  choice,  he  would  hold  on 
to  the  line.  It  is  even  said  that  the  cracks  (not 
cranks)  mortify  the  top  of  the  forefinger  with 
pumice  in  order  to  increase  its  sensibility,  for 
the  first  overture  of  the  bream  is  generally  of 
the  slightest,  barely  preceptible  by  anyone 
unaccustomed  to  the  faint  quiver  of  the  line. 

Readily  as  I  recognised  the  futility  of  rods  out 
on  the  schnapper  ground,  I  thought  then,  and 
think  still,  that  a  roach-rod  would  be  most  appro- 
priate to  the  capture  of  black  bream.  Lines, 
however,  were  the  rule.  It  may  be  that  in  that 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    141 

bright  climate  and  clear,  shallow  water  the  appari- 
tion of  a  rod  jutting  out  over  the  water  would  have 
frightened  these  sensitive  fish.  Whatever  the 
objection,  rods  were  never  seen,  their  only  use 
near  Sydney  being,  as  already  mentioned,  for 
blackfish.  On  the  Brisbane  river,  a  couple  of 
months  later,  I  found  rods  in  much  more  general 
favour,  a  preference  which  it  pleased  me,  correctly 
or  otherwise,  to  regard  as  a  possible  legacy  from 
my  esteemed  friend  "  Redspinner,"  otherwise  the 
present  editor  of  the  Field,  who  resided  for  many 
years  in  Brisbane,  and  whose  letters  of  introduc- 
tion were  a  veritable  "  Open  Sesame  "  at  the  doors 
of  the  hospitable  Johnsonian  Club  and  elsewhere 
in  the  most  homely  of  all  colonial  capitals. 

For  black  bream,  however,  rods  were  never  used. 
As  a  result,  with  no  telltale  float  to  guide  the  eye 
to  what  was  going  on  down  below,  the  unpractised 
hand  lost  most  of  the  best  fish.  First,  it  struck 
just  that  fraction  of  a  second  too  late,  which  fisher- 
men know  so  well  as  a  fatal  cause  of  failure.  Then, 
nettled  by  the  nimble  evasion  of  the  bream,  it 
struck  the  same  fraction  of  a  second  too  soon,  with 
the  same  result  as  far  as  the  fish  was  concerned, 
only  in  this  case  the  bait  was  saved  for  another 
essay.  These  Australian  bream  bite  far  more 
delicately  than  our  sea-breams  at  home,  or  even 
those  of  Madeira  or  the  Mediterranean.  It  may 
be  that  they  have  profited  by  the  education 


142  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

imparted  by  amateur  fishermen,  learning  how  to 
cozen  them.  The  larger  the  bream,  the  more  fin- 
nicking  as  a  rule  is  the  way  in  which  it  nibbles, 
and  it  must  be  remembered  that  a  skinned,  un- 
cooked prawn  is  no  very  difficult  morsel  to  suck 
off  the  hook. 

We  have  been  fishing  nearly  an  hour,  and  my 
Australian  friends  have  half  a  dozen  fish  apiece. 
So  far  I  have  looked  on.  Ah  !  At  length  I  have 
something  on,  not  an  undersized  one  either.  Out 
goes  my  fine  line  over  the  gunwale,  and  I  play 
the  fish  gingerly,  as  we  used  to  play  large  mackerel 
in  Cornwall .  Foolish  hints  of  the  coming  specimen 
bream  fall  from  my  lips.  My  friends  say  nothing, 
but  think  the  more.  He  gives  way  at  last  ;  I 
haul  him  hand  over  hand,  and  next  moment  I 
have  not  indeed  my  specimen  bream  in  the  boat, 
but  a  hideous  creature  that  I  have  never  seen  the 
like  of  before,  something  like  a  gurnard  out  of 
drawing.  It  is  a  "  flathead,"  they  tell  me.  As 
the  information  was  murmured  as  I  was  ducking 
my  head  to  get  the  hook  out  of  its  ugly  mouth,  I 
thought  the  speaker  said  something  different, 
but  took  it  meekly,  for  I  felt  indeed  a  little  foolish 
with  my  '  bream."  The  fish  measured  about 
eighteen  inches  long  and  was,  they  assured  me, 
excellent  eating.  It  looked  like  one  of  the  faked 
mermaids  that  I  used  to  see  in  a  well-known 
curio  store  at  Falmouth.  Later  in  the  afternoon. 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    143 

after  the  billy  has  sung  its  usual  tune,  I  do  indeed 
catch  a  few  of  the  right  sort,  though  of  small  size, 
and  towards  evening,  after  a  long  day  of  varying 
fortunes  in  different  spots,  we  get  a  half  hour  of 
brisk  sport,  which  gives  us  a  dozen  bream  averag- 
ing half-a-pound,  as  well  as  a  tussle  with  a  big 
jewfish,  which  is  hooked  on  one  of  my  friend's 
lines  and  fouls  the  other  in  its  efforts  to  escape, 
which  it  eventually  effects,  taking  with  it  most 
of  their  tackle  as  a  memento  of  the  occasion.  At 
first,  it  was  taken  for  a  shark,  but  its  behaviour 
soon  betrays  its  identity.  Large  sharks  do,  how- 
ever, enter  Botany  Bay  and  even  find  their  way 
into  the  rivers.  In  Moreton  Bay,  where,  during 
a  week's  stay  in  Brisbane,  I  tried  some  unsuccess- 
ful fishing  down  near  Eagle  Farm,  they  told  me 
that  sharks,  attracted  no  doubt  by  the  city's 
abattoirs,  were  so  plentiful  thereabouts  as  to  de- 
prive the  local  supply  of  convicts  of  any  desire 
to  break  free  from  their  island  pnson. 

This  calm-water  fishing  provides  an  agreeable 
contrast  from  the  rough  and  tumble  of  the  ocean. 
Opportunities  of  fishing  in  sheltered  salt  water  at 
home  are  restricted  to  a  few  estuaries.  One  or 
two,  in  Devon  and  Essex,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
lovely  Mawddach,  at  Barmouth,  I  know  well. 
Then  there  is  the  bay  at  Bridlington,  where,  on 
the  upper  lip  of  Yorkshire's  strangely  human 
profile,  your  boat  lies  snug  from  most  winds.  In 


144  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

Australia  these  opportunities  are  more  extended, 
for  all  the  great  cities  lie  in  these  inlets  along  the 
coast,  an  arrangement  which  probably  inspired 
the  colonial  enthusiasm  for  sea-fishing.  Certainly 
the  sport  found  adherents  out  in  Australia  long 
before  it  was  general  at  home,  and  clubs  and 
associations  devoted  solely  to  its  interests,  which 
are  quite  new  in  the  old  country,  have  flourished 
in  Sydney  these  twenty  years.  Whether,  as  accli- 
matisation societies  gradually  stock  the  barren 
rivers  with  sporting  fish,  some  of  the  amateurs  will 
shift '  heir  allegiance  to  other  scenes  inland  remains 
to  be  seen.  For  all  I  know,  such  a  change  may  have 
come  over  the  spirit  of  the  sport  since  I  was  out 
there,  but  in  those  days,  with  the  exception  of  a 
little  trout-fishing  in  Victoria,  about  which  very 
few  people  seemed  to  know  anything,  it  was  a 
question  of  fishing  in  the  sea  or  not  at  all.'  ^  i-  I 

There  was  a  third  kind  of  fishing,  to  which  no 
reference  has  so  far  been  made.  This  was  rock- 
fishing.  At  home  in  England,  there  was  in  those 
days  comparatively  little  fishing  from  the  shore, 
though  it  had  some  vogue  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Aberdeen,  and  both  the  sandy  shore  at  Aide- 
burgh  and  the  rocks  near  Scarborough  and  Filey 
afforded  winter  sport  to  those  who  knew  them. 
Of  late  years,  amateurs  at  home  have  recognised 
the  advantages  of  this  beach-fishing,  which  often 
gives  excellent  results  and  at  a  cost  no  greater 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    145 

than  that  of  bank-fishing  up  the  Thames.  Bass 
of  large  size  are  caught  throughout  the  summer 
on  the  beaches  close  to  Folkestone  Harbour  and 
under  the  Castle  Hill  at  Hastings,  and  at  many 
another  resort  of  Kent  and  Sussex,  as  well  as  at 
Sidmouth  and  Seaton,  in  the  extreme  east  of  Devon, 
bass  are  taken  in  this  manner  from  the  land. 

I  had  never  done  any  rock-fishing  in  those  days 
worth  speaking  of,  and  the  cliff-climbing  in  Aus- 
tralia was  a  fearful  revelation.  To  clamber  down 
the  face  of  the  North  Head,  or  along  the  equally 
appalling  wall  of  Australia  beyond  Coogee,  was, 
even  in  broad  daylight,  enough  to  stop  the  beating 
of  any  heart  but  a  goat's.  The  return  climb 
from  the  pit  in  the  dimmer  light  of  evening,  with 
fish  to  carry,  and  with  the  conviction  that  a  false 
step  meant  a  very  hurried  transit  through  a  couple 
of  hundred  feet  of  air  into  the  sharks'  dining  hall, 
scarcely  bears  writing  about.  Yet  many  such 
dreadful  journeys  I  made,  on  any  one  of  which  it 
was  Carnegie's  Diplodocus  to  a  new-hatched  tad- 
pole that  I  should  break  my  neck.  My  guide  on 
these  occasions  was  the  secretary  of  the  largest 
angling  association  in  Sydney,  which  had  very 
courteously  made  me  an  honorary  member  soon 
after  my  arrival  in  the  city.  He  was  a  relative 
and  namesake  of  the  author  of  "  Vanity  Fair," 
and  for  his  kindness  in  giving  up  many  days  to 
showing  me  all  the  most  appalling  fishing  spots 

11— (2272) 


146 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


within  ten  miles  I  still  render  thanks  to  his  memory, 
not     untempered    with     amazement    that     such 


PHE    ROCK    FISHERS     IDEA   OF    PLEASURE 


adventures  should  have  had  no  worse  ending.  I  am 
no  alpinist.  I  have  not  one  drop  of  chamois  Wood 
in  my  veins,  and  if  I  were  elected  to  membership 
of  the  Alpine  Club,  I  should  be  found  in  a 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    147 

crevasse  with  my  face  and  feet  pointing  upwards. 
A  sense  of  duty  would  impel  me  to  take  out  a 
rope  and  ice-axe  and  gambol  on  the  roof  of 
the  world,  but  the  end  would  come  quickly. 
Even  on  the  mere  hummocks  that  shut  out  Aus- 
tralia's desolation  from  the  ocean,  Thackeray  was 
followed  by  a  quaking  disciple. 

The  ultimate  and  unworthy  object  of  this 
suicidal  monkeying  with  the  steep  places  of  earth 
was  an  immense** fish  called  a  "  Grouper/'  which 
is  apparently  hatched  from  the  egg  weighing 
twenty  or  thirty  pounds,  at  any  rate  if  one  may 
judge  from  the  conversation  of  amateur  fisher- 
men out  there,  for  I  never  heard  any  reference 
to  a  small  one.  This  heavy,  pig-lipped  fish  I  saw 
now  and  then  at  the  Wooloomooloo  Fishmarket, 
which  I  sometimes  visited  in  the  early  morning, 
walking  down  through  the  domain  and  swimming 
in  the  enclosed  bath,  through  the  gratings  of  which 
we  always  pictured  sharks  staring  at  us  as  the  fox 
stared  at  the  grapes.  There  was  also  at  any  rate 
one  specimen  in  the  Museum.  Alive  I  never  saw 
one,  though  the  insidious  Thackeray  ever  bade 
me  hope  against  hope,  and  about  once  a  week  I 
uncomplainingly  risked  my  life  over  some  yawn- 
ing abyss  to  gratify  this  silly  ambition.  Now 
and  again  my  hook  was  held  for  a  tense  moment 
in  the  boiling  surf,  and  the  line  came  back  to  me 
without  it.  The  obvious  aggressor  was  one  of 


148  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

the  sharp  rocks  that  stand  like  teeth  in  every  pool 
on  that  coast,  but  when  my  guide  declared  on 
each  occasion  that  I  had  hooked  a  gigantic  grouper, 
I  had  not,  particularly  as  he  obviously  knew  the 
truth,  the  heart  to  argue,  so  day  after  day  we  played 
the  same  game  without  ever  diminishing  the  grou- 
per population  by  one. 

The  way  not  to  catch  grouper,  in  which,  thanks 
to  Thackeray's  able  instructions,  I  was  soon  a 
past  master,  is,  briefly,  as  follows.  Our  arrival 
at  the  water's  edge  was  timed  for  low  tide,  and, 
after  one  or  two  experiences,  he  learnt  to  allow 
me  about  three  times  as  long  as  he  would  have 
taken  alone.  The  first  thing  was  to  gather  bait, 
which,  by  way  of  mercifully  lightening  our  load, 
Nature  provided  in  abundance  on  the  spot.  Crabs, 
which,  mindful  of  former  narrow  escapes,  scuttled 
into  crevices  at  our  approach,  were  speared  by 
the  nimble  Thackeray  before  they  were  quite  out 
of  reach.  Another  bait  was  known  as  "  cungevoi," 
doubtless  an  aboriginal  word  like  r<  morwong " 
and  "  nannygai."  This  was  detached  with  the 
aid  of  a  blunt  knife  from  its  submerged  foothold 
in  the  rock  pools.  Of  cungevoi  I  retain  a  less 
vivid  memory  than  I  could  wish,  but  my  impres- 
sion after  this  lapse  of  years  is  that  it  was  some 
form  of  sea-urchin.  Touching  sea-urchins  gener- 
ally, there  seems  excuse  for  a  digression  in  view 
of  a  disagreeable  experience  I  had  during  a  recent 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    149 

visit  to  Madeira.  I  had  pricked  my  fingers  more 
than  once  in  handHng  these  creatures,  but  paid 
no  further  attention  to  the  matter.  Many  days 
later,  when  homeward  bound  on  the  "  Caris- 
brooke  Castle/'  I  felt  a  painful  throbbing  in  the 
middle  finger  of  the  right  hand,  and  from  the  top 
joint  the  ship's  doctor  extracted  about  three- 
quarters  of  an  inch  of  sea-urchins'  spine.  It  had 
apparently  required  over  a  week  for  the  inflam- 
mation to  make  itself  felt. 

When  Thackeray  and  I  had  gathered  enough 
bait  (we  generally  had  about  rather  more  than  half 
of  it  left  over  at  the  end  of  the  day's  fishing),  the 
next  performance  was  to  climb  up  again  to  some 
ledge  commanding  sufficient  depth  of  water.  It 
was  indeed  on  aH  but  the  calmest  days  comforta- 
ble to  get  away  from  the  extreme  proximity  of 
the  Pacific,  since  the  rollers  of  that  ocean  are 
curiously  uneven,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
supreme  effort  looked  dangerously  near  washing 
us  off.  Back  we  would  toil,  Thackeray  going 
ahead,  until  the  desired,  but  not  desirable,  spot 
was  reached,  often  enough  a  miserable  ledge  that 
would  just  have  accommodated  an  incubating 
guillemot.  Then  the  hooks  were  baited,  one  with 
crab,  the  other  with  cungevoi,  and  swung  out  into 
the  surf,  a  proceeding  not  unattended  with  the 
risk  of  overbalancing.  Then  we  waited.  The 
waiting  was  a  great  feature  of  those  outings. 


150  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

There  was  a  song,  very  popular  in  those  unso- 
phisticated days,  a  ballad  they  would  have  called 
it,  of  which  the  refrain  ran— 

I   am  waiting.    I  am  waiting 
Just  to  tell  thee  how  I  love  thee  ! 

Thackeray  on  the  other  hand,  employed  these 
interludes  unprofitably  in  the  narration  of 
Homeric  conflicts  with  enormous  grouper. 
It  was  admitted  that  the  very  largest  fish 
were  less  plentiful  than  in  days  of  old,  the  stock 
having  from  all  accounts  deteriorated  through 
over-fishing.  After  an  interval,  which  varied 
from  one  to  three  hours,  one  of  us  would  get  a  bite, 
and  then  followed  the  proud  exercise  of  hauling 
a  leather]  acket,  contemptuously  abbreviated  to 
"  jacket,"  or  some  other  obscene  looking  fish 
(anything  rather  than  that  which  we  had  come  so 
far  to  catch)  and  despatching  it  in  our  precarious 
eyrie.  The  leather] acket  is  one  of  the  trigger- 
fishes,  a  thick-skinned,  flattened  type,  in  shape 
not  unlike  a  dory,  and  having  a  peculiar  back  fin, 
which  it  can  erect  at  will.  On  one  occasion  I 
remember  fishing  with  Thackeray  not  far  off 
the  Merivery  sewer,  in  fact,  as  the  wind  blew  from 
that  direction,  quite  near  enough.  To  make  mat- 
ters more  interesting,  a  trifling  shark  that  looked 
about  nine  feet  long,  but  might,  so  terrified  was 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    151 

I  when  making  this  estimate,  have  been  ninety, 
seized  both  my  hooks  and  the.  lead  in  its  cavernous 
mouth  and  sailed  unconcernedly  out  to  sea.  To 
save  further  trouble,  and  regardless  of  retaining 
such  little  esteem  as  might  yet  be  mine,  I  threw 
the  rest,  winder  and  all,  into  the  sea.  Anyone 
holding  on  to  a  shark  of  that  size  while  balanced 
on  a  slippery  rock  must  be  far  wearier  of  life  than 
I  am  even  to-day.  At  that  time,  I  had  ten  more 
years  of  its  illusions  still  unspoilt. 

Those  old  diaries,  which  have  scarcely  been 
opened  since,  recall  other  fishing  days  in  Australia, 
many  of  them  no  more  successful  than  these 
wicked  strivings  after  grouper,  that  existed  only 
in  the  vivid  imagination  of  one  who  was  no  un- 
worthy connection  of  the  great  satirist.  There 
was  the  trumpeter-fishing  at  Hobart.  At  that 
season  of  the  year,  that  is  so  say  the  end  of  the 
Australian  winter,  the  waters  round  Hobart 
Sound  had  two  kinds  of  trumpeter,  the  bastard 
and  the  silver.  My  guide,  a  greaser  on  the  steamer 
that  had  brought  me  from  Sydney  to  the  pretty 
Sleepy  Hollow  that  nestles  under  the  shadow  of 
Mount  Wellington,  begged  me  to  believe  that  he 
would  not  put  me  off  with  the  bastard  kind.  He 
was  as  good  as  his  word,  for  we  did  not  catch  one. 
Incidentally,  I  may  add  that  we  did  not  catch 
one  of  the  legitimate  kind  either.  All  we  did  get 
was  a  dogfish  of  no  particular  interest,  and  the 


152  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

day  is  starred  in  my  journals  merely  as  the  Farthest 
South  (45°S.)  of  my  wanderings  with  fishhooks. 

Amid  very  different  scenery,  in  a  tropical  cli- 
mate, I  made  some  equally  ineffectual  essays  to  get 
on  terms  with  the  Giant  Perch  of  Fitzroy  River. 
In  that  Queensland  estuary  we  had  been  anchored 
for  a  fortnight,  our  insatiate  steamer  swallowing 
endless  rations  of  wool  down  three  hatchways. 
We  got  through  the  time  somehow,  chiefly  shooting 
and  fishing.  We  shot  kangaroos  on  an  island, 
but  shooting  one  of  those  marsupials  is  not  much 
more  exciting  than  missing  another.  A  few  duck 
afforded  prettier  sport,  and  I  recollect  bringing 
down  a  high  overhead  bird  with  the  choke  barrel 
of  my  gun,  and  the  body  went  swish  into  a  dark 
and  marshy  patch  of  mangrove,  into  which  neither 
the  ship's  purser  nor  myself  cared  to  venture, 
fearing,  no  doubt,  some  deadly  snake  or  hungry 
crocodile.  Poor  fellow  !  he  died  by  his  own  hand 
the  day  we  got  to  Tilbury,  so  he  might  just  as 
well  have  retrieved  the  duck  and  taken  his  chance 
of  a  more  honourable  ending.  This  shooting  not 
merely  gave  little  result,  but  it  entailed  terrible 
tramps  over  baking  plains  composed  of  loose  soil 
undermined  by  land-crabs,  of  a  kind  to  make 
walking  any  distance  a  painful  job.  I  therefore 
preferred  as  a  rule  to  spend  the  day  fishing  for 
these  giant  perch  from  the  little  pier  beside  the 
lighthouse.  From  the  vessel  herself  we  could 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    153 

only  catch  small  sharks  and  a  bearded  siluroid, 
both  of  which  seized  a  baited  hook  the  moment 
it  touched  the  water  and  was  carried  by  the  swift 
tide  along  the  surface.  Neither  gave  any  sport, 
or  was  of  the  least  use  to  the  ship's  cook,  and  in- 
deed killing  such  fish  at  all  would,  under  other 
circumstances  have  been  inexcusable.  Owing, 
however,  to  some  misunderstanding  with  the 
Rockhampton  lightermen,  the  Rakaia  was  delayed 
an  extra  ten  days  in  that  mournful  estuary, 
and,  as  we  were  left  absolutely  idle,  the  usual 
master  of  ceremonies  found  mischief  ready  to 
our  hands. 

So  to  the  lighthouse-keeper  I  turned  in  my 
trouble,  and  found  him  a  friendly  fellow,  like  all 
his  class.  Being  cut  off  from  the  society  of  your 
fellow  men  during  about  eleven  months  and  three 
weeks  of  the  year  does  not  induce  a  churlish  mood 
when  a  rare  visitor  invades  your  official  solitude. 
This  particular  guardian  of  the  fairway  was  so 
obliging  as  to  net  me  some  grey  mullet  and  "  skip- 
pers "  for  bait,  and  every  morning  he  had  a  bucket 
of  them  ready,  all  as  lively  as  grigs.  And  every 
morning,  I  put  one  on  the  hook  and  lowered  it  beside 
the  piles,  and  sat  there  until  it  was  time  for  tiffin, 
and  in  due  course  I  was  so  tired  of  waiting  for  perch 
that  I  would  have  welcomed  sport  with  a  croco- 
dile. Every  few  minutes  the  water  made  a  gurg- 
ling sound  among  the  piles,  and  the  lighthouse-man 


154  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

assured  me  that  it  was  the  snorting  of  a  perch 
that  had  caught  sight  of  my  bait  and  would  cer- 
tainly seize  it  in  a  minute  or  two.  At  first  this 
sort  of  fooling  found  me  credulous,  and  I  braced 
myself  up  for  the  coming  fight  ;  but  such  "  Wolf  !  " 
cries  soon  lose  their  first  novelty,  and  I  developed 
a  peaceful  mood,  indifferent  to  perch  or  anything 
else  equally  remote.  Still,  it  was  more  agreeable 
on  the  pier  than  on  a  steamer  overrun  with  unclean 
lightermen  and  bawling  stevedores,  and  at  low  tide 
it  was  always  amusing  to  watch  the  little  mud- 
skippers,  true  fishes  out  of  water,  hopping  about  at 
play  among  the  uncovering  mangrove  roots.  That 
was  all.  I  had  practically  comforted  myself  with 
the  conviction  that  the  much  talked  of  giant 
perch  of  the  Fitzroy  was  a  scaly  myth,  but  this 
pleasant  explanation  of  my  failure  was  dashed 
on  the  last  morning  of  our  stay.  Even  as  the  last 
hatch  was  fastened  down,  the  last  bargee  bundled 
over  the  side  by  an  irate  baggage-officer,  the  order 
about  to  be  given  to  stand  by  the  anchor,  we  were 
hailed  from  a  bend  in  the  bank,  and  a  little  boat 
shot  out  with  the  lighthouse-keeper,  who  had  a 
small  offering  for  me  in  the  shape  of  a  perch  that 
he  had  caught  at  daybreak.  It  weighed  consider- 
ably over  30  Ibs.  after  it  was  cleaned,  and  proved 
excellent  eating.  Such  a  fish  must  have  given 
fine  sport  on  the  rod,  and  not  to  have  caught  one 
was  my  one  regret  for  as  desolate  and  malarial 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    155 

an  anchorage  as  even  a  professional  undertaker 
could  design.  Never  have  the  caprices  of  travel 
landed  me  in  a  worse  hole,  at  any  rate  ;f  or  so  long  a 
period.  We  spread  quinine  in  the  form  of  powder 
on  our  early  slice  of  bread-and-butter  as  gladly 
as  if  it  had  been  foie  gras,  and  only  such 
precautions,  I  firmly  believe,  saved  the  whole 
company  from  going  down  with  fever. 

That  ended  my  fishing  in  Australia,  with  the 
exception  of  one  or  two  stray  perch-like  fishes, 
which  I  caught  at  various  anchorages  within  the 
region  of  the  Barrier  Reef.  These  halts,  however, 
were  few  and  far  between,  and  less  time  was  spent 
in  catching  fish  than  in  watching  them,  from 
hammerheaded  sharks  down  to  beautiful  little 
painted  kinds  that  sported  amid  the  corals  like 
gaudy  humming-birds  among  rare  tropical  flowers. 

At  Thursday  Island  we  fell  in  with  some  pearl 
divers,  kanakas,  of  course,  and  their  white  over- 
seer. Two  of  the  divers  had  a  pretty  fight,  at 
the  end  of  which  part  of  a  knife  blade  belonging 
to  one  was  hidden  in  the  buttocks  of  the  other, 
but  no  serious  damage  seems  to  have  been  done. 
A  most  amusing  fellow  here  came  on  board  in 
the  second  class,  one  who  had  spent  most  of  his 
life  loafing  among  those  lotos-islands.  He  was 
going  with  us  as  far  as  Batavia,  and  expected 
to  return  thence  in  a  month's  time.  Once  man 
gets  within  the  spell  of  those  South  Seas,  there 


156  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

is  no  reclaiming  him.  Long  talks  I  had  with  this 
character.  He  had  read  a  good  deal  of  such 
literature  as  appealed  to  him  ;  Stevenson,  Louis 
Becke  and  others  I  remember  his  referring  to. 
He  made  game  of  those  writers  who  assure  the 
reading  public  that  life  in  the  South  Sea  Islands 
is  one  long  business  of  gallantries  with  native 
princesses,  who  are  invariably  represented  as 
falling  head  over  ears  in  love  with  the  first  coarse 
Englishman  (very  few  of  the  other  kind  ever  go 
there)  who  pays  them  attention.  They  are,  he 
told  me,  rather  amorous  young  women,  but  it  is 
entirely  for  their  own  countrymen  that  they  keep 
their  favours,  save  where  these  were  a  matter  of 
barter.  From  what  he  said,  I  suspect  that  Mr. 
Kipling's  advice 

"  The  things  you  will  learn  from  the  Yellow 

and  brown, 
They'll  'elp  you  a  lot  with  the  White, 

belongs  to  the  realm  of  pure  biological  speculation. 
At  any  rate,  I  know  too  little  of  his  natural  history 
to  say  whether  his  advice  is  the  result  of  personal 
adventure. 

One  more  kind  of  fishing  we  tried  on  the  way 
home  to  Europe,  and,  since  I  have  promised  not 
to  gloze  the  failures,  it  shall  here  be  set  forth, 
though  it  will  be  long  again  before  I  go  to  so  much 
trouble  with  so  slight  a  chance  of  success. 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    157 

Long  had  I  treasured  the  details  furnished  by 
a  sporting  correspondent  of  the  Field,  a  naval 
officer,  of  stupendous  fishing  in  the  Indian  Ocean 
and  Red  Sea  when  under  way.  Albicore,  bonito 
and  other  splendid  surface-swimming  fishes  had 
been  taken  by  this  method,  and,  as  we  were  bound 
for  those  hallowed  waterways,  in  a  vessel  more- 
over which  did  nothing  to  emulate  the  expedition 
of  a  mail-boat,  I  resolved  to  try  my  luck.  The 
dobash  of  the  B.  I.  Company  at  Batavia  procured 
for  me  an  immense  bamboo  pole,  the  which,  with 
the  sanction  of  the  skipper  and  by  the  help  of  a 
well-bribed  quarter-master,  was  rigged  up  in  the 
correct  fashion,  so  that  it  projected,  seemingly 
for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  from  the  starboard 
side,  a  gigantic  fishing-rod  indeed.  A  brand  new 
line,  a  treble  hook  dressed  with  bunting  to  imitate 
a  flying  fish — it  might  just  as  well  have  been  a 
drowned  immature  hippogriff — and  a  small  bell 
completed  this  amazing  outfit.  The  eight  knots, 
which  had  sufficed  our  unambitious  old  tramp 
via  the  Queensland  ports  and  Barrier  Reef,  were, 
on  leaving  Tanjong  Priak,  increased  to  nine, 
probably  rather  too  fast  for  success ;  but  the 
skipper,  though  not  hostile  to  the  idea  of  fresh 
fish  in  the  saloon,  declined  any  further  concession. 
We  could  fish  at  nine  knots,  or  "do  the  other 
thing,"  whatever  that  was.  The  autocrats  put 
in  charge  of  cargo-boats  "  fitted  to  carry  a  few 


158  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

passengers  "  have  a  charm  of  manner  that  dis- 
tinguishes them  from  the  other  personages  of 
earth.  The  only  construction  we  could  put  upon 
"  the  other  thing  "  was  whist  all  day  and  pegs 
all  the  evening  ;  and,  as  these  had  been  tried  to 
exhaustion,  we  resolved  to  give  the  fishing  a  turn. 
Over  went  the  flying-fish  on  the  day  that  Java 
faded  from  sight,  and  away  it  trailed  in  the  direc- 
tion of  that  spicy  island,  bobbing  and  dancing  in 
the  creamy  wake  of  the  pulsing  screw,  and  the 
lissom  bamboo  bent  to  the  pull  of  it.  Then  the 
line  and  bell  were  so  connected  that  as  soon  as 
a  fish  threw  additional  strain  on  the  former  it 
set  the  latter  ringing.  The  first  time,  the  bell 
remained  silent,  and  after  waiting  with  waning 
enthusiasm  for  three  or  four  hours,  six  of  us, 
passengers  and  crew  together,  had  half-an-hour's 
back-breaking  exercise  getting  the  line  in,  so 
appalling  was  the  tension.  Next  evening,  when 
some  slight  finishing  touches  had  been  put  on  the 
"  fish,"  till  it  now  resembled  a  waterlogged  bird, 
it  was  once  more  cast  loose  to  dance  before  the 
eyes  of  ravening  monsters  of  the  deep.  It  did 
its  work,  but  we  never  saw  it  again.  Just  as  we 
were  busy  at  dinner  with  some  more  than  usually 
uninteresting  dish,  tinkle  went  the  bell,  and, 
without  apology  to  the  Captain,  who  would  not 
have  left  his  food  if  the  four  beasts  of  the  apocalypse 
had  sat  down  at  the  saloon  table,  we  dashed  on 


SCHNAPPER  AND  BLACK  BREAM    159 

deck,  just  in  time  to  see  our  precious  bamboo 
bending  like  a  sapling  in  a  gale.  Next  minute, 
we  were  all  hanging  on  to  it,  and  for  a  few  glorious 
moments  of  suspense,  we  felt  the  desperate  play 
of  something  lively  and  ponderous  out  in  the 
darkening  foam,  probably  one  of  Lieut.  Howell's 
dolphin  or  kingfish.  Then  the  ship's  nine  knots 
and  the  efforts  of  the  fish  combined  with  a  result 
that  sent  us  tumbling  on  the  deck,  for  the  line 
parted,  and  when  we  were  on  our  feet  again  we 
hauled  in  the  slack.  That  was  our  last  attempt. 
"  Flying-fishes  "  cost  us  ha]f-a-crown  apiece,  nor, 
seeing  how  much  they  took  up  of  their  maker's 
time,  and  what  fearful  objects  of  art  they  were 
when  completed,  could  they  be  called  dear  at  that 
price.  The  game  was,  however,  voted  not  worth 
the  flying-fish,  and  the  ocean-rod  joined  the  list 
of  the  ship's  belongings,  as  I  was  in  no  mind  to 
take  sixty  feet  of  bamboo  on  a  cab  through  the 
streets  of  London. 


WITH  BASQUES  AND  MOORS 


12— (2272) 


VI 
WITH  BASQUES  AND  MOORS 

Biarritz  in  March — Discouraging  Reports — A  Pelota  Match 
before  the  King  of  Sweden — Two  Kinds  of  Broken  French — 
Gitouche — Toujours  D'Artagnan — Good  Whiting-fishing — 
Peculiarities  of  Basque  Fishermen — A  Little  Altercation — 
Fishing  at  Tangier  with  Abslam — His  Fatalism  and  Patience 
—With  Jose,  who  lacked  both — Blackmouthed  Dogfish  at 
Casablanca — Barbel  in  the  Wad  Tensift  near  Morocco  City — 
Water-tortoises — Grey  Mullet  at  Mogador. 

THERE  are  fishing  expeditions  which  hold  their 
place  in  memory  not  so  much  by  reason  of  either 
success  or  failure  as  for  having  brought  the 
amateur  in  touch  with  the  working  fishermen 
of  many  nationalities.  Of  three  or  four  such  a 
word  may  be  written  down  in  this  place. 

On  a  perfect  day  in  March,  1899,  I  found  my- 
self on  the  quay  of  the  Port  des  Pecheurs  at 
Biarritz,  imbued  with  the  determination  to  get 
fishing  of  some  sort,  for  the  Atlantic  was  invit- 
ingly calm,  and  away  in  the  middle  distance  to 
the  north,  where  steamers  moved  in  and  out  of 
Bayonne,  the  sardine  fleet  was  at  work,  working 
havoc  among  the  shoals. 

The  sea-fishing  reports  that  I  had  gathered  at 
the  Hotel  d'Angleterre  discounted  hope.  The 
femme  de  chambre  could  promise  no  sport  until 
August,  the  month,  she  said,  in  which  rich  Russians 
arrived.  I  wanted  whiting,  not  rich  Russians,  and 

163 


164  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

I  turned  for  consolation  to  the  lift-porter.  All 
that  he  could  do  was  to  suggest  possibilities  for 
June,  but  in  June  all  going  well,  I  should  be  resid- 
ing in  Marrakesh,  the  southernmost  capital  of 
the  empire  ruled  by  him  whom  men  call  Abdul 
Aziz.  For  several  days  I  hung  about  on  land, 
where,  since  I  aspired  neither  to  play  go]f  nor  to 
watch  others  shoot  pigeons,  the  least  boring  after- 
noon was  spent  at  a  pelota-match  between 
Basque  and  Spanish  champions,  which  had  been 
arranged  in  honour  of  the  King  of  Sweden.  That 
most  courteous  monarch  arrived  late,  and  quite 
inadvertently  an  hotel  acquaintance  and  myself 
sat  immediately  beneath  the  bench  reserved  for  the 
Royal  party,  the  only  distinction  of  which  was  a 
covering  of  red  baize.  When  the  entire  assembly 
stood  up,  and  the  King  entered  with  a  bevy  of 
beauty  and  a  number  of  gentlemen  in  attendance, 
we  realised  our  mistake  and  were  about  to  retire, 
when  one  of  the  gentlemen  in  waiting  assured  us 
in  French  that  His  Majesty  begged  that  we  would 
not  "  derange  ourselves/'  We  did  not,  and  got 
an  excellent  view  of  an  interesting  game  in 
consequence. 

Yet  the  sea  was  calling  to  me  just  beyond  the 
rocky  little  harbour,  and  I  was  never  deaf  to  that 
cal]  yet.  That  was  what  brought  me  to  the  quay, 
and  a  friendly  customs  official,  with  an  eye  for 
a  bock,  soon  accosted  me  in  execrable  French  and 


WITH  BASQUES  AND  MOORS        165 

got,  if  anything,  worse  in  return.  Fortunately, 
we  were  neither  shy,  and  an  immediate  under- 
standing was  arrived  at,  as  the  result  of  which  he 
did  not  go  home  parched  with  thirst,  while  I  was 
presented  to  an  immense,  jovial,  olive-skinned 


CATCHING  SHAD  IN  THE  UM  ERBEYA 

Basque,  who  answered  to  the  name  of  Gitouche 
and  stared  at  me  through  huge,  horn-rimmed 
goggles.  I  could,  said  Gitouche,  catch  as  many 
whiting  as  I  had  a  mind  to,  if  I  would  come  out 
that  afternoon  at  two,  as  the  tide  would  then  serve. 
His  price  ?  Bah  !  A  few  francs  to  the  men  ; 
for  him,  he  was  pleased  to  show  anyone  sport. 


166  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

But — if  he  could  have  a  trifle  now  to  get  a  bottle 
of  wine  for  the  men  to  drink  Monsieur's  health  in 
.  .  .  !  For  an  imperceptible  second  I  hesitated. 
At  home,  it  had  been  my  invariable  rule  that  the 
men  could  drink  what  they  pleased  after  they 
had  put  me  ashore,  but  on  board  it  was  always 
ginger  beer,  cold  tea  or  water.  The  Englishman, 
who  rules  over  so  large  a  slice  of  the  world  in  spite, 
not  because,  of  such  virile  tastes,  is  apt  to  grow 
quarrelsome  over  strong  cordials,  his  thirst  grow- 
ing with  opportunity,  and  I  never  yet  had  any 
use  for  a  drunken  man  in  a  small  boat.  For  a 
moment,  then,  I  demurred,  but,  just  as  Gitouche 
was  turning  away  hurt,  I  relented,  arid  my  con- 
fidence was  not  abused.  The  small  bottle  of  thin 
red  wine,  of  which  each  of  his  crew  had  one,  half 
emptied,  at  starting,  could  not  have  done  much 
harm  beyond  bringing  swift  remorse  to  a  stomach 
unused  to  such  ordeals.  Nor  was  the  actual 
remuneration  for  four  hours  of  the  services  of 
a  crew  of  three  excessive.  Gitouche  eventually 
asked  eight  francs  and  got  twelve.  Henceforth 
I  was  treated  on  that  boat  with  as  much  ceremony 
as  if  I  had  been  one  of  the  Grand  Dukes  out  of 
season. 

Making  my  way  down  to  the  harbour  after 
lunch,  I  found  Gitouche  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  greasy  steps,  ready  to  hand  me  into  a  long 
and  roomy  boat,  in  which  two  merry  vagabonds 


WITH  BASQUES  AND  MOORS        167 

sat  at  the  oars.  Stroke  was  called  Prospere,  the 
other  D'Artagnan.  I  vaguely  resented  D'Artag- 
nan,  although  we  were  within  hail  of  Gascony, 
for  London  actor  managers  had  been  a  little 
prodigal  of  musketeers  the  preceding  winter,  and 
it  was  irritating  to  find  the  swashbuckler  even  in 
a  little  boat  off  the  Spanish  frontier.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  though  the  name  is  far  from  uncommon 
in  the  south-west  corner  of  France,  I  fancy  that 
the  whole  trio  went  by  nicknames,  for  which,  like 
most  southern  races,  the  Basques  have  a  perfect 
mania,  continually  ignoring  the  names  given  at 
their  baptism. 

We  soon  got  clear  of  that  beautiful  little  harbour, 
passing  beneath  a  rocky  archway,  from  the  sum- 
mit of  which  several  sportsmen  were  fishing  with 
rods  of  great  length,  and  the  men  rowed  to  a  spot 
about  two  miles  out,  opening  up  a  fine  view  of  the 
Spanish  mountains  to  the  south.  I  had  thought 
the  promise  made  by  Gitouche  somewhat  sug- 
gestive of  the  nearness  of  Gascony,  but  it  was 
warranted  by  the  results,  for  during  the  next  two 
hours  we  caught  rather  more  than  six  dozen  fine 
whiting.  The  bait  was  fresh  sardine,  and  the 
men  used,  for  professionals,  surprisingly  fine  gut 
tackle. 

These  Basques  are  light-hearted  fellows,  fond 
of  the  English,  the  geese  that  lay  them  golden 
eggs  until  the  advent  of  yet  better  layers  from 


168  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

the  Neva.  They  hold  themselves  aloof  from  the 
political  quarrels  entered  into  by  both  France  and 
Spain,  and  at  a  time 'when  none  too  friendly  rela- 
tions existed  between  either  of  those  Powers  and 
England,  the  Basques  were  uniformly  courteous. 
With  my  three  knaves  I  went  out  more  than 
once  after  the  first  essay,  always  making  a  good 
catch  of  whiting,  never,  strangely  enough,  hooking 
any  other  kind  of  fish.  Gitouche,  as  the  only  one 
who  spoke  French — a  French,  beside  which  that 
of  "  Stratford- atte-Bow  "  was  the  pure  verna- 
cular of  the  Faubourgs — alone  had  the  distinction 
of  conversing  with  the  guest,  but  among  them- 
selves they  were  loquacious,  talking  that  curious 
Basque  patois  with  so  much  gesticulation  and 
heat  that  more  than  once  they  seemed  on  the 
verge  of  a  quarrel  that  could  only  end  with  knives. 
Appearances,  however,  were  deceptive,  and  it 
was  one  morning  when  they  seemed  as  harmon- 
ious as  kittens  purring  in  a  basket  that  the  patron 
suddenly  brandished  a  tiller  handle  and  with  it 
fetched  Prospere  a  blow  over  the  kneecap  that 
made  him  squeal.  Justice  having  been  done,  he 
calmly  removed  his  goggles  and  breathed  on  them, 
doubtless  to  ensure  yet  better  aim  on  the  next 
occasion.  It  was  evident  that  Prospere  had  pro- 
voked this  sally,  for  he  made  no  attempt  to 
retaliate,  but  merely  went  on  fishing  with  a 
subdued  chuckle,  as  if,  whether  his  kneecap  were 


WITH  BASQUES  AND  MOORS        169 

whole  or  not,  he  had  told  the  patron  home  truths 
that  nothing  could  unsay.  I  asked  Gitouche  what 
was  wrong,  but  he  said  merely  that  Prospere  was 
a  pig  and  that  his  mother — but  I  forget  the  rest. 

My  next  outing  was  in  the  crescent  frame  of 
sand  and  white  city  that  borders  Tangier  Bay, 
not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  crazy  little  pier 
that  juts  out  beneath  the  Custom  House,  between 
that  in  fact  and  the  anchorage  of  the  Gibel  Moussa, 
I  sat  in  a  tiny  coble  with  Abslam,  the  Moor. 
He  was  a  sinewy  fellow,  six  feet  and  more  in  his 
yellow  slippers,  and  the  rest  of  his  wardrobe  would 
not  have  weighed  more  than  my  straw  hat. 
Unlike  the  other  Abslam,  his  hair  was  shaved  so 
close  to  the  round  skull  that  the  oak  would  have 
got  no  purchase.  He  was  a  fine  fisherman,  was 
Abslam,  better  than  his  little  son,  who  came  out 
apparently  for  the  purpose  of  being  sick  over  the 
bow,  having  carefully  left  our  live  shrimps  in  the 
full  glare  of  the  April  sun. 

Having  rebuked  the  offspring  of  his  loins  in 
about  five-and-twenty  crisp  sentences,  Abslam 
turned  to  me  and  explained  that  Allah  had  in  his 
infinite  wisdom  taken  from  him  the  apple  of  his 
eye,  a  son  of  great  promise  by  an  older  wife,  leav- 
ing him  the  obj  ect  that  now  lay  prone  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat  in  the  place  of  the  departed.  Mektub  ! 
It  was  written  !  But  it  was  a  woundy  bad 
bargain,  all  the  same  ! 


170  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

Very  pretty  sport  that  calm  bay  gave  me  ;  a 
daily  basket  of  small  sea-breams,  wrasse,  bass 
and  red  mullet,  two  of  the  last  (Abslam  called 
them  "  Sultan-el-Hoot,"  king  of  fishes)  within 
ten  minutes,  the  first  and  last  red  mullet  I  ever 
took  on  the  rod.  Abslam  caught  a  third  and  a 
dory,  and  all  four  fish  were  welcomed  that  night 
at  the  hotel. 

In  addition  to  undoubted  skil],  Abslam  had 
the  patience  of  his  race.  Above  most  races  are 
the  Moors  fitted  for  the  arts  of  fishing  and  diplo- 
macy, having  inexhaustible  stock  of  both  patience 
and  cunning.  Abslam  baited  a  hook  well  and 
rarely  did  he  miss  a  fish.  If  he  did,  it  was  the  will 
of  Allah  ;  it  was  fate. 

Far  different  was  the  temperament  of  Jose  the 
Spaniard,  with  whom  I  now  and  then  went  out 
for  a  change.  He  was  as  good  a  fisherman  as 
Ab?lam  when  he  liked,  but  he  was  a  lazy  chewer 
of  cigarette  stumps  and  spent  as  much  time  in 
expectoration  as  Abs]am  in  prayer.  As  for  his 
patience,  it  was  only  excelled  by  his  beauty. 
When  he  missed  a  fish,  or  went  long  without  a 
bite,  he  mouthed  profanities  that  made  the  flesh 
creep.  It  might  be  the  wi]l  of  Allah,  but  Allah 
ought  to  know  better  !  "  An  arrant  knave  in 
common  dealings  and  very  prostitute,"  as  Swift 
once  wrote  of  Lord  Rivers,  was  Jose,  yet  a  brave, 
devil-may-care  fellow,  who  would  have  stuck  his 


WITH  BASQUES  AND  MOORS        171 

knife  in  my  back  with  the  skill  of  a  licensed  vivi- 
sector,  or  jumped  overboard  to  save  me  from 
drowning,  according  to  his  mood  and  the  occasion. 
The  fishing  he  liked  best  was  from  the  rocks,  with 
a  comrade,  the  comrade  holding  the  rod  and  Jose 
lying  at  full  length  beside  him  and  throwing 
groundbait  at  the  line. 


A    BRIDGE    OVER   THE    TENSIFT,    MOROCCO   CITY 

At  Casablanca  I  once  fared  forth  with  a  crew 
of  devout  Mussulmin  to  catch  bass,  and  in  its 
place  caught  blackmouthed  dogfish  (Pristiurus\ 
a  small  and  interesting  shark,  occasionally  trawled 
in  deep  offshore  water  on  the  British  and  Irish 
coasts.  Not  having  previously  encountered  the 
species  outside  of  museums,  the  episode  was  not 
unwelcome,  but  the  capture  of  any  dogfish  is  not 


172  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

a  pastime  to  occupy  a  second  afternoon  in  one 
week. 

My  only  fishing  in  the  interior  of  that  fascinat- 
ing country  was  for  small  barbel  in  the  Wad  Tensift 
not  far  from  Marrakesh.  Thither,  attended  by 
the  regulation  soldier — in  Morocco,  you  take  a 
soldier  with  you  even  to  go  birdsnesting — I  occa- 
sionally rode  at  four  in  the  morning,  before  the 
sun  had  power  to  sting,  as  sting  it  can  in  those 
countries  towards  the  end  of  June. 

At  the  yellow  bridge  of  many  arches,  two  or 
three  miles  outside  the  city  gate,  we  dismounted, 
Said  making  the  barbs  fast  to  a  tree.  Then,  while 
I  put  my  rod  together,  he  was  all  over  the  place 
after  grasshoppers,  four  out  of  five  of  which  he 
zealously  crushed  with  his  fez,  thereby  rendering 
them  useless  as  bait.  A  fat  and  lively  grasshopper 
is  a  capital  bait  for  these  barbel,  and  it  has  the 
advantage  of  being  obtainable  by  the  waterside. 

The  level  of  the  Tensift,  as  of  all  the  few  con- 
siderable streams  in  that  empire,  varies  consider- 
ably according  to  recent  rainfall,  but  even  in  the 
drought  of  June  it  was  always  possible  to  find  a 
deep  pool  or  two  beneath  the  arches  of  the  bridge. 
A  grasshopper,  so  lively  as  almost  of  itself  to  sink 
the  float,  proved  irresistible.  Unfortunately  very 
few  of  the  fish  seemed  to  exceed  a  curiously  uni- 
form weight  of  between  half  and  three-quarters 
of  a  pound.  I  now  and  again,  looking  from  the 


WITH  BASQUES  AND  MOORS         173 

bridge  sheer  down  in  the  water,  saw  the  dark  form 
of  something  larger,  but  on  no  occasion  contrived 
to  tempt  one.  Indeed,  the  only  time  the  interest 
was  varied  was  when  an  occasional  water-tortoise 
seized  the  hook,  sailed  with  a  peculiar  twitching 
action,  probably  due  to  the  wriggling  of  its  head, 
across  the  pool  and  then  bit  through  the  gut.  I 
had  no  gut  capable  of  holding  these  reptiles,  nor 
indeed  was  I  particularly  anxious  to  retain  them. 
The  jaws  that  could  bite  through  fairly  stout  gut 
as  if  it  were  cotton  did  not  invite  liberties.  It 
cannot  be  said  that  this  morning  fishing  in  the 
Tensift  was  of  an  exciting  order.  Rather  as  the 
excuse  for  a  somewhat  longer  ride  than  merely 
out  to  the  great  tank  or  the  parade-ground  did  it 
commend  itself.  I  can  even  now  recall  the  scene 
in  all  its  details.  The  horses  fidgetting  fifty  yard? 
off  ;  myself  huddled  close  to  the  bridge,  so  as  to 
stand  in  the  shadow  of  the  masonry  ;  and  Said, 
the  picture,  as  indeed  he  was  otherwise  the  pre- 
sentment, of  as  complete  an  idiot  as  any  servant 
I  ever  had,  leaning  half  over  the  parapet,  gaping 
whenever  the  float  went  under,  grinning  as  each 
fish  came  flashing  through  the  air. 

The  last  fish  with  which,  as  a  parting  gift, 
Morocco  presented  me,  were  a  brace  of  grey  mullet, 
which  I  caught  in  five  minutes  fishing  over  the 
ship's  side  at  Mogador.  I  had  ridden  in  from  the 
interior  only  the  night  before,  and  the  Orotava 


174 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


was  getting  her  anchors  up  almost  as  we  stepped 
on  board.  A  large  shoal  of  grey  mullet  could  be 
seen  feeding  madly  round  the  condensing  pipe,  and 
over  these  some  children  vainly  brandished  hooks 
baited  with  meat  !  Quickly  procuring  a  piece 
of  bread,  I  was  just  in  time  to  catch  two  as  the 
screw  took  its  first  turn  and  dispelled  the  shoal. 
Else,  had  I  been  an  hour  earlier — and  I  had  only 
been  loafing  at  the  hotel,  as  I  now  reflected  with 
bitter  regret — I  might  perhaps  have  made  the 
record  catch  of  mullet  of  my  life.  That  is  the  grey 
mullet  all  over.  You  make  conscientious  and 
elaborate  preparations  for  its  capture  and  never 
see  so  much  as  a  flick  of  its  tail.  Then  it  gathers 
in  hundreds  alongside  your  steamer  just  as  the 
wretched  anchor-chains  are  groaning  through  the 
hawse  pipes.  Kismet  ! 


MOORS    HAULING    A    SHORE-SEINE. 


BASS   AND    MULLET 


VII 
BASS  AND  MULLET 

Bass  and  Mullet  Compared  —Luck  of  Young  Fishermen— 
A  Mullet  Caught  on  Pollack-tackle — Another  on  a  Leger — - 
The  Bass  in  Two  Different  Moods — Night-lines — Better  Sport 
on  Live  Bait — Attractions  of  Fishing  in  Estuaries — A  Morn- 
ing's Sport  in  the  Teign — Memories  of  that  River — Difficulties 
with  Buoy-chains  and  Weeds — Trouble  with  other  Fishermen 
—Remedies  Indicated — Bait  Not  Always  Procurable — The 
Grey  Mullet — Its  Appetities  and  Habits — My  Repeated  111 
Luck — Visit  to  Mr.  Gomm  at  Margate — Experts  beneath 
Margate  Jetty — A  Day's  Success — Importance  of  Groundbait 
— A  Mullet  at  Last — Advantage  of  Local  Guidance  with 
Mullet  and  Bass. 

WHAT  the  schnapper  and  black  bream  are  to 
the  amateur  fisherman  of  Australia,  the  tarpon 
and  tuna  to  the  American,  that  are  bass  and  grey 
mullet  on  the  coast,  and  particularly  on  the  south 
coast,  of  England.  Luck  and  chance,  not  always 
two  words  for  the  same  factor,  play  their  part  in 
their  capture,  as  indeed  in  all  kinds  of  fishing, 
but,  other  things  being  equal,  they  are,  when  full- 
grown,  about  the  most  tantalising  fish  in  the  sea. 
Either  in  its  first  youth  may  be  gulled  by  little 
truants  from  school,  who  use  "  tiddler  "  tackle 
from  the  quays  of  Plymouth  or  Southampton. 

177 

13-    (2272) 


178  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

Either,  even  in  its  years  of  discretion,  may  be 
exceptionally  hungry  and  under  such  stress  of 
appetite  lose  all  judgment  and  fall  a  prey  to  the 
clumsiest  of  deception.  Again  and  again  some 
small  lad,  fishing  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  from 
a  pier,  hooks  a  bass  that  experts  only  dream  of. 
He  catches  it  (according  to  the  books)  with  the 
wrong  bait  and  at  the  wrong  stage  of  the  tide  ;  but 
he  catches  it,  and  the  rest  does  not  much  matter. 
His' tackle  is  a  shilling  handline,  bought  at  a  toy- 
shop ;  but  his  bass  beats  any  taken  by  yonder 
master  of  the  art,  whose  rod  and  reel  alone  must 
be  worth  a  five  pound  note.  These  are  the  chances 
of  war.  To  the  artist,  of  course,  the  capture  of 
such  a  fish  on  the  finest  of  tackle  would  give  a 
thrill  that  he  could  never  experience  from  the  use 
of  cheap,  coarse  gear  ;  but  the  lad  is  in  all  proba- 
bility no  artist,  and  his  joy  knows  no  bounds. 
The  grey  mullet  of  large  size  is  less  often  betrayed 
by  such  rough  and  ready  overtures,  but  now  and 
again  it  too,  most  cunning  of  salt-water  fishes, 
falls  to  the  poorest  temptation.  My  friend, 
Surgeon-General  Paske,  was  on  one  occasion 
pollack-fishing  from,  one  of  the  piers  at  Dover, 
I  forget  which  at  the  moment,  with  the  usual 
paternoster  of  twisted  gut  and  baiting  with  rag- 
worms.  Suddenly  he  found  himself  in  a  good 
fish,  which  did  not  bore  after  the  fashion  of  a  pol- 
lack, but  circled  in  eddies  nearer  the  surface. 


BASS  AND  MULLET  179 

Carefully,  as  only  an  experienced  fisherman  could 
from  such  a  height,  he  played  his  fish  and  presently 
he  had  the  satisfaction  of  landing  a  fine  grey 
mullet  weighing  four  or  five  pounds.  And  this 
is  the  fish  that  I  have  before  now  trained  fifty 
miles  for  in  vain  !  In  ordinary  circumstances, 
of  course,  he  would  be  a  very  foolish  person  who 
brought  out  pollack  tackle  in  the  expectation  of 
catching  grey  mullet  with  it,  but  the  pangs  of 
hunger  may  once  in  a  way  lend  deadly  attraction 
to  a  hook  and  bait  that  would  on  other  occasions 
be  rejected  with  scorn.  I  was  also  told  of  a  parallel 
case  at  Margate,  where  an  obvious  novice  one  day 
captured  two  fine  mullet  on  leger-tackle,  baiting 
with  herring,  while  an  expert,  fishing  close  by  with 
everything  appropriate,  entirely  failed.  Much 
also  depends  on  the  surroundings,  in  which  the 
angler  seeks  his  fish.  There  is,  for  instance,  all 
the  difference  imaginable  between  the  conditions 
under  which  one  bass  may  prowl  along  the  beach 
for  such  offal  as  accumulates  near  low  water  mark, 
its  sight  impeded  by  the  thickness  of  broken  water, 
its  hearing  confused  by  the  roar  of  the  surf,  all 
its  senses,  in  fact,  deadened  to  the  presence  of 
danger  and  intent  only  on  satisfying  its  hunger, 
and  another  bass,  which  chases  the  sand-eels  in 
the  clear  still  water  of  a  tidal  estuary.  The  latter 
fish  is  conscious  of  every  sound  and  every  shadow, 
of  which  fishes  have  cognisance  at  all,  and  will  be 


180  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

tricked  only  by  a  cunning  that  matches  its  own. 
Anyone  trying  to  catch  an  estuary  fish  of  that 
kind  with  ordinary  pier  tackle  and  herring-bait 
might  just  as  well  fish  in  the  High  Street.  On 
night-lines,  it  is  true,  which  are,  save  as  sources 
of  commercial  supply,  iniquitous  contrivances, 
even  an  estuary  bass  will  fall  a  victim,  particu- 
larly when  the  hooks  are  baited  with  such  a  deli- 
cacy as  soft  crab,  but  night-lines  have  no  place 
in  the  sportsman's  outfit,  and  as  long  as  daylight 
lasts  these  river-bass  will  be  found  to  require  very 
fine  tackle  and,  if  possible,  live  bait.  The  latter 
is  to  be  preferred,  not  only  because  the  fish  as 
a  rule  like  it  better  than  any  other,  but  even,  as 
I  think,  because  they  show  better  sport  when 
taken  on  it  than  if  the  bait  were  squid  or  dead 
fish.  In  arguing  the  question,  it  is  no  doubt  fair 
to  make  allowance  for  the  fact  that  the  use  of  live 
bait  implies  also  the  use  of  fine  tackle  and  little 
or  no  lead,  both  of  which  conditions  conduce  to 
the  best  of  sport,  whereas  the  other  baits  are  used 
on  the  bottom  with  a  heavy  lead,  the  inertia  of 
which  deadens  the  play  of  the  fish.  Even  so, 
however,  I  regard  a  bass  which  seizes  live  bait  as 
in  its  best  hunting  mood,  on  its  mettle,  more  in- 
clined to  put  up  a  good  fight  than  one  that  is 
merely  scavenging  along  the  shore  or  round  a  pier. 
It  is  the  difference,  in  short,  between  the  spirit  of 
a  corsair  and  that  of  a  dustman.  For  this  reason. 


BASS  AND  MULLET  181 

I  would  always  for  preference  use  live  bait  for 
game  fish,  like  bass  or  mackerel,  whenever  it  could 
be  obtained.  The  grey  mullet,  on  the  other  hand, 
though  attractive  by  reason  of  its  wary  behaviour 
and  strength  when  hooked,  is  not,  so  far  as  we 
know,  a  fish  of  predatory  habits  and  must  be 
angled  for  with  paste  or  rag-worms  for  bait. 

With  almost  consistent  ill  luck,  fragments  of 
which  have  been  referred  to  in  the  foregoing  pages, 
I  had  sought  the  bass  for  about  fifteen  years  from 
a  dozen  piers  and  foreshores  and  in  more  than  one 
estuary,  when  a  whim  took  me  to  Teignmouth  in 
the  summer  of  1900.  I  had  often  looked  out  on 
the  tempting  blue  river  with  the  background  of  red 
cliff,  when  travelling  to  or  from  the  West  country, 
and  had  been  puzzled  as  to  what  they  fished  for 
from  the  boats  below  the  footbridge.  Now,  I 
know,  for  in  that  hallowed  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
brackish  water  I  have,  during  the  last  six  summers, 
caught  practically  all  the  bass  I  ever  got  in  my 
life,  and  nowhere  else  have  I  found  the  match  of 
this  peaceful  and  delightful  estuary  fishing.  It 
is  creek-angling,  as  in  Australia,  with  a  grander 
fish  for  your  object  than  the  small  black  bream 
or  gross  flat  head.  It  is  sea-fishing  without  the 
tossing  ;  it  is  river-fishing  without  the  stagnation. 
Let  me  describe  a  typical  morning's  fishing  in 
this  estuary,  where  sport  with  the  bass  has  this 
further  advantage  for  a  professional  man  that  he 


182  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

can  get  the  cream  of  it  in  a  couple  of  hours,  morn- 
ing and  evening,  when  the  tide  is  about  half  way 
up. 

It  is  four  o'clock  on  a  July  morning.  The  sun 
is  still  down  behind  Exmouth,  but,  as  we  walk 
the  few  steps  to  the  boathouse,  the  haze  that  broods 
over  the  Den,  the  cloudless  blue  sky  overhead,  the 
stillness  in  the  air,  all  forecast  a  scorching  day. 
And  on  a  hot  morning,  even  before  breakfast,  we 
have  reckoned ;  otherwise,  a  suit  of  ducks  over  one's 
pyjamas  would  be  light  attire  for  early  morning 
on  the  water.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  until  the  sun 
gets  at  us  over  the  elms,  there  is  a  nip  in  the  air 
that  occasionally  takes  our  thoughts  to  the  long 
coat  that  hangs  behind  the  door. 

A  little  after  four,  having  roused  Cox,  who, 
like  the  May  Queen,  has  to  be  awakened  early  if 
he  is  to  get  up  at  all,  and  given  him  time  for  his 
inevitable  cup  of  stewed  and  syrupy  tea,  we  are 
snug  in  the  Hirondelle,  our  trout-rods  and 
collars  of  single  gut  ready  for  action,  and  a  bait- 
box  towing  alongside  with  a  score  of  dashing 
sand-eels  fresh  from  last  night's  seine.  It  will 
be  high  water  soon  after  nine,  so  that  the  tide 
must  have  turned  an  hour  ago,  and  indeed  it  is 
draining  perceptibly  in  from  the  sea,  as  witness 
the  boats  that  have  swung  round  to  it.  Yet  there 
will  not  be  enough  for  an  hour  at  least  to  take 
our  boat  along  stern-first,  which  is  the  ultimate 


BASS  AND  MULLET 


183 


position  in  which  we  have  to  fish  for  the  bass  on 
the  rough  ground  above  the  yachts. 

We  shoot  out  from  the  landing  place  and  just 
above   us   lie   great   merchantmen  in  tiers,  flying 


DRIFTING    BESIDE    FOREIGN    HULKS 

the  flags  of  half  a  dozen  nations.  Here  are  timber 
ships  from  the  Baltic  ports  ;  Italians,  come  for  a 
cargo  of  Newton's  clay  ;  coasting  vessels  from 
Fleetwood  or  the  Bristol  Channel ;  a  Thames 
barge  alongside  a  converted  trawler  from  the 
Humber  ;  as  many  types  of  craft  almost  as  one 
sees  in  these  latitudes.  At  so  early  an  hour  this 


184  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

fleet  shows  no  sign  of  life,  unless  indeed  a  mongrel 
cur  barks  at  us  from  the  bows  of  some  vessel  close 
to  which  we  pass,  to  be  chastised  later,  no  doubt, 
for  having  disturbed  the  sleep  of  everyone  on  the 
river.  Later,  when  we  have  fished  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  there  will  be  activity  and  bustle,  sleepy 
lads  scrubbing  down  the  decks,  men  ashore  hailing 
whichever  ship  they  want  to  board  and,  if  not 
quickly  fetched  off,  adding  to  their  humble  peti- 
tion and  prayer  such  piercing  expletives  as  might 
reach  the  ferryman  of  Styx.  Ere  we  go  home  to 
breakfast,  the  whole  boiling  of  them  will  be  on 
deck,  and  a  fight  with  a  good  bass  under  a  ship's 
side  will  collect  a  crowded  audience  and  a  poly- 
glot of  encouragement,  chaff,  condolence.  .  .  Per 

Bacco  !   .  .  .  Aller   Wetter  !   .  .  .  Got    the , 

by—  -  !  Alas,  that  one  should  have  to  bowdle- 
rise  only  the  English  ! 

As  first  we  approach  the  lowermost  tier,  how- 
ever, all  is  silence.  We  cannot  drift  the  way  we  like 
until  the  tide  runs  swifter,  so  Cox  will  for  forty 
minutes  or  so  row  the  boat  slowly  and  in  circles 
abreast  of  these  lower  ships  and  the  railway  quay. 
We  shall  not  hook  anything  large,  but  our  baits 
are  over  the  side  now,  and  one  never  knows.  Ha  ! 
what  was  that  ?  A  twitch  of  the  rod  top  .  .  . 
another  .  .  .  down  it  goes,  for  the  slight  turn  of 
the  wrist  has  flicked  the  sharp  hook  in  beyond 
the  barb,  and  the  bass  is  fast .  The  reel  sings  a 


BASS  AND  MULLET  185 

modulated  hymn  of  praise,  not  raising  its  voice 
"as  it  would  if  turned  by  a  heavier  fish  ;  and  the 
slender  rod  bobs,  not  indeed  with  the  steady  curve 
that  tells  of  a  big  one,  but  sufficiently  to  suggest  a 
pounder.  To  bring  such  a  bass  to  the  net  is  child's 
work.  In  vain  it  eddies  and  circles  round  the 
stern.  The  little  bronze  reel  is  wound  in  almost 
without  a  hitch,  and  at  just  the  right  moment  Cox 
has  shipped  his  oars  and  dipped  the  landing  net 
under  a  gleaming  little  bass  of  perhaps  a  pound  and 
a  half.  One  does  not  fetch  out  the  steelyard  to 
these  small  fry,  though  such  a  fish  is  as  pretty  and 
as  sporting  as  any  of  its  size.  Trout,  someone 
murmurs  ?  Speak  up  ;  and  remember  that,  though 
we  use  a  trout-rod,  the  cast  is  of  salmon-gut,  for 
to  trust  to  anything  finer  would  be  to  run  needless 
risk  with  that  record  fish  of  the  season,  to  dream 
of  which  means  inexpensive  bliss.  Hook  a  bass 
like  him  that  lies  shining  in  the  boat,  quieted  with 
the  merciful  tap  of  a  rowlock,  on  a  moorland 
trout  cast.  Hook  him,  if  you  like,  but  play  him 
in  a  bath  if  you  want  him,  for  he  would  break 
your  gossamer  gut  for  all  your  arts.  Another 
sand-eel  on  the  hook,  and  once  more  we  turn  our 
back  on  Cox,  who  again  dips  the  paddles  gently 
in  the  stream.  Three  or  four  more  bass,  a  little 
smaller  than  the  first,  are  hooked  during  the  next 
half  hour.  And  now  the  salt  water  is  flooding  the 
-estuary  in  earnest  ;  the  boat  drifts  yards  upstream 


186  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

each  time  Cox  drops  the  sculls  for  the  landing 
net  ;  and  away  now  to  the  rough  ground,  just 
below  the  bridge,  where,  undisturbed  by  the  sal- 
mon-nets, the  big  bass  lie  in  wait  for  the  shoals 
of  brit  that  come,  reckless  of  their  doom,  on  the 
rising  tide. 

The  sun  is  well  up  over  Bitton  now,  its  rays, 
which  make  themselves  felt,  lighting  up  the  pictur- 
esque hamlet  of  Shaldon,  which  sends  stray 
wreaths  of  smoke  curling  up  against  the  green 
background  of  hill  beside  which  it  nestles.  An 
early  bicycle  glides  across  the  bridge,  but  the 
majority  of  folks  rise  late  in  the  West,  for  where 
Nature  is  loveliest,  there  man  is  least  ambitious. 

As  we  pass  the  topmost  ships,  with  only  a  couple 
of  yachts  between  us  and  the  bridge,  the  dripping 
bait-box  is  hauled  inside  the  boat,  and  the  largest 
sand-eels  are  picked  out  from  the  wriggling  mass, 
for  big  bass  like  big  fare,  and  if  the  giants  are  to 
be  tempted,  we  must  offer  them  the  best  we  have. 
Instead  of  trailing  the  baits,  as  I  did  for  the  smaller 
game  below,  I  now  pay  it  out,  little  by  little,  an 
inch  or  two  of  line  being  pulled  off  the  reel  at  the 
time.  This  I  go  on  doing  mechanically,  while 
Cox  just  dips  the  paddles  so  as  to  keep  the  boat 
back  ever  so  little,  that  the  line  may  run  out 
straight  as  a  wire.  Past  the  tennis-courts  we  go, 
looking  through  the  arches  of  the  bridge  at  the 
purple  line  of  the  tors  on  Dartmoor,  and  now  the 


BASS  AND  MULLET  187 

baits  must  be  thirty  yards  away  from  us.  There 
is  a  slight  check,  the  merest  irregularity,  which 
would  not  be  noticed  by  anyone  new  to  the  game, 
but  which  we  know  so  well  that  instinctively  the 
left  hand  tightens  on  the  butt,  while  the  right  hovers 
about  the  reel.  There  it  is  !  Down  goes  the  top, 
no  bobbing  this  time,  but  a  deliberate  curve  to- 
the  water's  edge.  Murder  !  screams  the  winch, 
no  half-hearted  burr  of  the  check,  Jike  that  evoked 
by  the  little  fish  below,  but  a  sustained  crescendo- 
note,  while  the  line  grows  so  rapidly  less  on  the 
spinning  axle  that  it  looks  as  if  the  fish  is  going  to- 
break  me.  Once,  and  only  once,  thank  goodness,, 
that  did  actually  befall  me  on  this  spot.  What 
manner  of  fish  it  may  have  been,  I  cannot,  with- 
out having  got  a  glimpse  of  it,  positively  say. 
Local  opinion  favoured  a  salmon,  but  more  pro- 
bably it  was  a  monster  "  cobbler "  bass.  It 
simply  took  the  bait  down  by  the  lowest  buoys^ 
opposite  the  cricket-ground,  started  away  at  light- 
ning speed,  and,  as  the  song  says,  "  never  stopped 
running  till  it  got  home."  It  ran  two  yards  of 
gut  and  one  hundred  yards  of  line  to  their  full 
limit  without  a  pause  and  then,  without  apparent 
effort,  went  on,  fortunately  breaking  the  line  so 
near  the  hook  that  my  loss  of  tackle  was  small. 
Other  bass  I  have  lost  in  that  stream,  but  that  is- 
the  first  and  last  of  any  size  that  fought  invisible. 
The  fish  that  I  have  hooked  here  by  the  buoy, 


188  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

though  a  powerful  fighter  is  not  an  adversary  of 
such  extreme  mettle,  for  already  he  has  halted  in 
his  mad  career,  a  respite  of  which  advantage  is 
taken  to  reel  in  half  a  dozen  yards.  Steady  there  ! 
A  fish  of  such  size  must  be  wound  in  gingerly, 
with  caution,  and  the  hand  must  be  ever  on  and 
off  the  winch,  winding  only  when  the  fish  is  so 
minded,  since  at  this  early  stage  of  the  struggle 
a  direct  clash  of  wills  would  mean  disaster.  Away 
goes  the  bass  again,  with  strength  renewed  by 
its  brief  rest.  Its  yielding  was  but  a  feint,  and 
this  time  it  runs  out  twice  as  much  line  as  I  reeled 
in,  and  so  is  further  from  the  boat  than  ever. 
Another  halt,  another  reeling  in  ;  and  now  we  are 
nearly  up  to  the  bridge,  for  all  the  time  the  boat 
has  drifted  along.  For  a  moment  I  am  undecided 
whether  to  shoot  through  the  middle  arch  and 
kill  the  fish  above  the  bridge,  but  that  means 
losing  time,  so  "  This  side,  Cox  !  "  I  say ;  and  Cox 
understands,  with  the  knowledge  born  of  many 
such  encounters,  that  he  is  to  back  the  boat  into 
the  shallows  on  the  railway  side.  It  is  there,  under 
the  windows  of  the  early  train,  that  the  last  stand 
is  made.  Gallantly  the  bass  disputes  every  yard, 
for  he  is  fighting  for  his  last  chance  now,  and  he 
knows  it.  Gradually,  and  with  fewer  interrup- 
tions, I  get  the  fine  line  back  on  the  reel,  and  now 
his  green  head  can  be  seen  on  the  surface,  shaking 
the  worrying  hook,  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat,  and 


BASS  AND  MULLET  189 

now  and  then  making  a  futile  attempt  at  retreat. 
In  vain,  such  tactics  !  The  line  is  tested,  the  hook 
tempered  ;  and  at  last,  with  a  final  protest  that 
spins  the  reel  for  twenty  revolutions,  the  fish  rolls 
on  his  side  and  the  ready  landing-net  is  beneath 
it,  the  handle  straining  with  the  weight  as  Cox 
lifts  what  looks  like  a  good  ten-pounder  over  the 
side.  A  powerful  fish,  even  out  of  the  water  ;  and 
the  head  has  to  be  gripped  firmly  between  the 


A   WELL-GROWN    BASS    OF    lljLBS. 

knees  while  the  hook  is  taken  out  of  the  angle  of 
the  jaw,  and  the  steelyard,  confirmed  later  when 
we  got  ashore,  registers  eleven-and-a-quarter 
pounds,  a  noble  fish  and  the  best  I  ever  took  on 
the  rod  in  that  river.  The  better  part  of  half 
an  hour  went  to  the  playing  of  him,  and,  with 
such  a  trophy  in  the  boat,  we  have  had  enough  for 
the  moment.  It  is  improbable  that  I  shall  ever 
beat  it  ;  it  is  almost  certain  that  any  other  fish, 
which  I  may  catch  by  staying  out,  will  be  a  sad 
come-down  from  such  a  beauty,  so  I  decide  to 


190  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

go  back  in  time  for  a  dip  from  the  pier  head  before 
breakfast.  Other  boats  are  out  now,  half  a  dozen 
of  them  ;  and  the  charm  of  the  earlier  solitude  is 
gone.  Thirty  inches  that  bass  measured  when 
we  got  him  against  the  tape,  and  for  the  last  three 
years  he  has  reposed  in  a  glass  case  along  with  a 
brother  in  misfortune,  his  inferior  by  a  couple  of 
pounds,  which  I  had  caught  with  the  same  hook 
the  morning  before.  The  hook  is  enshrined  with 
them  of  which  it  was  the  undoing. 

Mornings  like  this,  and  evenings  too,  with 
smaller  game  to  my  score,  I  must  have  spent  a 
couple  of  hundred,  most  of  the  mornings  in  the 
congenial  company  of  G.  H.  J.,  who,  ever  in  de- 
mand as  a  healer  of  the  sick,  was  debarred  from 
fishing  the  later  tides.  The  evenings  are  as  the 
mornings,  only  the  folk  that  lie  abed  for  sunrise 
are  awake  at  sunset,  and  we  get  much  of  the  society 
that  we  do  not  yearn  for.  Glancing  at  the  actual 
diaries  that  have  inspired  this  reminiscence,  I 
find  that  in  the  two  summers  of  1902  and  1904— 
my  fishing  in  1903  was  continually  interrupted 
by  a  tour,  which  I  made  of  all  the  fishery  ports  of 
England  and  Wales — my  total  catch  of  sizeable 
bass  (not  reckoning  the  small  fry)  amounted  to 
29  in  the  former  and  49  in  the  latter  year.  This 
reads  like  a  small  total  when  one  concentrates 
attention .  on  one  fish,  but  it  must  in  fairness  be 
remembered  that  fishing  was  done  only  in  the 


BASS  AND  MULLET  191 

intervals  of  hard  work,  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the 
mornings  every  other  week  (spring  tides)  of  summer 
and  an  hour  or  so  of  an  evening.  There  were  no 
very  large  fish,  the  best  being  the  brace  already 
mentioned  (July  10  and  11,  1902),  one  of  10J  Ibs. 
(July  20,  1904),  one  of  8J  Ibs.  (Aug.  5,  1904), 
and  several  of  6,  5J-  and  4^  Ibs.  in  both  years. 

Many  and  varied  are  the  memories  of  those  days 
with  bass  in  the  Teign.  I  see  again  some  friends, 
who  fished  there  with  me  :  Cyril  Maude,  not  act- 
ing a  part  now,  but  in  deadly  earnest  as  he  hooks 
and  kills  a  four  pounder  the  very  first  time  we  are 
out,  and  within  a  few  minutes  of  starting.  "  John 
Bickerdyke,"  fishing  very  craftily,  trying  new 
dodges,  essaying  double  flights,  discussing  the  con- 
ditions, expounding  the  theory,  and  never  far 
behind  with  the  practice.  That  fine  July  dawn 
in  1903  was  the  first  time  he  and  I  had  fished  to- 
gether since,  at  Cowes  some  years  ago,  we  made  a 
brief  and  unprofitable  raid  on  a  famous  ground 
for  pout,  but  were  euchred  by  a  tide  that  ripped 
through  the  Solent  at  a  pace  that  worried  even 
the  pulsing  leviathan  that  set  us  gaily  dancing 
in  her  wash  as  she  pointed  her  nose  down  Channel. 
"  Frederick  the  Grocer/'  the  Southampton  water- 
men call  her,  and,  though  the  hospitality  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales  Pier  has  lured  many  of  the  great 
German  liners  to  Dover,  the  "  Grocer  "  remains 
loyal  to  the  Solent  port. 


192 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


The  Teign  is  a  noted  salmon  river,  and  now  and 
again  (rarely  again  !)  a  good  fish  is  taken  on  the 
rod  as  high  as  Bridford.  Sometimes,  in  the  fall  of 
the  year,  the  river  is  so  low  that  salmon  get  im- 
prisoned in  shallows  below  the  falls,  where  they 


NETTING    SALMON    IN    THE    UPPER   TEIGN 


lie  at  the  mercy  of  poaching  larm  labourers,  and 
now  and  then  we  used  to  net  them  out  in  landing- 
nets  and  transfer  them  at  once,  running  across  an 
intervening  meadow,  to  a  higher  reach  where  they 
would  be  immune  from  the  hayfork.  The  refusal 
of  one  of  the  riparian  owners,  a  farmer,  to  permit 
this  salvage  on  the  part  of  the  Association  last 


BASS  AND  MULLET  193 

year  was  an  unconcealed  admission  that  he  pre- 
ferred the  fish  to  remain  accessible.  Such  a  case 
should  engage  the  attention  of  the  energetic 
Salmon  and  Trout  Association. 

Of  the  many  difficulties  that  hampered  me  in 
the  capture  of  some  bass  duly  brought  to  the  net, 
I  came  out  by  luck  rather  than  of  set  purpose, 
yet  one  or  two  of  these  episodes  of  narrow  shaves 
have  some  practical  interest.  On  one  occasion, 
which  I  shall  never  forget,  a  heavy  bass  contrived 
to  double  round  the  submerged  chain  of  a  floating 
buoy.  Naturally,  that  fish  was  given  up  for  lost, 
and  it  was  rather  with  the  idea  of  recovering  what 
remained  of  the  gut  than  in  any  hope  of  still  get- 
ing  on  terms  with  the  fish  that  I  bade  Cox  row 
the  boat  round  in  the  same  direction,  so  as  to 
unwind  the  line.  Great  was  our  surprise  to  find 
the  fish  still  on — it  says  something  for  the  six 
feet  of  gut  to  have  stood  the  strain — and  still 
greater  our  delight  when  it  headed  full  speed  up- 
stream, for  out  in  the  deep  channel  of  the  river 
it  was  doomed.  It  is  strange  how  often  the  instinct 
of  self  preservation  seems  suddenly  to  desert  a 
wild  creature  and  leave  it  at  the  mercy  of  circum- 
stances. Here  was  a  fish  with  cunning  enough 
to' double  once  round  the  chain,  thereby  taking 
the  pull  of  the  rod  off  its  mouth  ;  yet  it  never 
occurred  to  it  either  to  wrench  itself  free,  or,  being 
pursued,  to  double  again  and  thereby  to  baffle  me 

14— (2272) 


194  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

once  more.  No  ;  it  preferred  to  throw  its  cautious 
tactics  to  the  winds  and  to  fight  to  a  finish — there 
could  be  only  one  with  such  tackle — in  open  water. 

Next  morning,  a  still  heavier  fish  was  hooked 
closer  to  the  bridge  and  was  played  almost  to 
exhaustion.  Yet  it  looked  as  if  at  the  eleventh 
hour  fate  were  going  to  intercede,  for  a  great  clump 
of  weed,  which  could  not  by  any  possibility  pass 
the  top  ring  of  the  rod,  seemed  to  be  stuck  fast  on 
the  line  about  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  above  the  fish. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  To  handline  so  heavy  a 
bass,  even  one  to  all  appearance  tired  of  life,  on 
gear  so  light  would  be  a  highly  dangerous  alterna- 
tive. In  despair  I  told  Cox  to  run  the  boat  on  the 
bank,  intending,  if  the  weed  did  not  shift,  to  retreat 
from  the  waterside  until  the  fish  was  brought 
within  reach  of  the  net.  Yet  the  fish  itself  saved 
the  situation,  for,  before  I  had  time  to  carry  this 
plan  into  execution,  it  made  a  final  desperate 
effort  to  shake  out  the  hook  and  in  so  doing 
loosened  the  hold  of  the  weed,  which,  to  my  great 
relief  and  the  final  undoing  of  the  bass,  went  slid- 
ing down  the  line  and  thus  enabled  me  to  reel  the 
fish  up  to  the  side  of  the  boat. 

Weed  is  the  great  nuisance  at  Teignmouth,  as 
indeed  in  most  estuaries  where  there  are  salmon 
nets  through  the  summer  to  tear  it  from  the 
bottom  and  leave  it  piled  high  and  dry  in  the  sun 
for  the  next  rising  tide  to  float  upstream.  There 


BASS  AND  MULLET  195 

are  even  days  down  there  when  we  give  the  weed 
best  at  starting,  seeing  how  matters  stand  and  de- 
termining not  to  waste  good  bait  under  conditions 
which  almost  certainly  preclude  all  hope  of  suc- 
cess, for  the  bass  will  not  touch  a  bait  with  the 
least  shred  of  weed  attached  to  it.  This  makes 
it  a  particularly  serious  handicap,  for  the  fisher- 
man, waiting  in  vain  for  a  bite,  is  tempted  to  put 
the  lack  of  fish  down  to  the  weed,  whereupon  he 
reels  in,  thereby  often,  no  doubt,  by  dragging 
it  against  the  tide,  impaling  weed  on  a  hook  that 
was  innocent  of  it  before  he  wound  in  his  line. 
For  those  who  fish  for  pleasure,  life  can  hold  no 
joy  if  they  have  to  reel  in  thirty  or  forty  yards 
of  wet  line  every  few  minutes  and  remove  clinging 
weed  from  the  bait.  The  better  part,  therefore, 
is  to  go  home  and  dream  of  better  days  to  come, 
for  now  and  then,  particularly  on  Monday  morn- 
ings, when  the  salmon  nets  have  lain  idle  during 
their  compulsory  weekly  close  time,  there  are 
occasions  when  this  herbage  ceases  from  troubling. 
For  the  lurid  language  with  which  some  men  greet 
this  passive  vegetable  every  time  a  frond  drifts 
past  the  boat  there  can  be  no  excuse  whatever. 
Another  nuisance,  pressing,  undeniable,  is  the 
number  of  other  boats  sometimes  out  on  the  same 
errand.  To  some  extent  this  too  generous  measure 
of  the  company  of  your  fellow  creatures  may  be 
evaded  by  very  early  attendance.  Yet  if  only  all 


196  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

the  boats  would  play  the  game,  drifting  in  line 
from  the  buoys  to  the  bridge,  then  dropping  back 
in  the  shallows  till  abreast  of  the  lower  buoy  and 
again  bringing  up  the  rear  of  the  procession,  the 
whole  moving  round  like  the  tyre  of  a  wheel,  why, 
double  the  number  could  fish  without  one  disturb- 
ing another.  But  to  play  the  game  is  the  last 
thought  with  some  of  the  boatmen.  The  fault 
is  theirs,  not  that  of  the  visitors,  who  know  noth- 
ing of  the  conditions  and  therefore  place  them 
unreservedly  in  the  hands  of  the  man  who  rows 
the  boat.  This  individual  knows  as  a  rule  more 
about  the  inside  of  taprooms  than  of  the  manners 
of  bass.  Backwards  and  forwards  he  rows,  across 
the  river,  downstream,  trailing  the  bait  against 
a  choking  tide.  These  short  cuts  to  glory  lead, 
like  some  others,  to  bankruptcy,  for  they  get  foul 
of  other  lines,  and  those  who  have  been  fishing 
in  the  proper  way  sometimes  find  themselves 
compelled  to  use  a  knife  rather  than  waste  too  much 
time  in  unravelling  knots.  In  the  circumstances, 
they  have  not  the  heart  to  cut  their  own  line. 

Now  it  is  obvious  that  the  human  nuisance 
cannot  be  treated  quite  on  all  fours  with  the  vege- 
table one.  Weed  comes  under  the  head  of  those 
"  acts  of  God,"  against  which  even  insurance 
agents,  who,  in  their  infinite  desire  to  oblige, 
cover  earthly  risk  and  most  heavenly  ones,  make 
no  provision.  When  therefore  weed  gets  across 


BASS  AND  MULLET 


197 


your  line,  the  only  way,  if  it  persists,  is  to  go  home 
and  develop  an  interest  in  parish  pump  politics 
or  foreign  wars,  anything  in  fact  but  bass,  until 


BAITING   WITH    SAND-EEL 


another  tide  has  washed  the  estuary  out  and 
perchance  driven  away  the  plague.  When,  how- 
ever, it  is  by  another  man's  line  that  your  own  is 
fouled,  and  in  circumstances  that  leave  you  in 
no  doubt  whatever  that  fault  was  entirely  his  or 


198  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

his  boatman's,  then,  if  there  are  no  ladies  on  the 
river  at  the  time,  it  is  desirable  to  offer  very  frank 
explanation  of  your  opinion.  If  the  man  is  a 
visitor,  ignorant  of  ]ocal  usage,  see  him  ashore 
and  point  out  to  him  that  his  man,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  bass  fishing,  is  taking  his  money  under 
false  pretences,  and  recommend  him  to  one  who 
will  fish  less  jealously  and  with  more  result.  With 
the  boatman,  if  he  raises  objections,  let  your  argu- 
ment be  quite  brief  and  to  the  point,  only,  if  there 
should  be  a  sudden  appeal  to  more  primitive  logic, 
make  quite  sure  of  being  the  first  to  reach  the  point 
of  the  chin. 

Since  this  retrospect  of  bassing  in  the  Teign 
has,  somewhat  more  than  the  rest  of  the  book, 
assumed  the  didactic  form,  frankness  compels  the 
admission  of  a  third  handicap,  the  frequent  diffi- 
culty of  procuring  live  bait.  Sand-eels,  the  only 
lure  for  bass  in  that  river,  are  usually  abundant 
throughout  the  summer  months  in  the  sand  banks, 
but  they  take  catching.  A  few  may  be  raked, 
preferably  on  the  night  ebb  tide,  with  a  good  deal 
of  exertion,  but  this  exhausting  and  sleep-robbing 
work  is  not  popular,  and,  even  if  successful,  the 
raking  injures  the  delicate  little  creatures  and 
does  them  no  good  as  bait.  For  this  reason,  the 
ground-seines  are  the  best  source  of  supply,  but 
they  are  not  always  worked.  Some  of  those  who 
work  them  claim  the  birthright  of  starving  in 


BASS  AND  MULLET  199 

idleness.  If  they  can  catch  a  philanthropist 
nodding  on  the  bench  beside  the  lighthouse,  they 
will  grumble  to  him  as  long  as  he  has  a  mind  to 
listen,  but  they  sometimes  decline  to  work  the  nets 
for  days  together.  Their  reasons  are  various. 
Sometimes  the  fish  are  too  few  to  make  the 
resulting  harvest  worth  splitting  up  in  so  many 
shares.  At  others,  there  are  too  many  to  keep 
up  the  price,  since  the  "  sprats,"  as  they  call  them, 
do  not  sell  outside  the  town.  They  therefore  loaf 
on  shore,  the  nets  lie  unused  on  the  sand,  and  the 
angler  kicks  his  heels  at  home  for  want  of  bait. 
Unfortunately,  there  is  no  substitute.  Out  in  the 
dancing  waters  by  the  Ness,  it  is  true,  rubber  baits, 
trailed  slowly  after  the  boats,  and  kept  clear  of 
the  snares  and  pitfalls  of  the  weed  and  mussels, 
catch  numerous  small  bass  of  the  size  to  amuse 
the  casual  visitor,  but  also  to  leave  the  regular 
fisherman  unmoved.  The  heavy  fish  within  the 
river  despise  such  indifferent  imitations,  though 
at  Margate  and  one  or  two  other  places  I  under- 
stand that  artificial  baits  are  successful  with  even 
large  bass  in  the  open  water.  In  the  Teign,  it 
is  living  sand-eels  or  nothing.  Not  even  launce, 
a  related  fish  of  greener  tint,  will  tempt  the  "  cob- 
blers," and  the  amateur  is  wholly  dependent  on 
the  netsmen,  unless  his  man  will  rake  a  few,  an 
exhausting  office,  which  inspires  in  him  no  enthu- 
siasm. Now  and  again,  in  despair  at  seeing  several 


200  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

good  tides  go  by  without  bait  from  the  ordinary 
source  of  supply,  three  or  four  enthusiasts  sub- 
scribe ten  or  twelve  shillings,  and  such  induce- 
ment is  sufficient  to  induce  the  men  to  shoot  a 
seine.  The  men  employed  by  the  subscribers  then 
divide  the  catch  and  stow  it  away  in  their  bait- 
boxes,  from  which  most  of  it  is  as  often  as  not 
purloined  the  same  night  by  others,  who  regard 
simple  purchase  as  a  ridiculous  manner  of  acquir- 
ing property.  It  is  almost  to  be  regretted  that 
the  good  old  times  are  gone,  when  a  man  who 
stole  fishing  tackle  paid  the  death  penalty,  while 
the  punishment  for  removing  fish  from  the  kettle- 
nets  on  the  Kentish  coast  was  a  night  in  the  "  tippe 
house/'  followed  by  several  hours  next  morning 
in  the  stocks,  during  which  the  whole  village, 
armed  with  every  unsavory  missile  that  devilish 
ingenuity  could  devise,  made  a  target  of  the  thief's 
face.  If  justice  were  still  done  in  the  land,  I 
know  one  or  two  in  Devon,  who  would  keep  the 
stocks  warm. 

The  bass  is  a  fish  chiefly  of  estuaries.  Both  it 
and  the  grey  mullet  are  taken  in  the  beautiful  if 
narrow  outlet  of  the  Lyn,  which  rushes  to  the 
Bristol  Channel  between  banks  that  recall  some 
scene  of  far-off  Switzerland. 

The  grey  mullet  is  a  fish  of  very  different  appe- 
tite from  the  bass.  In  some  other  habits  the  two 
are  not  dissimilar,  for  both  are  of  a  migratory 


BASS  AND  MULLET  201 

disposition,  both  are  most  in  evidence  on  our  coast 
in  the  warmer  months,  both  come  from  southern 
latitudes,  and  both  are  found  in  docks  and  estu- 
aries and  alongside  piers  and  quays.  In  their 
feeding  arrangements,  however,  two  fishes  could 


WHERE    THE    LYN    NEARS    THE    SEA 

hardly  differ  more,  for  the  bass  is  a  dashing  hunter 
of  smaller  fry,  while  the  grey  mullet^ is j.  a  soft, 
grubbing  feeder,  more  like  a  roach.  Experts, 
who  have  made  a  study  of  its  habits  at  Margate 
and  elsewhere,  say  that  it  shows  an  exclusive 
taste  for  soft  food,  whether  this  be  the  vegetable 


202  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

and  other  refuse  thrown  off  a  pier,  or  the  minute 
wormlike  creatures  that  live  in  the  soft  submarine 
soil  known  in  some  parts  as  "  ross."  It  is  one  of 
the  most  uncertain  and  capricious  of  sea-fish,  and, 
as  the  result  of  the  brief  encounter  which  I  am 
about  to  relate,  I  should  be  inclined  to  regard 
the  bass  as  Esau  to  the  mullet's  Jacob. 

How  I  sought  mullet  at  Littlehampton  and 
caught  them  at  Leghorn,  off  Mogador,  anywhere 
almost  except  in  England,  has  been  related.  The 
manner  in  which  this  elusive  fish  beat  me  in  home 
waters  until  the  present  year  was  remarkable. 
For  a  long  time,  particularly  since  the  Devon  bass 
and  a  miscellany  down  in  Cornwall  offered  annual 
solace,  such  repeated  failure  did  not  worry  me, 
and  I  tacitly  gave  the  mullet  best.  One  night, 
however,  I  took  the  chair  at  a  meeting  of  the 
British  Sea  Anglers'  Society,  at  which  Mr.  T.  W. 
Gomm,  undoubtedly  the  most  scientific  and  suc- 
cessful mullet  fisherman  on  its  list  of  members, 
read  a  paper  on  the  subject.  That  ruined  my 
peace  of  mind  once  and  for  all,  and  I  fidgetted 
over  those  Margate  mullet  until  a  few  weeks  ago, 
when,  during  the  third  week  of  June,  he  begged 
me  to  visit  him  at  that  town  and  catch  a  mullet. 
It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  for  many  attempts 
had  hitherto  resulted  in  as  many  failures,  but  I 
gladly  accepted  and  went  down  on  the  day  that 
rain  drew  the  second  Australian  match  at  Lord's. 


BASS  AND  MULLET  203 

For  once  luck  came  my  way,  and,  although  but 
four  mullet  had  so  far  been  taken  during  the  season 
(which  opens  with  almost  monotonous  regularity 
after  the  10th  June),  I  contrived  to  catch  two, 
one  just  topping  3  Ibs.,  the  other  somewhat 
smaller,  on  the  first  day  of  trying.  The  total 
bag  to  three  rods  that  day  was  seven  fish  weighing 
just5 over  20  Ibs.,  so  that,  even  on  averages,  my 
contribution  was,  for  the  novice  of  the  party,  not 
wholly  to  be  despised.  The  other  members  of 
the  party  were  Mr.  Gomm  himself  and  Mr.  Francis 
Daunou,  whose  enthusiasm  for  mullet  fishing 
is  a  veritable  passion  at  white  heat,  for  surely  no 
lovelorn  poet  was  ever  more  attached  to  his  fair 
mistress  than  Daunou  to  his  mullet,  and  certainly 
both  Gomm  and  he  exhibit  extraordinary  skill 
in  the  systematic  capture  of  that  difficult  fish. 
Their  manner  of  taking  it  beneath  Margate  Jetty 
is  best  compared  to  roach-fishing  in  running 
water,  and  indeed  the  explanation  is  simple,  for 
Gomm  was  previously  a  very  experienced  Thames 
fisherman,  having  learnt  most  that  there  is  to 
know  of  the  fishes  of  that  river,  from  the  Thames 
Trout  downwards.  To  Margate  Jetty  he  intro- 
duced the  methods  acquired  at  Sunbury  and 
Staines.  With  what  admirable  results  this  mar- 
riage of  sea-  and  river-  angling  has  been  celebrated 
may  be  seen  from  a  glance  at  their  fishing  records, 
from  which  it  appears  that  Daunou' s  best  fish 


204  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

weighed  8  Ibs.  7  ozs.,  while  Gomm  followed  with  a 
good  second  at  8  Ibs.  4  ozs.,  and  their  highest 
number  in  one  day's  fishing  was  thirty-three. 

I  will  briefly  describe  a  day's  mullet  fishing  in 
company  of  these  experts;  who,  like  the  sportsmen 
they  are,  make  no  difficulty  about  imparting  their 
methods.  Nor  is  their  own  sport  likely  to  suffer 
by  such  frankness,  seeing  that  anything  like  con- 
sistent success  would  call  for  immense  patience 
and  no  little  skill.  Moreover,  groundbait  plays, 
as  will  presently  be  seen,  a  most  important  part 
in  the  result,  and  the  additional  groundbait  used 
by  new  recruits  would  undoubtedly  attract,  and 
keep,  more  fish  under  the  Jetty. 

A  little  before  five  on  a  brilliant,  if  somewhat 
breezy  June  morning  we  walk  down  to  the  har- 
bour with  rods  and  tackle  and  a  cloth  full  of 
sweet,  newly-squeezed  bread  paste,  and  are 
met  at  the  Jetty  by  Bob  Ladd,  most  excellent 
of  boatmen,  who  has  in  one  hand  a  pail 
of  soaked  bread  and  in  the  other  a  great 
bag  of  bran  and  barley  meal.  The  boat 
is  run  down  the  slip  on  wheels,  and,  as  the  tide 
is  half  way  out,  we  embark  from  the  soft  "  ross/' 
which  conceals  the  food  of  the  mullet.  It  is  but 
a  few  strokes  to  the  Jetty  Extension,  and  there  the 
boat  is  very  carefully  moored  fore  and  aft,  so  that 
we  have  a  clear  run  of  water  in  the  Cliftonville 
direction,  over  which  the  ebb  tide  will  carry  the 


BASS  AND  MULLET  205 

floats.  When  the  ti'de  turns  on  the  flood,  or/to 
be  accurate,  a  little  later,  the  position  of  the  boat 
is  changed,  and  it  is  then  moored  between  two  posts 
opposite,  so  that  the  current,  now  making  towards 
West  gate,  carries  the  floats  in  the  contrary  direc- 
tion over  the  same  swim.  As  soon  as  the  moorings 
are  fast,  Bob  sets  solemnly  to  work  kneading  the 
ground-bait  in  great  balls,  as  used  by  anglers  on 
inland  waters,  and  the  rest  of  the  party  put  their 
tackle  together.  The  rods  are  ten  feet  long  and 
of  hollow  cane,  fitted  moreover  with  large  rings, 
so  that  the  fine  silk  line  (which  has  previously 
been  treated  with  boiled  vaseline)  may  run  with- 
out hitch.  The  reels  are  of  medium  diameter, 
wooden  and  Nottingham  pattern.  These  mullet- 
doctors  never  use  the  check,  whether  from  the 
fear  of  frightening  the  sensitive  fish  or  not  was  not 
explained.  A  slider-float  is  used,  and  a  small 
rubber  band  prevents  it  from  running  too  far  up 
the  line.  The  hook  is  a  number  3  Crystal,  and 
two  or  three  small  leads  are  pinched  on  the  gut 
immediately  above  it,  just  sufficient  to  cock  the 
float. 

The  ground  bait  is  now  ready,  and  a  large  ball 
is  dropped  in  front  of  each  angler,  who,  having 
carefully  plumbed  the  depth  and  adjusted  his 
float  so  that  the  hook  swims  three  or  four  inches 
from  the  bottom,  baits  it  with  paste  and  sets  his 
float  adrift  on  its  first  swim. 


206 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


And  now  we  are  all  busy,  letting  the  float  travel 
nearly  as  far  as  the  opposite  post,  then  bringing 
it  back  to  travel  over  the  same  ground  again. 
This  usually  means  losing  the  paste,  so  that  the 
rebaiting  is  a  considerable  item  in  our  activity, 


MULLET    FISHING    UNDER    MARGATE    JETTY 

and  indeed  on  this  first  morning  there  is  so  much 
rebaiting  for  the  first  hour  or  so  that  I  begin  to  fear 
that  my  customary  luck  has  followed  me  to  Mar- 
gate, and  that  I  am  not  even  going  to  see  any  of 
the  coveted  mullet  caught  by  others.  Suddenly, 
however,  the  expert  wrist  on  my  right  gives  a 


BASS  AND  MULLET  207 

flick,  and  "  In  him  !  "  cries  Gomm,  whose  cane  rod 
is  bending  madly  to  right  and  left,  as  a  fat  mullet, 
evidently  a  good  fish,  tries  in  vain  to  plunge 
towards  the  piles.  The  other  lines  are  brought  in, 
so  that  the  landing  net  may  have  a  fair  field,  and 
in  a  very  few  minutes  a  splendid  mullet  of  4  Ibs. 
14  ozs.  is  kicking  in  the  linen  bag  provided  for 
its  reception.  An  hour  later  the  rod  on  my  left 
is  behaving  likewise,  and  a  second  fish,  half  the 
weight  of  the  first,  is  added  to  the  inside  of  the 
bag.  The  rod  straight  before  me  refuses  to  bend. 
Several  times  I  think  I  see  a  bite  betrayed  by  the 
green-and-white  tell-tale,  but  it  is  long  since  I 
did  much  float-fishing,  and  my  striking  is  ill-timed. 
And  now,  after  two  hours  of  it,  the  tide  first  falls 
slack  for  a  little  and  then  preceptibly  drains 
towards,  instead  of  away  from,  the  boat.  Properly 
speaking,  we  ought  to  change  over  and  fish  the 
up  tide  facing  west,  but  it  is  windy  in  that  quarter 
and,  anxious  to  get  the  benefit  of  lee  water  as  long 
as  possible,  we  continue  fishing,  without  further 
result  until  it  runs  too  strongly  to  be  fishable  that 
way.  The  new  position  is  then  occupied  ;  the 
remainder  of  the  groundbait  is  thrown  overboard  ; 
and  no  more  fish  are  caught  at  all,  though  I  just 
manage  to  turn  one,  striking  a  fraction  of  a  second 
late,  and  feel  the  weight  of  him  on  my  rod.  So 
far,  I  stood  with  the  mullet  as  before,  though  I 
had  at  any  rate  seen  a  couple  caught  in  the  same 


208  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

boat,  which  was  a  step  in  the  direction  of  a  more 
intimate  acquaintance.  All  that  day  the  wind 
blew  hard  from  the  south-west,  and  little  "  white 
horses  "  galloped  across  the  water,  much  to  my 
host's  disgust,  for  such  cavalry,  he  declared,  was 
.a  menace  to  our  sport  in  the  afternoon.  It  was 
not  therefore  in  any  very  sanguine  frame  of  mind 
that  we  returned  to  our  boat  at  four  in  the  after- 
noon, a  couple  of  hours  before  low  water,  and 
once  more  took  up  the  correct  position  for  fishing 
the  down-tide.  Again,  the  rods  were  put  together, 
and  the  ground-bait  was  flung  as  a  sop  to  the  mul- 
let. In  future,  I  think  I  shall  always  tempt  the 
Fates  to  be  kind  by  sallying  forth  with  the  con- 
viction of  failure,  for  in  the  midst  of  my  despon- 
dency at  having  to  record  yet  another  misfire, 
down  went  the  float  and  I  too  enjoyed  the  sensation 
of  a  good  mullet  careering  in  an  arc  with  as  wide 
a  circumference  as  I  dare  allow  so  near  the  iron- 
work. Even  then  they  assured  me  that  the  fish 
was  not  yet  caught,  as  mullet  very  often,  and 
sometimes  unaccountably,  break  away  at  the  last 
moment.  But  luck  was  mine  this  time,  and  a 
fish  of  a  shade  over  three  pounds,  a  beautiful, 
fighting  silvery  mullet,  lay  gasping  in  the  landing- 
net.  Such  is  the  importance  assumed  by  a  fish 
that  has  hitherto  baffled  all  one's  efforts,  that  I 
•doubt  whether  any  man  ever  thrilled  more  over 
his  first  salmon  than  did  I  when  at  last  the  net 


BASS  AND  MULLET  209 

was  safely  under  my  first  English  mullet.  It 
broke  ice  that  had  grown  too  thick  with  time, 
and  even  if  I  had  not  caught  a  second,  this  time 
on  the  up-tide,  I  should  have  been  perfectly 
satisfied  with  the  result  of  the  expedition. 

Ground-bait,  then,  with  tackle  as  fine  as  can 
be  trusted,  is  one  secret  of  success  with  grey  mullet, 
and  how  important  the  ground-bait  is  may  be 
gathered  from  the  conviction  of  these  Margate 
experts,  that  the  regular  return  of  the  mullet  to 
the  water  beneath  that  Extension  year  after  year, 
and,  what  is  more,  their  loyalty  to  those  haunts 
throughout  the  summer  and  greater  part  of  the 
autumn,  must  be  entirely  attributable  to  the  great 
quantity  of  scrapings  and  refuse  thrown  over  each 
day  from  the  restaurant  upstairs.  Of  green  peas, 
for  instance,  this  singular  fish  is  inordinately  fond, 
and  the  paunch  of  many  a  mullet  is  found  to  be 
crammed  with  that  vegetable.  Bran  is  another 
weakness,  and  mullet  will  even  wander  around 
and  suck  it  in,  a  particle  at  a  time,  until  fat  with  it. 

Yet  above  the  matter  of  tackle  and  bait  I  should 
personally  feel  inclined  to  set  the  value  of  close 
study  by  regular  anglers.  If  you  can  place  your- 
self, as  I  had  the  good  fortune  to,  under  the 
guidance  of  residents  who  have  fished  under  every 
kind  of  conditions  and  over  a  period  of  years,  suc- 
cess is,  if  not  assured,  at  any  rate  very  probable. 

My  memories  of  those  Margate  mullet  are  most 

15—  2272) 


210  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

agreeable  in  all  but  one  particular.  It  has  pleased 
those  who  cater  for  the  week-end  public  to  run 
large  steamers  between  these  Kentish  resorts  and 
the  metropolis,  with  the  result  that  on  Sundays 
at  any  rate  a  very  fearful  collection  of  semi- 
human  wildfowl  is  diffused  among  the  coast  towns 
for  several  hours,  massing  on  the  piers  and  jetties 
towards  the  hour  of  return.  A  few  score  of  these 
filthy  ruffians  gathered  on  the  upper  deck  of  the 
Extension  immediately  over  our  heads,  on  one 
occasion  and  went  from  unnoticed  chaff  to  more 
aggressive  measures  of  annoyance.  Cigarette  ends 
were  the  first  missiles,  and  it  would  have  been 
well  had  they  stayed  at  these,  but  unfortunately 
there  is  a  species  of  human  beast  that  cannot  find 
itself  immediately  over  the  heads  of  its  more 
respectable  fellow-creatures  without  resorting  to 
a  disgusting  act,  in  which  the  marksmanship  of 
the  llama  and  archer-fish  is  emulated  if  not  sur- 
passed. The  spitting  hooligan  is  so  base  a  coward 
that  he  rarely  indulges  in  his  beastiality  if  there 
is  the  smallest  chance  of  reprisal,  but  it  will  easily 
be  understood  that  the  occupants  of  a  boat  moored 
at  some  distance  from  any  landing  steps  are 
peculiarly  helpless.  I  would  suggest  to  the  author- 
ities on  the  Jetty  Extension  at  Margate  that,  as 
other  pier  companies  find  anglers  worth  encourag- 
ing, and  do  what  is  possible  to  ensure  their  comfort, 
it  might  be  worth  their  while  to  make  a  nominal 


BASS  AND  MULLET  211 

charge  (say,  the  equivalent  of  the  admission 
money)  for  boats  moored  to  the  piles  and  see  to 
it  that  fishermen  are  not  exposed  to  such  disgust- 
ng  treatment  from  above.  It  would  even  be 
right  for  them  to  take  such  steps  without  any 
such  charge,  for  the  continuous  success,  year  after 
year,  of  the  few  habitues  unquestionably  attracts 
others  to  the  Extension  itself,  some  to  try  their 
hand  from  the  stages,  others  to  watch  the  more 
experienced  anglers  in  their  boats.  One  of  the 
Jetty  officials  might  easily  patrol  the  very  small 
square  of  deck,  from  which  such  expectoration 
has  any  chance  of  being  effective,  and  the  sooner 
orders  are  given  to  this  effect,  the  better  it  will  be 
for  the  reputation  of  a  very  delightful  resort, 
which  such  practices  have  long  discredited  with 
many  who  might  otherwise  patronise  it. 


Photo  Pcrcstri'l-la 

BRINGING    SMALL   TUNNY    ASHORE 


A  FORLORN  QUEST  AND  SOME 
COMPENSATIONS 


VIII 

A  FORLORN  QUEST  AND  SOME 
COMPENSATIONS 

Success  and  Failure — Welsh  Adders — Other  Failures  :  Arun 
and  Teign  Mullet — Poole  Bass — Bexhill  Cod — Lulworth 
Pollack — Eddystone  Whiting — -Sydney  Grouper — Queensland 
Perch — Maldon  Brill — The  Worst  Failure  of  all  :  Madeira 
Tunny — Origin  of  Plan  to  Catch  them  on  the  Rod — -Prepara- 
tions and  Arrangements  for  the  Trip — Arrival  at  Funchal— 
Our  First  Outing — We  catch  a  Turtle,  but  no  Tunny — Our 
Second  Failure — We  Follow  the  Tunny  to  Porto  Santo- 
Camp  three  nights  on  the  Ilheo  de  Cima  with  C.  B.  Cossart — 
Fishing  in  the  Rock-pools — Barbary  Type  of  Our  Fishermen- 
Bringing  Spiders  Home  for  the  Zoo — We  Catch  a  Variety  of 
Fish  in  Trammels — Other  Rod-fishing  :  Sargo-fishing  at  Sun- 
set— Novel  Way  of  Getting  Crab-bait — The  Birds  of  our 
Island — Padre  Schmitz — Trailing  for  Garoupa — A  Last  Try 
for  Tunny — A  Rough  Sea  for  Fishing — Chances  of  Catching 
Madeira  Tunny  on  the  Rod — Different  Classes  of  Tunny — 
Difficulties — Mr.  Holder's  Advice — Fishing  for  Mackerel  and 
Mursena  at  Funchal — Torches  and  Groundbait — An  Incanta- 
tion— Farewell  to  Madeira  ! 

OF  failures  it  is  the  lot  of  the  fisherman  to  taste 
more  generous  measure  than  of  successes.  Fortun- 
ately, the  memory  of  success  stands  the  wear  and 
tear  of  time  much  the  better  of  the  two,  else 
suicide  would  be  more  popular.  This  is  so  with 
trifles  as  with  life's  greater  traffic.  Those  two 

215 


216  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

Teign  bass,  caught  on  successive  mornings,  are 
before  me  still  ;  every  incident  of  their  capture, 
from  the  first  dip  of  the  rod  to  the  final  work  of 
the  gaff  and  the  glorious  weighing,  that  went  even 
beyond  expectations.  It  is  only  with  an  effort 
that  memory  conjures  up  the  many  lean  days, 
the  days  on  which  we  hoped  against  hope,  when 
the  sea  was  too  rough,  the  river  full  of  weed,  when 
the  storm  came  up  so  rapidly  from  behind  the 
hills  that  the  zenith  of  the  day  was  Egyptian 
darkness,  when  hooks  betrayed  the  trust  reposed 
in  them,  when  fish  were  both  loved  and  lost,  when 
fish  could  not  be  even  lost,  since  they  would  not 
take  the  hook.  Such  rank  and  file  of  failures  is 
consigned  to  the  limbo  of  oblivion. 

Here  and  there,  of  course,  some  prodigious 
fiasco  stands  out  undeniable  from  the  background 
of  the  life  that  is  lived  and  done  with.  Not  all 
of  fishing,  but  also  of  other  minor  hobbies,  has 
failure  made  great  pait. 

There  were  those  Welsh  adders !  Where  the 
merry  Monnow  frets  with  fitful  music  over  the 
stony  lairs  of  trout  and  grayling,  I  three  days  in 
succession  sought  the  elusive  adder,  even  towards 
the  peaks  of  grim  Garway  and  exhausting  Graig. 
Sought  the  reptile,  and  found  not  ;  yet  the  expedi- 
tion, barren  of  results,  was  not  without  interest, 
since  it  revealed  the  methods  and  enthusiasm 
(which  is  more  precious  than  method)  of  one  who 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  217 

has  since  published  important  works  on  our  snakes 
and  lizards. 

Dr.  Gerald  Leighton,  with  whom  I  had  long 
enjoyed  that  postal  acquaintance  which  often 
exists  between  men  interested  in  natural  history, 
invited  me  to  visit  him  at  Grosmont,  near  Here- 
ford, where  he  then  had  a  practice.  I  accepted 
with  pleasure  and  spent  many  agreeable  hours 
dissecting  adders  and  discussing  their  life  story, 
and  above  all  the  one  problem  more  fascinating 
than  the  rest,  in  his  surgery,  the  walls  of  which 
were  lined  with  every  stage  of  adder  in  pickle- 
jars,  material  for  the  forthcoming  book.  To  the 
pleasure  of  reading  his  letters  about  scrambles 
in  and  out  of  quarries,  firing  gorse,  digging  out 
mole-runs,  kills  and  escapes,  I  now  added  the  joy 
of  toiling  in  his  tracks  for  three  blazing  days  of 
June,  the  thermometer  at  95°  in  the  sun,  the  soil 
brick-hard  after  a  drought  that  had  already  lasted 
three  weeks.  We  plodded  all  over  the  beautiful 
Kentchurch  estate,  crashing  through  larch  woods 
and  glissading  down  red  rocks.  Every  likely 
ingle  was  examined,  every  clump  of  bracken  dis- 
turbed, every  pile  of  timber  prodded  till  not  so 
much  as  an  ant  could  lie  hidden.  With  all  this 
zeal,  we  got  no  adders.  The  odds  against  lighting 
on  a  particular  reptile  anywhere  in  six  or  eight 
thousand  acres  are  heavy  if  you  are  looking  for 
it.  Had  a  little  child  gone  forth  barefooted,  it 


218  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

would  in  all  probability  have  found  an  adder 
within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  garden  gate. 
Once  indeed  ten  inches  of  a  bright-hued  female 
vanished  over  a  low  boulder  and  under  a  bush. 
We  fired  the  bush,  but  it  was  a  case  of 

"  She  wandered  down  the  mountain  side/' 
and  we  saw  no  further  trace  of  her,  but  were  hard 
at  work  for  twenty  minutes  putting  out  the  con- 
flagration. 

More  profitable,  and  much  less  tiring,  were  our 
rambles  in  the  surgery.  One  adder  of  24f-  inches, 
which  we  dissected,  had  slain  a  bullock  only  the 
week  before  and  was  found  close  to  its  victim. 
It  was  a  female,  and  contained  seven  well-developed 
embryos.  From  a  larger  specimen  Leighton  had 
once  taken  seventeen,  but  never  more.  One 
authority  gave  the  number  as  ranging  up  to  forty  ! 
That,  if  true,  would  in  itself  settle,  once  and  for 
aJl,  the  vexed  question  of  the  female  swallowing 
the  young  to  get  them  out  of  harm's  way,  for, 
by  the  simple  process  of  dilating  the  sesophagus 
with  a  blowpipe,  we  satisfied  ourselves  that  that 
waiting  room  might  have  accommodation  for 
seventeen,  but  that  never  could  room  be  found 
inside  it  for  forty. 

That  district  of  South  Wales,  where  Leighton 
accumulated  material  for  his  book,  is  particularly 
favourable  to  the  adder,  for  the  hillsides  are 
sparsely  populated  by  human  beings,  besides 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  219 

affording  ample  food  and  cover.  As  a  result  of 
conditions  so  auspicious,  adders  not  only  abound 
in  Monmouthshire,  but  also  attain  to  the  largest 
size  recorded  in  these  islands. 

It  will  take  long  for  memory  to  lose  the  picture 
of  those  beautiful  Welsh  hills,  the  distant  views, 
the  crisp  air,  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay,  the  pale- 
faced  Hereford  cattle  staring  meekly  from  every 
byre.  Above  all,  the  vision  of  Leighton  standing 
at  attention  with  a  fearful  trident  poised  to  strike, 
while  with  his  boot  he  carefully  turned  over  some 
likely  looking  stone.  From  the  valley  beneath 
came  the  sobbing  of  the  Monnow,  deliciously  cool 
as  it  fell  on  our  burnt  up  senses.  If  one  person- 
ality besides  Leighton' s  stands  out  from  that 
panorama,  it  is  that  of  a  prehistoric  lizard  of  a 
man,  a  pterodactyl  in  fustian,  who  stood  aloft 
on  a  haycart,  brandishing  a  fork  just  above  my 
jugular,  and  prayed  that  that  rustic  tool  might 
fall  from  his  hand  if  he  did  not  tell  the  truth  when 
he  swore  to  having  seen  an  adder  swallow  her 
entire  family. 

Of  fishing  failures,  have  not  more  than  a  few 
been  already  admitted  to  these  pages  ?  The 
Littlehampton  mullet  were  of  these.  There  were 
other  apocryphal  mullet  in  a  little  lagoon  fed  by 
the  Teign,  beside  which  a  gallant  Indian  colonel 
and  myself  sweltered  through  a  hot  August  day, 
when  we  might  as  well  have  hoped  to  catch  a 


220  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

pelican.  He  recalled  strange  Pathan  oaths,  ac- 
quired no  doubt  in  earlier  days  from  those  whom 
he  had  hanged  after  they  had  sniped  in  vain  ; 
I  lisped  sentiments,  not  less  fervent,  in  a  readier 
tongue.  There  were  the  bass  of  Poole,  bass  of 
enormous  size,  which  one  August  night  I  sought 
with  lively  prawns  in  a  downpour  of  rain,  that 
drove  me  back  to  the  hospitality  of  the  ' '  Antelope/ ' 
Were  there  not  also  the  heavy  cod  of  Bexhill, 
the  fighting  pollack  of  Lulworth,  the  abundant 
whiting  of  the  Eddystone  ?  All  of  these  were 
failures  on  the  occasions  that  I  have,  black  on 
white,  before  me.  In  pursuit  of  the  cod  I  spent 
futile  days  at  the  then  undeveloped  Sussex  resort  ; 
for  the  pollack  I  put  in  a  whole  week  in  the  beauti- 
ful cove  and  around  Durdle  Door  ;  the  whiting 
cost  me  a  night's  rest  and  the  hire  of  a  smack. 
To  my  own  rod  the  total  bag  in  these  three  ex- 
peditions was  :  cod,  none  ;  pollack  over  5  Ibs., 
none  ;  whiting,  five.  When  I  sought  to  explain 
the  Bexhill  failure,  I  failed  ;  but  at  Lulworth  want 
of  bait,  and  at  the  Eddystone  excess  of  tide  were 
the  causes  of  our  distress.  The  Sydney  grouper, 
the  Tasmanian  trumpeter,  the  Queensland  perch, 
all  among  the  fish  that  failed,  were  noticed  in 
their  right  place. 

The  Maldon  "  brill,"  failure  was  rather  amusing, 
or  so  at  any  rate  I  am  able  to  consider  it  after  the 
lapse  of  years,  though  at  the  time  the  humour  of 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  221 

the  situation  did  not  appeal.  One  who  resided 
in  the  quaint  and  picturesque  Essex  town  told 
me  that  if  I  fished  the  Blackwater  in  winter  on 
the  evening  tide,  I  should  almost  certainly  catch 
brill.  To  catch  brill  in  a  river,  even  in  a  tidal 
reach  of  it,  promised  sufficient  novelty  to  make 
the  expedition  worth  a  trial .  I  therefore  arranged 
by  wire  for  Handley's  yacht  to  be  at  my  disposal, 
and  it  was  with  the  keen  anticipation  that  casts 
a  halo  over  all  such  preliminaries  of  a  novel  angling 
quest  that  I  stepped  into  my  train  at  Liverpool 
Street  one  cold  and  clear  November  morning. 
Thanks  to  carefully  acquired  wrong  information, 
I  had  chosen  the  wrong  week  for  the  tides,  with  the 
pleasing  result  that,  on  a  bitter  evening,  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  kicking  my  heels  on  a  frost-spangled 
deck,  for  three  hours  before  the  ebb  tide  slacked 
sufficiently  for  the  leads  to  hold  the  bottom.  We 
were  anchored  over  an  agreeable  spot  known  as 
Death  Crick  Hole,  such  a  scene  as  the  genius  of  Mr. 
Baring  Gould  or  Mr.  Blyth  would  revel  in  for  some 
dreadful  deed  of  marshman's  violence.  Every 
few  minutes,  new  flats  of  ooze  were  uncovered 
in  the  silvery  light  of  the  moon,  before  whose  cold 
disc  there  passed  a  strange  and  ghostly  squadron 
of  night  fowl,  herons,  dotterel,  dunlin,  teal  and 
mallard.  No  sooner  had  the  tide  done  ebbing 
than  it  apparently  started  to  flow  back  with  little 
less  vigour,  but  in  the  brief  interval  I  was  so 


222  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

lucky  as  to  catch  the  one  fish  of  the  evening,  a 
whiting-pout  of  perhaps  three  ounces,  which  had 
cost  me,  all  told,  about  fifty  shillings.  In  one 
respect,  however,  this  solitary  and  sorry  trophy 
was  worth  the  money,  for  it  solved  finally  the 
mystery  of  the  brill.  The  local  name  for  this 
fish  of  many  aliases  is,  it  transpired,  "  whiting- 
will/'  abbreviated  by  the  sanction  of  usage  to 
"  will,"  and  this  it  was  that  had  moved  my  in- 
formant to  put  me  unintentionally  on  the  track  of 
a  fish  that  never  was  seen  in  Maldon  outside  of 
the  fishmonger's.  This  highly  successful  adven- 
ture had  an  appropriate  sequel  in  a  dreadful  walk 
by  lantern  light  over  endless  mud  flats,  and  so, 
through  the  sleeping  town,  to  my  refuge  at  the 
"  Ship." 

This  preliminary  discourse  of  failures  great  and 
small  is  only  by  way  of  leading  up  to  the  greatest 
of  them  all,  the  quest  of  Madeira  tunny.  It 
happened  thus  : 

During  the  first  month  of  the  present  year,  the 
Field  published  a  most  interesting  account  of 
tunny-fishing  with  rod  and  line  by  Colonel  Stead, 
who  had  spent  the  winter  at  Funchal.  He  threw 
out  the  suggestion  that  these  splendid  fish,  which 
are  identical  with  the  famous  tuna  of  Sa 
Catalina,  might  be  caught  on  the  rod  by  anyone 
so  enterprising  as  to  try.  There  is  a  mood  of 
absorbent  vanity  on  which  a  challenge  so  friendly 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  223 

lights  with  fatal  results,  and  in  such  a  mood,  and 
in  the  most  comfortable  armchair  in  the  smoking 
room  of  the  Sports  Club,  that  Field  article  caught 
me  on  the  morning  of  its  publication.  I  was 
due  at  a  matinee  that  afternoon,  during  the  whole 
performance  of  which  the  spectres  of  gigantic 
tunny  floated  between  me  and  the  stage.  Back 
to  the  club  I  went  and  wrote  to  Messrs.  Donald 
Currie,  to  Colonel  Stead,  and  to  one  who  is  with- 
out doubt  the  greatest  living  authority  on  tuna 
fishing,  Mr.  C.  F.  Holder,  whose  work  on  the  big 
game  of  the  sea  is  one  of  the  most  thrilling  pieces 
of  angling  literature  in  print.  After  some  little 
change  in  my  plans,  I  was  booked  to  go  out  in 
the  Armadale  Castle  leaving  Southampton  on 
April  15th,  and  I  can  confidently  say  that  scarcely 
a  day  of  the  remaining  three  months  passed 
without  my  worrying  someone  fresh.  One  cor- 
respondent got  more  than  his  fair  share.  In  an 
unhappy  moment  for  him,  I  was  furnished  with 
a  letter  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Maurice  Faber, 
an  old  resident  in  Funchal,  and  to  him  I  believe 
I  wrote  three  letters  each  mail  until  the  date  of 
sailing.  He  read  and  answered  my  letters  with 
a  patience  that  was  more  than  human,  and  he 
engaged  for  me  the  best  skipper  and  crew  that 
could  be  found  in  the  place.  The  terms,  pro- 
posed by  myself,  were  £\  a  day,  with  a  bonus  of 
10s.  for  every  fish  of  100  Ibs.  or  more,  the  men  to 


224  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

keep  the  fish.  Alas,  I  was  never  called  upon  to 
exceed  the  daily  minimum,  and  of  fish  there  were 
none  to  keep.  Besides  worrying  Mr.  Faber,  who, 
after  all,  could  only  retaliate  once  a  week,  I  turned 
my  pen  on  anyone  within  reach  who  had  ever 
caught  large  sea  fish ;  and  Mr.  Turner  Turner,  Mr. 
Rowland  Ward  and  many  others  were  bothered 
in  turn.  Tackle  I  begged,  bought,  or  borrowed 
on  all  sides.  Mr.  Turner  very  kindly  lent  me  a 
complete  tarpon  outfit,  including  one  of  Vom 
Hofe's  reels,  with  which  his  wife  and  he  had  en- 
joyed mighty  sport  in  Florida.  Messrs.  Farlow 
lent  me  special  hooks  of  the  right  pattern,  lines 
and  a  spare  rod.  Messrs.  Carter  provided  me 
with  a  beautiful  line  of  copper  wire,  made  specially 
for  the  experiment,  and  300  yards  long.  Though 
the  supreme  test  in  view  was  not  forthcoming, 
the  way  in  which  it  sank  vertical  in  tides  that  took 
other  lines  almost  to  the  surface,  as  well  as  the 
condition  in  which  it  came  out  of  a  very  trying 
entanglement  with  the  anchor  rope,  caused  me 
to  revise  a  hitherto  hesitating  appreciation  of 
this  material.  I  had  cabled  to  E.  Vom  Hofe  for 
the  largest  tuna  reel  in  his  store,  as  Turner's  was 
rather  small.  As  some  indication  of  my  state 
of  mind  at  the  time,  I  may  as  well  confess  that 
I  apparently  omitted  to  sign  the  cablegram,  as  a 
result  of  which  the  reel  did  not  come.  Messrs. 
Bernard,  however,  stepped  into  the  breach  with 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  225 

a  very  serviceable  mahseer  reel,  fitted  with  their 
patent  brake,  which,  though  lacking  the  complex 
mechanism  of  the  orthodox  American  reel,  would, 
I  doubt  not,  have  been  found  efficient  if  the  tunny 
had  given  it  a  chance  to  do  itself  justice.  Such 
is  an  outline  of  my  preparations  for  the  trip,  and 
I  have  devoted  so  much  space  to  them,  not  merely 
because  the  preparatory  stage  is  often  the  most 
interesting  reminiscence  of  such  expeditions,  but 
by  way  of  reviewing  them  in  the  reader's  company 
and  asking  myself  whether  they  look  incomplete. 
Many  heads  are  better  than  one,  particularly 
when  that  one  is  mine  ;  but  I  confess  to  have  been 
a  little  staggered  by  a  friendly  criticism,  which 
Mr.  Rowland  Ward  made  on  my  want  of  success. 
{<  Ah,"  he  wrote,  "  you  should  have  taken  a  guide 
from  Santa  Catalina,  used  to  the  work."  I 
venture  to  predict  that  if  anyone  inducts  a  Cali- 
fornian  guide  into  the  mysteries  of  tunny-fishing 
at  Funchal,  he  will  as  likely  as  not  be  shot  for  his 
forethought. 

Equipped,  then,  with  a  care  and  completeness, 
with  an  outfit,  compared  with  which  the  kit  of 
a  Knight  Templar  setting  out  of  old  to  the  Cru- 
sades was  slipshod,  and  accompanied  by  a  friend, 
who  shall  herein  figure  as  A.  K.  M.,  and  whose 
fishing  had  hitherto  been  for  Irish  and  Norwegian 
trout,  I  embarked  in  April  on  the  Armadale 
Castle  and  had  a  blameless  and  unemotional 

16— (2272) 


226  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

passage  to  Funchal.  On  the  morning  of  our 
arrival,,  tunny  were  strewn  in  careless  profusion 
on  the  beach.  They  were  pointed  out  to  us  by 
an  agent  of  Messrs.  Blandy,  who  came  on  board 
as  soon  as  the  anchor  was  down,  and  he  further 
raised  our  hopes  by  saying  that  the  bay  had  not 
been  so  full  of  those  fish  within  the  memory  of 
man.  Later  in  the  day,  after  we  had  settled  in 
our  quarters  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  which,  like  most 
of  the  rest,  is  the  property  of  Mr.  Reid,  I  had  the 
courage  to  seek  out  Mr.  Faber,  who  quickly  put 
me  at  my  ease,  and  indeed  almost  made  me  regret 
that  I  had  not  written  more  fully.  Both  he  and 
Mr.  John  Blandy  told  us  that  tunny  had  not  been 
so  cheap  for  years.  Indeed,  the  poorer  class  of 
natives  would  not  buy  any  meat,  so  plentiful  was 
that  satisfying  fish  in  the  market.  Both  predicted 
great  and  immediate  success,  and,  with  our  hearts 
singing  of  triumph  on  the  morrow,  a  triumph 
which  we  had  promised  to  cable  home,  we  fixed 
3  a.m.  next  morning  for  the  first  essay  and  inter- 
viewed the  Reis  (captain)  of  our  boat,  that  he 
might  understand  to  bring  her  round  to  the  private 
steps  of  the  hotel.  How  great  a  convenience  that 
private  landing  was  throughout  our  stay  can  be 
appreciated  by  those  who  know  how  keenly  the 
sensitive  angler  feels  marching  through  busy 
streets  in  his  indecorous  clothes  when  he  has  no 
fish  to  show  the  crowd.  We  retained  the  services 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  227 

of  an  interpreter  at  5s.  a  day.  This  excellent 
fellow  knew  just  sufficient  English  to  ensure 
misunderstanding  all  round.  Without  his  services, 
gesticulation  and  an  occasional  oath  in  any  lan- 
guage but  Portuguese  would  have  made  matters  go 
quite  smoothly.  His  name  was  "  John."  Every 
native  is  named  either  "  John  "  or  "  Manoel." 
And  for  us  he  had  a  sentimental  and  auspicious 
interest  from  having  accompanied  Colonel  Stead 
on  his  successful  capture  of  tunny  on  the  native 
tackle. 

Confident  of  success,  having  mentally  worded 
our  cablegrams,  all  but  the  individual  weight  of 
the  fish,  we  took  a  bullock-car  back  to  tiffin  and 
spent  much  of  that  afternoon  fixing  up  our  tackle. 

Five  minutes  after  three  next  morning,  with  a 
pale  moon  gleaming  coldly  on  the  beautiful  ter- 
raced garden,  robbing  rose  and  geranium  of  their 
colour  and  revealing  the  ghostly  outlines  of  cactus 
and  of  palm,  three  determined  anglers,  fortified 
with  an  early  meal  prepared  by  themselves,  stole, 
like  thieves  in  the  night,  down  the  winding  slope 
and  forty  minutes  later  got  on  board  the  boat, 
which  at  that  moment  arrived  with  remarkable 
punctuality  at  the  steps.  It  is  not  actually  on 
record,  but  it  is  surmised  that  Madeirans  are 
lineally  descended  from  him  who  said  '  I  go, 
Lord  !  '  and  went  not. 

Scarcely  a  breath  of  air  helped  us  along  until 


228  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

the  levee  in  the  East,  and  for  the  next  three  hours, 
as  day  gained  the  mastery,  we  were  drawing  slow]y 
through  the  water,  the  sail  hardly  filling  out  and 
glad  of  assistance  from  the  long  sweepers,  at  which 
the  men  toiled  like  the  galley  slaves  they  looked. 
At  last,  without  apparently  taking  up  any  particu- 
lar marks,   the   Reis  put   down  the  anchor  and 
signified  that  we  should  begin  fishing.     A  lively 
mackerel  was  dipped  out  of  the  bait  barrel,  into 
which  a  fat  boy,  with  no  other  very  evident  ambi- 
tion  in   life,   had  been   zealously   pouring  water 
ever  since  the  sun  was  up.     The  hook  was  fixed 
in  the  back,  and  the  Reis  asked  us,  through  John, 
to  let  out  about  60  fathoms  to  start  with.     Plumb 
went  my  wire  line,  Turner's  reel,  which  held  no 
more  than  a  hundred  fathoms  of  it,  running  out 
easily  with  the  weight  of  the  2  lb.  mackerel.     No 
tunny  accepted  the  invitation,  and  I  have  since 
reflected  that  if  one  had,  I  must  either  have  gone 
overboard,  or  lost  a  lot  of  another  man's  tackle, 
not  the  most  agreeable  alternative  for  a  holiday. 
In  California  they  played  these  huge  fish  from  a 
small  boat,  which  the  fish  is  free  to  tow  until  tired 
out.     This  puts  the  minimum  of  strain  on  the  rod 
and    gives    the    line    every    chance.     Anchored, 
however,  in  water  of  such  depth,  there  would  only 
be  one  chance  in  a  thousand  of  saving  a  heavy 
fish,  even  if  the  first  rush  did  not  decide  the  issue. 
There  was  an  agony  of  suspense,  for  we  did  not  then 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  229 

know  that  on  the  very  night  of  our  arrival  the 
tunny  shoals  had  gone  off  to  Porto  Santo,  forty 
miles  distant.  We  sat  for  hours  divided  between 
the  ridicule  of  not  getting  even  a  bite  and  the 
fear  that  a  bite  might  mean  disaster.  At  length 
we  asked  the  Reis  whether  we  could  not  fish  drift- 
ing about,  so  as  at  once  to  cover  more  ground,  a 
good  plan  with  al]  shoa]  fish,  and  slightly  to  lessen 
the  risk  of  breakage  with  the  anchor  down.  Thanks 
to  John's  skilful  interpreting,  our  elaborate  sug- 
gestion was  construed  as  an  order  to  return  home, 
but  we  contrived,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  crew, 
to  make  our  real  meaning  unmistakeable,  and  the 
Reis,  to  do  him  credit,  took  the  correction  in  good 
part.  Indeed,  he  was  a  cheery  fellow,  and  we 
took  a  fancy  to  him  from  the  first,  though  this 
was  our  only  outing  in  his  boat.  The  primitive 
anchor  was  once  more  at  the  bow,  and  for  two 
or  three  hours  more  we  drifted  about,  fishing  at 
times  with  as  much  as  80  fathoms  off  the  reel,  to 
allow  for  the  drift,  but  with  no  result.  A  grampus 
of  great  size  was  cruising  about  a  couple  of  miles 
to  leeward,  and  the  presence  of  that  cetacean,  was, 
the  Reis  gave  us  to  understand,  the  cause  of  our 
bad  luck.  Whatever  the  cause,  the  result  was 
undeniable,  and  eventually,  after  having  sat 
patiently  fishing  for  quite  five  hours  without  a 
touch,  we  gave  the  order  to  make  for  home  in 
real  earnest,  particularly  as  there  was  a  favourable 


230  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

breeze  from  the  southward.  On  the  run  in,  we 
acquired  the  only  two  trophies  of  the  day,  a  turtle, 
which  one  of  the  men  picked  off  the  surface  of 
the  sea,  where  it  lay  basking  in  chelonian  luxury, 
and  a  wreck-fish  weighing  about  a  pound.  The 
latter  was  swimming  after  the  boat,  three  or  four 
feet  below  the  surface,  and  one  of  the  crew  actually 
contrived  to  gaff  it  in  that  position.  Those  who 
are  skilful  with  the  gaff,  as  well  as  gillies  gener- 
ally, will  appreciate  the  difficulty  of  gaffing  so 
small  a  fish  so  far  below  the  top  of  the  water  and 
from  a  boat  sailing  at  any  rate  four  knots  an  hour. 
The  turtle  was  of  the  hawksbill  kind,  common 
enough  in  the  Atlantic  and  reducible  to  very 
palatable  soup,  though  not  the  equal  of  the 
aldermanic  favourite.  Two  small  crabs  (Planes 
minutus\  evidently  parasitic,  clung  to  its  tail. 
These  I  put  in  spirit  and  the  turtle  I  managed  to 
convey  alive  to  the  Zoo  a  month  later,  in  company 
with  a  second,  of  smaller  dimensions,  which  I 
purchased  alive  in  the  Funchal  market  for  the 
ruinous  sum  of  sixpence.  Thus  ended  our  first 
failure,  and  so  easily  does  the  angling  tempera- 
ment veer  between  the  clouds  and  the  pit  that 
we  now  doubted  (with  more  reason  perhaps  than 
we  suspected  at  the  time)  whether  we  should 
ever  hook  a  tunny,  much  less  ever  kill  one.  There 
are  men  in  every  walk  of  life  who,  so  to  speak, 
set  out  with  a  flourish  to  catch  tunny  and  succeed 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  231 

only  in  catching  turtle,   and  with  these  failures 
we  henceforth  grudgingly  associated  ourselves. 

The  second  failure  was  enacted  on  very  similar 
lines,  only  under  another  captain.  Our  own 
vanished  after  that  day — the  next  was  Good 
Friday,  and  at  first  we  attributed  his  absence 
to  the  Easter  Holidays — and  we  saw  no  more  of 
him  until  the  last  week  of  our  stay.  Day  after 
day,  even  when  the  holidays  were  past,  John 
reported  him  at  Porto  Santo.  Several  explana- 
tions were  offered  of  this  embarrassing  defection 
of  the  man  retained  to  look  after  me.  One  was 
that,  in  view  of  the  departure  of  the  tunny  to 
Porto  Santo  on  the  day  of  my  arrival,  I  was  accoun- 
ted a  Jonah  (a  minor  prophet  still,  for  all  the  ad- 
vance in  nature-teaching,  popularly  associated  with 
great  fishes),  to  tempt  Providence  in  whose  com- 
pany the  daily  sovereign  was  inadequate  recom- 
pense. Another  hinted  that  a  market  rumour 
had  gained  currency  to  the  effect  that  I  was 
spying  out  the  land,  under  the  guise  of  sport, 
with  a  view  to  the  establishment  of  a  commercial 
fishery  with  improved  engines.  That  anyone, 
however,  who  had  seen  the  innocent  behaviour 
of  our  rods  that  first  day  could  ever  again  credit 
us  with  sinister  designs  on  the  fish  seemed  im- 
possible, even  in  a  community  where  piety  and 
suspicion  are  good  comrades.  The  most  obvious 
explanation  of  all,  the  fact  of  these  fishers  having 


232  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

followed  their  prey  to  the  island  where  they  were 
known  to  have  migrated,  does  not  seem  to  have 
occurred  to  anyone,  but  such  was,  I  have  since 
had  reason  to  believe,  the  very  simple  construc- 
tion that  we  ought  to  have  placed  on  their 
behaviour. 

The  presence  of  tunny  at  Porto  Santo  was  re- 
ported day  after  day.  Not  a  boat  was  to  be  seen 
fishing  off  Funchal,  though  at  the  time  of  Colonel 
Stead's  visit  to  the  grounds  I  was  told  the  bay 
was  studded  with  the  busy  argosies.  To  follow 
this  recalcitrant  mackerel  over  forty  miles  of 
ocean  to  a  small  and  isolated  island,  where  we 
should  for  the  period  of  our  stay  be  cut  off,  even 
as  regards  electric  communication,  from  all  the 
rest  of  the  globe,  looked  at  first  sight  a  hare- 
brained scheme,  but  the  more  we  thought  over  it, 
the  more  it  liked  us.  Perhaps,  too,  our  hand  was 
forced  by  the  remarkable  kindness  with  which 
everyone  made  the  path  smoother,  Messrs.  Blandy 
by  lending  us  a  launch,  to  take  us  over  on  the 
Tuesday  and  call  for  us  three  days  later,  and  Mr. 
C.  B.  Cossart,  as  keen  a  sportsman  as  any  in 
Madeira,  by  promising  to  accompany  us  and 
bring  his  tents  and  men.  Clearly,  everything 
pointed  the  way  to  Porto  Santo,  or  rather  to  a 
little  satellite  known  as  the  Ilheo  de  Cima,  in- 
habited only  by  the  lighthouse-keeper,  his  wife, 
his  children,  his  goats  and  his  assistant,  one  who 


BRINGING   THE   TENTS   ASHORE 


234  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

in  his  time  sold  hats  of   the  latest  fashion  to  the 
young  bloods  of  Funchal. 

Thither  to  the  island  of  our  last  hopes,  sped 
the  Falcon  one  breezy  morning  in  May,  and 
as  she  dipped  and  somewhat  rolled  in  an  exceed- 
ingly impolite  sea,  we  were  overhauled  by  the 
Kildonam  Castle,  homeward  bound.  At  first 
sight,  the  little  I.  de  Cima  looked  an  unpromising 
rock,  but  we  grew  to  like  it  mightily  during  our 
three  days  of  occupation,  and  it  was  with  great 
reluctance  at  the  last  that  we  saw  Cossart's 
comfortable  tents  rolled  up  and  taken  back  to 
the  launch.  The  glamour  of  the  camping  life  is 
apt  to  be  a  little  overdone  by  travellers  who  write 
books,  for  they  invariably  overlook  the  horrors 
usually  incidental,  the  noxious  insects,  prowling 
beasts,  thievish  natives  and  climatic  trials  ranging 
from  cataclysmic  rains  to  cyclonic  winds.  On 
this  occasion,  however,  perched  on  a  little  ledge, 
snug  against  the  cliff,  and  within  fifty  yards  of  the 
Atlantic  breakers,  I  can  swear  that  none  of  the 
usual  drawbacks  (and  I  have  known  them  else- 
where) interfered  with  our  enjoyment  of  the 
perfect  peace.  There  were  no  insects,  though 
spiders  of  great  size  and  appalling  mien  abounded 
on  the  stony  plateau  atop  the  cliff.  The  only  four- 
footed  visitors  were  a  most  friendly  mongrel  dog 
from  the  phare  and  a  few  goats,  which  their  owner 
now  and  then  drove  to  distraction  by  hunting 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  235 

them  with  a  borrowed  rifle  of  Cossart's.  On  one 
occasion  he  with  great  address  hit  an  o]d  buck 
(not,  I  believe,  the  one  intended)  with  one  out  of 
fourteen  cartridges  and  brought  it  to  its  knees, 
though  it  nearly  sent  him  over  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  when  he  went  to  secure  it.  The  poor  brute 
was,  however,  all  but  mortally  hit,  and  it  was  a 
relief  when  he  presently,  with  the  help  of  the  retired 
hatter,  succeeded  in  pushing  it  down  the  slope  and 
finally  killing  it  at  the  water's  edge.  The  hatter 
did  the  grail oching,  and  a  very  pleasant  job  he 
made  of  it  within  about  six  yards  of  our  dinner 
table. 

It  is  not,  however,  of  the  big  game  shooting  on 
our  island  that  I  wish  to  write.  The  day  follow- 
ing our  arrival,  we  were  up  with  the  sun,  or,  to 
be  accurate,  about  an  hour  earlier,  catching  all 
manner  of  little  fishes  in  the  rock  pools.  Little 
breams  and  blennies  of  several  species  came  so 
greedily  at  the  tiny  hook  that  in  a  few  minutes 
I  had  an  assortment  in  a  pickle  jar  in  spirit.  Those 
unsophisticated  little  creatures  were  even  more 
free  of  guile  than  my  perch  and  bream  in  the 
Baltic  estuary  had  been  fifteen  years  earlier.  It 
is  improbable  that  several  of  the  pools,  those  at 
some  distance  from  the  landing  place,  are  darkened 
by  man's  shadow  from  one  year  to  the  other, 
as  a  result  of  which  anything  tasty  is  at  once 
seized,  in  full  view  of  the  angler,  and  without  a 


236  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

thought  of  danger.  We  had  only  to  drop  the 
hook,  baited  with  a  fragment  of  limpet  or  whelk 
(there  were  no  mussels  on  those  rocks),  in  the 
midst  of  a  seemingly  empty  pool,  when  from  under 
every  rock  or  stone,  from  behind  every  curtain 
of  waving  weed,  little  fishes  darted  to  it  like  iron 
filings  to  a  magnet. 

The  sea  ran  so  high  that  morning,  that  even 
old  "  Beicana  "  (the  Portuguese  love  nicknames, 
and  this  one  had  reference  to  our  friend's  gener- 
ous lips),  an  experienced  veteran,  declared  the 
weather  unsuited  for  tunny  fishing.  "  Bei9ana," 
as  will  be  seen  from  my  photograph,  in  which  he 
is  holding  a  pair  of  newly  caught  becuda,  or  sea- 
pike,  is  of  that  strikingly  Moorish  type  so  notice- 
able in  the  fishermen  of  those  islands.  The  travel- 
ler who  is  familiar  with  the  Barbary  States  will 
find  among  the  loafers  in  the  Funchal  fishmarket 
many  familiar  ruffians,  as  truly  Moorish  as  any 
that  years  gone  by  sailed  out  of  fair  Salee  to  cut 
a  throat  and  scuttle  a  merchantman.  Morocco 
may  have  been  swept  from  the  seas  ;  she  may 
even  have  come  low  among  the  land  nations  ; 
but  undeniable  Nature  has  set  a  hall-mark  on 
many  of  those  seamen  in  the  Spanish  and  Portu- 
guese archipelagoes  of  the  eastern  Atlantic,  link- 
ing them  with  the  merry  rovers  who  raided, 
burnt  and  loved  in  the  golden  days  of  their  sea- 
manship. Nature  has  set  the  stamp,  and  time 


••rm*     * 


"  BEI9ANA 


238  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

cannot  efface  it.  Our  first  morning,  then,  between 
breakfast  and  lunch,  was  spent  at  the  lighthouse, 
which  not  to  see  and  admire  would  have  been  to 
offend  our  only  neighbour  greviously  :  and  on  the 
plateau  before  it,  where  we  turned  over  stones 
and  dislodged  the  great  Lycosa  spider  that  lurked 
under  two  out  of  three.  This  arachnid  (L.  porto- 
santana)  is  a  tarantula,  closely  related  to,  though 
not  identical  with,  the  species  found  in  Madeira, 
and  Deserta,  a  neighbouring  island  owned  by 
Messrs.  Cossart  and  Hinton.  If  feeds  on  small 
land-molluscs,  and  masses  of  the  shells,  sucked  dry 
of  their  occupants,  lay  beneath  each  stone.  I  took 
a  number  of  these  spiders  home  to  the  Zoo,  together 
with  a  smaller  black  one,  commonly  regarded  as 
fatally  venomous,  though  in  all  probability  quite 
harmless,  and  some  males  and  females  of  the 
zebra-spider.  The  last-named  spun  its  strong 
webs  in  every  clump  of  cactus  in  the  hotel  garden, 
writing  across  it  that  curious  zigzag  white  hiero- 
glyph, which  naturalists  gifted  with  a  ready  imagi- 
nation have  interpreted  as  arachnid  for  "  Will 
you  walk  into  my  parlour  ?  "  Those,  however, 
who  know  something  of  the  animals'  anatomy 
recognise  in  the  so-called  "  writing  "  a  means 
of  using  up  superfluous  building  material.  All 
my  cargo  of  spiders,  some  twenty  in  number, 
lived  through  the  voyage  to  England  without 
food.  Every  effort  was  made  by  myself  and  my 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  239 

cabin-steward  to  obtain  flies  for  them  on  the 
Carisbrooke,  but  a  violent  head  wind,  which 
lasted  all  the  way  from  Funchal  to  Southampton, 
blew  every  fly  out  of  the  ship  soon  after  we  left 
Madeira.  To  atone  for  the  lack  of  solid  food,  I 
was  extra  careful  to  sprinkle  them  every  few 
hours  with  water,  as  I  had  them  in  boxes  specially 
designed  for  that  purpose  ;  and  it  is  well  known 
that  spiders  can  go  a  considerable  period  without 
food  so  long  as  they  get  plenty  of  water,  for  they 
are  greedy  drinkers.  When  I  handed  them  over 
to  the  Zoo,  they  were  in  excellent  condition,  and 
Mr.  Pocock  at  once  found  them  suitable  quarters 
in  the  warm  Insect-House.  The  rest  of  my  living 
luggage,  consisting  of  the  two  turtles,  a  lizard 
from  Porto  Santo,  and  twelve  others,  somewhat 
different,  from  Madeira,  went  to  the  Reptile  House. 
The  turtles  had  their  salt  water  bath  on  board 
every  morning  before  I  had  my  own,  but  the  lizards 
packed  for  me  by  Padre  Schmitz,  whose  museum 
at  the  Seminario  is  one  of  the  sights  of  Funchal, 
survived  the  journey  in  a  linen  bag,  without 
further  attention.  These  hints  on  the  transport 
of  such  living  souvenirs  of  the  trip  are  given  in 
case  they  should  be  of  use  to  other  people  with  a 
fancy  to  do  likewise. 

We  also  derived  much  amusement  from  laying 
down  and  taking  up  Cossart's  trammels,  of  which 
there  were  two,  as  well  as  a  long  single  net.  The 


240  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

principle  of  the  trammel  is  more  ingenious  perhaps 
than  that  of  any  other  net  used  in  fishing.  It 
consists  of  three  nets,  two  outer  with  very  large 
meshes,  and  an  inside  one,  double  their  length  and 
height,  and  with  a  very  small  mesh.  A  fish  strikes 
one  of  the  outer  nets  and  passes  through  it,  only 
to  encounter  the  long  net,  which  it  pushes  before 
it,  being  unable  to  go  through  so  small  a  mesh, 
through  the  corresponding  large  hole  in  the  third. 
Making  a  dash  for  freedom,  it  shuts  itself  inex- 
tricably in  a  blind  pocket,  and  there  it  remains 
until  the  net  is  visited  next  morning,  for,  unlike 
the  trawl  or  drift-net,  the  trammel  has  the  great 
advantage  of  catching  fish  while  its  owner  is 
comfortable  in  bed.  Down  went  the  trammels 
each  evening,  and  up  they  came  in  the  morning, 
yielding  good  measure  and  some  variety.  The 
bag  included  dogfish  (Mustelus]  with  living  young, 
many  of  the  embryos  being  very  advanced,  wrasse 
of  large  size,  becudas  (Sphyrczna\  powerful  sea- 
pike  these  last,  which  at  times  give  good  sport  on 
whiffing  tackle,  whiprays,  red  mullet  and  grey, 
both  of  large  size,  and  a  crayfish  without  claws, 
much  esteemed  as  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
lobster  which  those  islands  produce. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  petites  peches  was 
from  the  rocks  at  sunset  for  sargo,  a  game,  silvery 
bream  with  black  stripes,  which  grows  in  those 
waters  to  rather  more  than  a  pound  weight,  or 


-(2272) 


242  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

such  at  any  rate  was  the  largest  that  we  caught. 
An  ancient  bard,  quoted  by  Izaak  Walton,  relates 
a  quaint  scandal  of  how  the  sargo  goes  ashore 
courting  she-goats,  and  certainly  the  I.  de  Cima 
does  provide  that  attraction,  for  she-goats  are  the 
only  females  in  evidence.  The  sargo  is  caught 
on  a  single  cane  rod  and  tight  line,  and  the  hook 
is  baited  with  the  fleshy  portion  of  a  crab's  leg. 
This  crab  is  by  no  means  scarce,  but  during  the 
day  it  is  as  shy  of  pursuit  as  an  undischarged 
bankrupt ;  and  more  than  once,  as  time  was  limited, 
Cossart  resorted  to  the  somewhat  laborious  and 
certainly  expensive  plan  of  stalking  each  crab 
with  his  rifle,  picking  it  off  on  a  rock  before  it 
could  scuttle  out  of  sight  and  then  sending  Manoel 
to  retrieve  the  game  before  the  Atlantic  washed 
it  away.  Manoel,  an  admirable  gillie  on  such 
occasions,  played  a  still  more  important  part  in 
the  proceedings.  Someone  in  the  Latin  Grammar 
used  to  offer,  I  never  understood  under  what 
circumstances,  to  perform  the  function  of  a  whet- 
stone. Manoel  was  more  useful  still,  for  he  per- 
formed the  function  of  a  sprinkler  of  ground- 
bait.  Chewing  a  fascinating  mixture  of  these 
crabs  and  sweet  potatoes  in  his  mouth,  he  would, 
with  the  calm  precision  of  a  Zoo  llama  bedewing 
a  silk  hat,  project  it,  a  little  at  a  time,  round  our 
lines.  The  sargo,  like  the  black  bream  of  Australia, 
bites  so  tenderly  that  it  requires  a  little  practice 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  243 

to  strike  just  at  the  right  moment,  but  when 
actually  hooked  on  the  light  cane  and  tight  line, 
it  gives  great  play  until  lifted  out  on  the  rocks. 
In  addition  to  sargo,  we  caught  a  number  of  sea- 
scorpions  and  wrasse,  which  was  just  as  satisfac- 
tory as  catching  leather j acket  when  after  grouper. 
Indeed,  the  remembrance  of  those  Australian 
days  was  intensified  by  the  rock-climbing  which 
we  had  to  do  in  order  to  reach  the  best  pools. 
Then,  when  the  sun  had  gone  down  behind  Porto 
Santo,  we  clambered  back  to  camp.  Swifts 
screamed  against  the  blue  sky,  but  the  terns  had 
gone  to  roost.  A  desultory  chatter  was  kept 
up  in  a  kestrel's  nest  just  above  our  camp,  where 
the  parents  were  rearing  a  greedy  brood,  but  the 
only  other  birds  in  evidence  so  late  in  the  day 
were  Bulwer's  Petrel,  which  flew  barking  among 
the  cliffs,  and  nervous  shearwaters,  which,  we 
afterwards  discovered,  had  a  single  chick  in  a  nest 
under  one  of  the  biggest  boulders  beside  our  camp. 
No  harm,  however,  came  to  the  nestling  from  our 
visit,  and  even  in  that  short  time  the  parents 
seemed  to  appreciate  that  all  was  well.  There 
were  many  other  birds  on  our  island  :  turnstones, 
gulls,  meadow-pipits  on  the  plain  up  by  the  light- 
house, rock-pigeons  and  one  or  two  others.  The 
rest  of  the  land-fauna  consisted  mainly  of  the 
aforesaid  spiders  and  lizards,  the  latter  swarming 
among  the  rocks  and  seeming  equally  at  home 


244  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

half  way  up  the  face  of  the  cliff  or  on  the  lowest 
boulders  within  reach  of  the  driven  spray.  The 
sight  of  lizards  flashing  over  rocks  wet  with  sea- 
water  is  an  uncommon  one,  but  what  perhaps 
struck  the  observer  even  more  was  the  indiffer- 
ence of  these  little  reptiles  to  extremes  of  tempera- 
ture. They  were  to  all  appearance  as  much  at 
their  ease  in  the  glare  of  the  summer  sun  and  in 
the  shelter  of  exceedingly  cold  burrows  in  the 
cliff. 

One  other  kind  of  fishing  we  did  close  inshore, 
though  from  a  boat,  and  that  was  a  peculiar  mode 
of  very  slow  whiffing  for  large  wrasse,  known  in 
those  islands  as  "  gavoupa"  a  name  that  once 
again  recalled  those  futile  climbs  on  the  coast 
of  New  South  Wales.  The  tackle  used  for  this 
fishing  was  an  immense  cane  spreader,  the  two 
hooks  on  which  were  baited  with  small  pieces  of 
tunny  or  mackerel.  In  England  such  a  spreader 
would  be  used  only  from  a  boat  at  anchor,  but  out 
there  the  approved  method  is  to  trail  it  quite 
slowly  in  moderately  deep  water,  by  which  means 
we  added  to  our  varied  bag  a  few  wrasse,  clad, 
like  most  of  their  kind,  in  a  coat  of  many  colours. 

On  the  second  morning,  Cossart  and  I  decided 
at  daybreak  to  go  forth  after  the  tunny.  The 
wind  seemed  to  have  moderated,  and,  since  bad 
weather  of  any  description  is  but  comparative, 
it  certainly  had  done  so  to  the  extent  that  it  was 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  245 

to-day  possible  for  the  boats  to  hold  their  anchors. 
A.  K.  M.  determined  to  remain  ashore.  He  had 
not,  he  said,  been  born  great,  nor  did  he  particu- 
larly wish  to  have  greatness  thrust  upon  him, 
but  was  content  to  take  his  pleasure  unambi- 
tiously  on  dry  land.  The  fact  is  he  thought 
himself  a  much  worse  sailor  than  he  really  was, 
and  was  for  ever  dreading  sickness,  but  never,  to 
my  knowledge,  sick.  On  one  rather  trying  day 
off  Funchal,  a  day  of  oily  calm  but  heavy  ground 
swell,  he  certainly  did  behave  from  time  to  time 
in  a  manner  that  I  have  not  previously  witnessed 
under  those  conditions.  He  lay  on  his  back  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat,  pulled  a  sail  over  his  face 
to  keep  the  sun  off,  and  then  broke  out  in  a  series 
of  amazing  Irish  songs,  chiefly  about  brave  doings 
at  fairs,  which  won  the  heart  of  the  crew.  As  he 
never  developed  this  talent  for  singing  at  any 
other  period  of  our  acquaintance,  I  was  reminded 
of  Thackeray's  confession,  that  the  best  thing 
he  ever  wrote  in  his  life  (I  think  it  was  the  surgeon's 
song  in  "  Harry  Rollicker  ")  was  done  when  he 
was  desperately  sick  on  an  Austrian  Lloyd  boat. 

When  Cossart  and  I  had  come  to  our  heroic 
resolution,  "  Beicana  "  was  despatched  as  envoy- 
extraordinary  to  one  of  the  numerous  tunny  boats 
riding  at  their  anchorage  opposite  our  camp  to 
arrange  the  price  of  our  admission  for  some  hours. 
Eventually  I  gave  the  Reis  a  sovereign,  and  he 


246 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


wanted  (but  did  not  get)  thirty  shillings,  which 
was  only  the  manner  of  his  tribe.  There  is  no 
island  in  which  begging  is  carried  to  greater  per- 


CAMPING   ON    THE    ILHEO    DE    CIMA 

fection  than  in  Madeira.  When  you  have  paid 
your  carro-man  half  again  his  proper  fare,  he  asks 
for  "  something  for  the  boy/'  and  if  you  gave 
that  also,  he  would  no  doubt  ask  next  for  some- 
thing for  the  bullocks.  Indeed,  I  believe  it  to 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  247 

be  a  physical  fact  that  the  hands  of  most  of  the 
natives  are  crooked  at  birth,  owing  to  generations 
of  alms-seeking  forbears. 

We  hurried  over  breakfast  so  as  to  be  at  the 
disposal  of  the  Reis  the  moment  he  should  come 
for  us,  and  he,  having  ensured  several  dollars, 
fish  or  no  fish,  remained  at  anchor  for  another  two 
hours.  At  length  we  got  off,  and  they  put  us  in 
a  great  basket,  which  apparently  held  stale  bait 
at  other  times.  It  was  firmly  wedged  against 
the  side  of  the  boat,  'and  for  this  we  presently 
had  reason  to  be  grateful,  for  no  sooner  were  we 
round  the  point,  beneath  the  lighthouse,  than  we 
saw  what  we  were  in  for.  If  the  sea  had  looked 
rough  from  camp,  it  resembled  at  close  quarters 
fancy  paintings  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay  out  of  temper. 
Up  we  went  on  a  breaking  wave,  which  drenched 
the  oarsmen  from  bow  to  stern  ;  down  we  came 
with  the  vacant  sensation,  which  is  so  disagreeable 
even  to  good  sailors. 

"  .    .    .   .   Salt  entered  mouth  and  eyes 
Often  enough.    ..." 

Things  went  a  little  more  smoothly  when 
the  sail  was  hoisted,  but  even  so  the  antics  of  so 
heavy  a  boat  were  not  unlike  those  of  an  anchored 
lightship,  which  had  previously  been  my  standard 
of  the  tortures  of  purgatory.  We  held  on  bravely, 
though,  and  it  was  not  until  I  had  been  shot  out 


248  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

of  the  basket  and  into  Cossart's  stomach  that  we 
agreed  as  to  the  possibility  of  overrating  the  charms 
of  tunny-fishing  in  mid-Atlantic.  A.  K.  M.,  we 
afterwards  discovered  on  comparing  notes,  must 
at  about  that  moment  have  been  sitting  down 
to  a  savoury  breakfast  of  fried  becuda,  specially 
prepared  for  him  by  the  solicitous  John.  This, 
be  it  explained,  was  not  the  polylinguist  of 
Funchal,  but  a  most  admirable  amateur  cook, 
employed,  when  not  conjuring  up  visions  of 
Delmonico's,  in  Mr.  Hinton's  sugar  works. 

We  were  now  nearing  the  fishing  fleet,  eight  or 
ten  boats  anchored  in  that  fearful  sea  and  behaving 
like  seesaws  at  a  country  fair.  When  within 
three  or  four  hundred  yards  of  the  nearest,  out  went 
our  anchor  like  wise ,  and  by  the  time  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  of  cable  had  been  paid  out,  we 
were  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  from  our 
neighbour  and  just  in  time  to  see  a  tunny  hauled  on 
board.  This  looked  like  business,  but  one  must 
not  j  udge  by  appearances .  Moreover,  I  had  doubted 
the  possibility  of  playing  a  heavy  fish  when 
anchored  in  comparatively  calm  water  off  Funchal 
or  Cama  de  Lobos,  but  there  could  be  no  doubt 
whatever  about  the  immediate  result  of  an  en- 
counter in  such  a  sea  as  this,  with  the  boat  rising 
and  falling  ten  or  fifteen  feet  as  each  roller  passed 
under  her  keel  and  raced  on  to  the  fleet.  Even 
the  local  handlines,  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  feet  in 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  249 

length,  and  almost  as  strong  as  the  anchor  rope, 
are  sometimes  broken  by  the  big  tunny,  and  when 
the  difference  is  allowed  for  between  such  a  line, 
with  coils  of  slack  to  meet  a  sudden  strain,  and  the 
fine  line  on  a  tarpon  ree],  with  no  such  provision 
possible,  it  is  not  hard  to  understand  our  disturbed 
frame  of  mind,  half  longing  for  the  excitement 
of  a  rush,  yet  certain  that  the  tackle  would  not 
stand  the  test. 

We  need  not  have  worried.  Several  of  the 
men  put  out  lines,  and  an  unfortunate  horse- 
mackerel  was  blinded  and  thrown  overboard, 
that  it  might  swim  aimlessly  around  the  boat 
and  attract  the  tunny.  This  piece  of  cruelty 
was  unfruitful,  and,  mercifully  perhaps,  the  tunny 
stayed  away.  After  we  had  been  buffetted  about 
for  a  couple  of  hours  and  seen  another  fish  hauled 
into  the  neighbouring  boat,  we  gave  it  best.  I 
am  not  as  a  rule  an  impatient  fisherman,  nor  am 
I  particularly  nervous  of  either  sickness  or  ship- 
wreck, but  it  must  be  admitted  that  I  never  heard 
the  "  Home,  James  !  "  with  more  fervent  thanks- 
giving than  on  that  occasion.  Even  before  the 
anchor  was  down,  we  had  recognised  the  futility 
of  fishing  under  such  "  Heads  you  win  ;  tails  I 
lose  "  conditions.  Still,  having  foil  owed  the  shoals 
for  forty  miles,  only  to  reach  them  in  the  full  blast 
of  the  north-east  trades,  it  seemed  hardly  playing 
the  game  not  to  make  that  one  attempt.  This 


250  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

is  not  intended  as  a  reflection  on  the  absent, 
breakfasting  member  of  the  party.  He  and  John 
had  other  fish  to  fry. 

With  this  recital  of  my  third,  and,  for  the  time 
being,  last,  attempt  to  catch  tunny,  it  seems 
desirable  to  offer  a  word  or  two  of  remark  on  the 
general  prospects  of  others  succeeding  where  we 
failed.  If  success  comes  out  of  failure,  then  failure 
is  not  all  regret.  This  is  the  kind  of  platitude  that 
one  might  preach  as  a  funeral  oration  over  a 
partridge  killed  by  contact  with  a  telegraph  wire, 
only  one  knows  to  a  moral  certainty  that  in  the 
next  gale  another  bird  will  in  all  probability 
fall  dead  on  the  same  spot  .  In  angling,  however, 
it  is  different,  or  at  any  rate  would  be  if  anglers 
were  as  circumstantial  over  their  failures  as  they 
are  over  their  successes,  if  they  would  tell  us  of 
the  black-edged,  as  well  as  of  the  red-letter,  days. 

That  tunny  of  the  largest  class  (Rabilhe)  will 
ever  be  caught  on  the  rod  of  Funchal,  as  tuna 
are  caught  off  Avalon,  is  at  present  uncertain. 
The  conditions  of  depth  alone  are  so  different,  and 
the  average  sea  so  rough  for  small  boats,  that  the 
chance  of  success  looks  remote.  There  are,  how- 
ever, two  smaller  kinds  of  tunny,  or  at  any  rate 
of  fishes  so  closely  allied  as  to  go  by  the  same 
generic  name.  These  are  known  in  the  vernacular 
as  Patudos  and  A  voador  ;  and  whereas  the  Rabilhe 
weigh  anything  up  to  400  Ibs.,  the  former  of  these 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  251 

range,  as  caught  for  market,  from  60  to  100  Ibs., 
and  the  latter  from  40  to  70  Ibs. ;  and  anyone 
persevering  with  these,  during,  say,  the  dull,  still 
June  weather,  should  be  rewarded  with  sport. 
Cossart  vowed  vengeance  on  some  of  these  smaller 
fish  in  the  near  future,  and  A.  K.  M.  left  him  his 
tarpon-reel  wherewith  to  wreak  it. 

The  chief  difficulty,  apart  from  weather,  which 
I  anticipate  in  connection  with  the  sport  at  Fun- 
chal,  will  lie  in  the  uncertain  movements  of  the 
shoals.  It  is  true  that  the  Union  Castle  boats  link 
Southampton  and  Madeira  so  closely  that  anyone 
in  readiness  could,  if  there  were  accommodation 
available,  receive  a  wire  in  town  on  Saturday 
morning  and  be  fishing  for  tunny  on  the  following 
Wednesday.  By  that  time,  however,  the  fish 
might  have  gone  to  Porto  Santo,  and  a  further 
journey  of  40  miles,  on]y  perhaps  to  be  sold  as  we 
were,  would  not  command  enthusiasm,  even 
though  it  might  deserve  it.  Nor  is  the  weather, 
at  any  rate  in  early  spring,  much  less  capricious 
than  the  tunny.  Always  beautiful  on  land,  save 
when  disappointed  tourists  ride  to  the  rocks  that 
overhang  what  should  be  the  Curral,  and  look  out 
on  rolling  seas  of  fog,  it  is  subject  to  sudden  gusts 
of  wind,  which,  while  merely  refreshing  to  the 
landsman,  soon  make  fishing  from  small  boats 
uncomfortable,  if  not  altogether  impossible. 

For  these  reasons  I  fancy  that  the  tunny  fishing 


252  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

will  have  to  be  counted  rather  as  an  asset  in  the 
resources  of  Funchal  for  amusing  its  residents,  or 
at  any  rate  such  visitors  as  spend  some  months 
in  the  island.  Sportsmen  would  in  such  circum- 
stances be  able  to  pick  and  choose  days  offering 
a  combination  of  fish  and  fine  weather.  Anyone 
going  out,  as  we  did,  for  the  inside  of  a  month 
might  not  enjoy  one  day  with  just  the  right  con- 
ditions On  the  other  hand,  one  day  of  tunny 
fishing  with  rods  might,  given  the  luck,  amply 
compensate  for  weeks  of  waiting.  Those  who 
doubt  the  supreme  thrill  of  playing  a  heavy  tuna 
(the  same  fish,  as  has  already  been  pointed  out) 
should  read  Mr.  Holder's  volume  (in  the  "  Ameri- 
can Sportsman's  Library  ")  on  Big  Game  Fishes, 
without  question  the  most  exciting  book  on 
angling  in  cold  print.  Writing  to  me  on  the  sub- 
ject, Mr.  Holder,  who,  may  be  regarded  as  the 
inventor  of  angling  for  tuna,  told  an  experience 
of  his,  in  which  a  tuna  towed  his  boat  for  fifteen 
hours,  covering  an  estimated  forty  miles,  and 
then  broke  away  !  He  regards  the  chain  used 
on  tarpon  hooks  as  unnecessary  for  tuna,  which 
does  not  hurl  itself  into  the  air,  like  the  giant  her- 
ring, when  hooked.  It  has  a  habit  of  keeping 
well  down  in  the  water,  he  says,  more  like  a  shark  ; 
and,  as  the  line  is  apt  to  get  frayed  across  the 
sharp  fins  on  its  back,  it  is  desirable  to  have  the 
piano-wire  "  leader  "  longer  than  the  fish  itself. 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  253 

I  followed  Mr.  Holder's  instructions  to  the  letter, 
and  all  the  native  fishermen  who  saw  my  tackle 
admitted  that,  being  so  fine,  it  would  certainly 
be  seized  before  their  coarser  lines,  but  that  it 
would  as  certainly  be  broken  in  the  first  rush 
of  the  frantic  fish.  As  the  boat  was  anchored  in 
such  deep  and  troubled  water,  I  was  disinclined 
to  criticise  their  unfavourable  forecast. 

In  addition  to  the  shore-fishing  already  des- 
cribed, there  were  two  other  kinds  of  sport  at 
Funchal,  which  served  to  pass  the  time  and  to 
console  us  for  the  tunny  that  failed. 

The  first  of  these  was  the  mackerel-fishing  just 
beneath  the  windows  of  the  Palace  Hotel,  or  on 
another  ground,  just  east  of  the  Pontina,  which 
we  did  not  try.  At  sunset  every  evening  a  fleet 
of  from  fifteen  to  fifty  small  open  boats  would 
assemble  on  an  area  of  not  much  more  then  ten 
acres,  so  that  a  neighbourly  spirit  was  necessary 
for  complete  harmony  to  reign.  Unfortunately, 
some  of  the  crews  were  from  Cama  de  Lobos, 
naughty  knaves  and  quite  unworthy  their  lovely 
home  with  its  crescent  beach  and  background  of 
mighty  cliffs.  These  ruffians  were  suspected  of 
keeping  aboard  their  boats  plentiful  ammunition 
of  stones,  with  which  to  pelt  anyone  fishing  too 
close  to  them.  That  they  gave  passers  by  a 
broadside  of  very  foul  language  there  was  no 
question  of  suspicion,  though  any  one  ignorant 


254  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

of  the  vernacular  might  merely  scent  reference 
to  a  famous  racehorse. 

An  hour  after  the  sun  was  gone,  when  darkness 
fell  so  swiftly  on  the  face  of  the  waters  as  to  remind 
us  how  near  we  were  to  Africa,  each  boat  kindled 
its  torch,  and  night  after  night  the  riva]  constel- 
lations marked  the  two  mackerel-grounds.  On 
more  than  one  evening  we  sacrificed  the  pleasures 
of  table  d'hote  and  took  an  abbreviated  dinner  at 
our  own  time  in  order  to  fish  with  the  fleet,  and 
within  ten  minutes  of  embarking  at  the  hotel 
steps  we  were  anchored  on  the  spot  Next  to  us 
was  a  boat  from  Cama  de  Lobos,  but  the  occupants 
on  this  occasion  were  peaceable.  Cama  is  the 
beauty  spot  on  that  south  coast,  and,  besides 
being  a  busy  fishing  centre,  it  is  in  the  chief  wine- 
growing district  on  the  is]and.  It  has,  moreover, 
the  advantage,  from  the  visitor's  pcint  of  view, 
of  lying  on  the  New  Road,  .practically  the  only 
one  in  all  Madeira  on  which  you  can  get  a  canter 
of  more  than  a  hundred  yards  without  a  more  than 
sporting  chance  of  breaking  your  neck.  The  road 
goes,  in  fact,  from  the  hotel  gate.  The  town  owes 
its  name  to  the  traditional  occurrence  of  seals 
among  its  rocks,  but  these  have  long  since  dis- 
appeared, and  none  occur  in  these  days  nearer 
than  the  islands  of  Deserta  and  Bugio,  away  on 
the  south-eastern  horizon. 

We  are  anchored  as  close  to  the  Cama  boat  as 


TUNNY   BOATS   AT   CAMA    DE    LOBOS 


256  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

policy  dictates,  and  now  comes  the  making  of  the 
groundbait.  This  is  a  mixture  of  tunny  and  sweet 
potato  (a  convolvulus),  and  it  must  be  chopped 
on  a  board  when  the  boat  is  anchored  over  the 
fishing  grounds  and  not  before.  The  noise  of 
this  chopping  reaches  us  over  the  water  from 
boats  all  around,  and  the  fishermen  have  the  firm- 
est belief  that  the  orchestra  of  choppers  has  the 
same  effect  on  the  mackerel  as  the  nasal  cry  of  the 
muezzin  on  true  believers.  John,  or  Manoel  (every 
fisherman  on  the  island  will  answer  to  either  name, 
or  to  both,  for  a  few  reis)  is  busy  pounding  up  the 
bait,  while  Manoel,  or  John,  gets  ready  the  cane 
rods  and  reluctantly  obeys  orders,  and  removes 
from  two  of  them  the  blunt  native  hooks,  for 
which  we  propose  substituting  a  couple  of 
stripped  sea-trout  flies  from  A.  K.  M.'s  bulging 
fly-book. 

The  sea  is  beautifully  smooth,  and  the  tide, 
diminishing  every  moment,  runs  to  the  eastward. 
Surely,  the  use  of  tunny  as  bait  for  mackerel  is 
setting  a  whale  to  catch  a  sprat  !  A  little  of  the 
groundbait  is  flung  over  the  side,  and  on  each  hook 
is  impaled  a  little  cube  of  tunny,  after  which  the 
tackle  is  lowered  in  the  water,  rod  and  all  going 
under.  Local  practice  decrees  that  the  rod  shall 
be  held  point  downwards  below  the  surface,  and 
this,  with  some  doubts,  we  do.  Presently,  there 
is  a  tweak  at  my  bait.  I  strike,  and  not  being 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  257 

accustomed  to  fish  with  a  submerged  rod,  miss 
the  fish  and  have  to  bait  the  hook  again.  A.  K.  M. 
does  the  same,  and  after  we  have  missed  the  next 
half  dozen,  we  anathematize  the  local  method  and 
fish,  as  we  should  at  home,  with  the  rod  out  of 
water.  This  makes  a  difference,  for,  instead  of 
getting  bites  and  missing  the  fish,  we  get  no  bites 
at  all,  for  the  baits  are  too  high  in  the  water  unless 
the  rod  is  kept  well  down.  One  of  the  men  makes 
us  understand  by  signs  that  by  and  by,  when  the 
torches  burn,  they  will  feed  close  to  the  top,  but 
that  until  then  we  must  fish  as  deep  as  possible. 
Down  go  the  rods  again,  and  this  time,  having 
served  our  apprenticeship  of  failure,  we  simul- 
taneously hook  fish,  horse-mackerel  both  of  them, 
which  play  well  on  the  tight  line  and  pliant  cane, 
until  at  last  we  lift  them  into  the  boat.  The  horse- 
mackerel,  or  scad,  is  always  the  more  plentiful  of 
the  two,  though  a  two-pound  mackerel  gives  such 
excellent  sport  on  A.  K.  M.'s  rod  that  we  resolve 
to  meet  again  on  the  Cornish  coast,  where  alone 
in  the  south  of  England  the  water  approaches  to 
the  clearness  of  the  open  Atlantic,  in  a  couple  of 
months'  time  and  try  the  same  tactics  over  there. 
And  so  in  part  it  came  about.  We  did  meet  there, 
but  too  early  in  the  season  for  the  big  mackerel. 

All  those  other  boats  are  fishing  in  dead  earnest, 
either  for  tunny  bait  or  for  the  morrow's  market. 
We  alone  are  there  for  the  fun  of  the  thing  ;  not 

18— (2272) 


258 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


another  man  in  all  the  fleet  would  call  night- 
fishing  fun  unless  he  had  recently  had  sunstroke. 
And  so  we  leave  them.  There  is  a  pathetic  side 
to  fishing  side  by  side  with  those  to  whom  it  means 


THE    END    OF    THE    MUR.EXA 

bread.  When  you  are  tired  of  either  failure  or 
success  (for  the  one  can  be  almost  as  wearisome 
as  the  other),  you  go  back  to  port.  Those  others, 
the  brave  and  underpaid,  stay  on  and  wring  their 
meagre  harvest  from  the  hostile  sea. 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  259 

The  other  fish,  with  the  capture  of  which,  by 
much  less  sporting  but  not  less  amusing  methods, 
we  passed  some  of  the  pleasant  hours,  was  the 
muraena,  a  first  cousin  of  the  conger  eel,  but 
fiercer  in  manner  and  appearance.  The  conger, 
whose  bite  is  said  to  have  left  its  mark  on  the  hind 
leg  of  the  gentle  Diplodocus,  is  bad  enough  in  all 
conscience,  but  compared  with  the  muraena  it  is 
as  a  silkworm  to  a  rattlesnake.  It  is  singular  that 
the  waters  contiguous  to  Madeira  should  have 
produced  two  such  aesthetic  extremes  as  the 
muraena  and  opah,  though  there  is  just  one  fish 
worse  even  than  the  eel,  and  that  is  the  Spada, 
one  of  the  scabbard-fishes.  As  this  nightmare 
of  the  deep  sea  is  delicious  eating,  Nature  no  doubt 
has  bestowed  its  ugliness  as  a  protection.  She 
adopts  a  similar  plan  with  some  of  those  vestals 
who,  vowed  to  literature,  devote  their  lives  to  a 
great  work  of  extraction  in  the  dim  shades  of  our 
public  libraries.  Otherwise,  outward  beauty  and 
delicate  flavour  are  often  found  united.  The 
strawberry,  the  peach,  the  red  mullet  and  the 
golden  plover  look  the  royal  dishes  they  are.  The 
spada,  on  the  other  hand,  unquestionably  the  best 
table-fish  in  Funchal,  looks  as  if  its  father  had 
been  the  sea-serpent  and  its  mother  a  griffin.  It 
baffles  description  in  the  colourless  phrase  of 
modern  scientific  writing  and  demands  rather 
the  poetic  flights  of  the  older  observers,  whose 


260  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

warm  imagination  was  an  agreeable  substitute 
for  unromantic  accuracy.  "  Some  fishermen/' 
wrote  such  an  observer  in  the  Sporting  Magazine 
for  May,  1820,  "  lately  trawling  in  Emsworth 
"  Harbour,  caught  a  fish  called  the  '  lioness.' 
'  The  resemblance  it  bears  to  that  animal  is  in 
"  its  claws  and  the  roar  of  its  voice.  With  a 
' '  mouth  full  of  teeth,  its  tongue  is  like  a  Newfound- 
"  land  dog's  ;  the  tail  spreads  like  a  fan,  and  when 
"  expanded  is  ten  inches  wide." 

The  foregoing  is  a  fairly  reasonable  impressionist 
picture  of  a  seal,  but  to  class  it  as  anything  but 
a  fish  would  rob  it  of  all  interest. 

I  wish  that  this  gifted  writer  might  have  en- 
countered a  spada  in  the  half-light.  Its  tender 
face  would  have  tested  the  resources  of  even  his 
vocabulary. 

But  I  leave  my  muraena.  Unlike  the  spada, 
which  has  to  be  caught  on  long  handlines  in  deep 
water,  he  lurks  among  the  rocks  near  low-water 
mark  ;  nor  would  I,  having  seen  him  exorcised, 
wade  among  those  foam-flecked  pools  in  the 
twilight  for  a  boatload  of  new-minted  dollars,  for 
the  creature  has  its  share  of  sharp  teeth  and  is 
imbued  with  a  determined  ferocity  in  attacking 
its  food,  before  which  even  Sandow  himself  might 
quail  barefooted. 

So  repulsive  a  child  of  the  waters  might  well  be 
eft  undisturbed,  were  it  not  that  its  capture  is 


SPADA    FOR   THE    MARKET 


262  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

rather  novel  and  amusing.  As  with  the  mackerel, 
the  charm  of  sound  is  employed  as  an  attraction, 
and  a  rude  equivalent  of  music  is  made  to  soothe 
the  savage  beast.  The  native  fisherman,  in  fact, 
sings  and  whistles  to  his  "  Moreia  "tor  some  minutes 
before  effecting  a  capture  ;  and  the  burden  of  the 
chant,  which  is  in  three  verses  and  sung  in  that 
wailing  voice  equally  familiar  on  both  sides  of 
the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  is  roughly  as  follows  : 

Moreia  do  Rolo 
Vem  a  terra 
Comer   polvo 

Moreia    pintada 
Vem   a   terra 
Regalada 

Moreias    todos   trez 
Cader  qual 
per   sua   vez 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  meaning  of  these 
verses,  it  must  be  explained  that  there  are  two 
species  of  muraena  on  that  coast,  the  one  of  a 
uniform  grey,  the  other  (the  pintado)  of  a  lighter 
yellow  with  black  markings.  The  first  of  these 
is  generally  invited  to  come  on  shore  and  bite  the 
dust ;  the  second  is  bidden  to  come  and  enjoy  itself. 
The  third  verse  refers  to  a  very  curious  fact.  It 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC. 


263 


says  in  intent  "  Let  all  three  mursenas  fall,  each 
in  his  own  way  ;  "  and  it  is  a  well  known  fact,  of 


SLIPPERY     FOOTHOLD 


which  I  am  quite  unable  to  offer  any  original,  or 
borrowed,  explanation,  that,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
every  ten,  three  of  these  fishes  are  caught  in  com- 
pany. I  regret  not  having  made  any  observations 


264  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

on  the  proportion  of  the  sexes  in  this  singular 
partnership,  otherwise  polygamy  might  have  ex- 
plained the  uneven  number,  but  it  is  a  mystery 
worth  clearing  up  by  someone  with  better 
opportunities. 

The  invocation  usually  ends  with  a  final 

Quo,  moreia,  quo  ! 

and  then  comes  soft  whistling  between  the  closed 
teeth.  While  the  music  is  working  its  subtle 
spell,  the  man  dips  in  the  water  a  slab  of  tunny, 
so  putrid  on  occasion  that  it  ought  to  attract 
muraenas  even  from  the  Canary  Islands.  Again 
and  again  he  dips  this  alluring  food  in  the  water, 
squeezes  it  in  both  hands,  so  that  fragments  drop 
back  into  the  pool  and  are  carried  by  the  force 
of  each  wave  into  every  cranny  where  an  epicure 
may  lurk.  This  gloomy  performance,  always  ac- 
companied by  the  chanting,  may  be  protracted 
until  more  tunny  is  required,  or  it  may  meet 
with  immediate  and  well  deserved  success.  Sud- 
denly the  man's  attitude  is  rigid.  He  has  seen  the 
sinuous  form  of  a  muraena  glide  into  view  from 
beneath  a  rock.  Still  singing  and  whistling,  a 
performance  which  he  continues  almost  uncon- 
sciously, he  quietly  lays  down  what  remains  of 
the  bait  and,  making  as  little  fuss  as  possible, 
reaches  for  one  of  three  implements,  with  which 
to  secure  the  eel.  This  may  be  done  with  a  baited 


A  FORLORN  QUEST,  ETC.  265 

hook  on  a  yard  of  gimp  attached  to  piece  of  wood. 
This  is  presented  to  the  mursena,  which  strikes 
at  it  again  and  again  in  a  kind  of  blind  frenzy, 
evidently  guided  by  the  scent  (which  is  not  sur- 
prising), as  it  will  even  strike  it  out  of  water,  where 
in  all  probability  it  is  quite  unable  to  see.  Another 
plan  is  to  use  a  pair  of  serrated  tongs,  with  which 
it  is  bodily  gripped.  Cossart  kindly  gave  me  a 
pair  of  these,  and  a  London  maker,  who  saw  them, 
has  since  asked  permission  to  copy  them  for 
use  in  conger-fishing.  The  third,  and  in  some 
respects  the  least  unsporting,  way  of  catching  a 
mursena,  since  it  involves  a  good  deal  of  skill, 
is  to  secure  it  in  a  running  noose  worked  in  a  hollow 
cane.  The  novice  invariably  allows  too  much 
or  too  little  for  refraction  when  attempting  to 
use  one  under  water,  but  the  muraena,  under  the 
combined  charm  of  the  stale  fish  and  cracked 
voice,  is  so  emboldened  that  it  generally  waits 
around  until  it  is  caught  by  accident  or  design. 

The  natives  hold  it  in  wholesome  dread,  and 
whenever  they  catch  one,  it  is  beaten  to  pulp  on 
the  rocks,  so  as  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure. 
Nor  am  I  prepared  to  regard  the  precaution  as 
superfluous  after  having  seen  one,  that  had  been 
left  for  dead,  turn  with  such  suddenness  on  a 
barelegged  man  as  to  make  him  overbalance  and 
fall  on  his  back. 

Such  is  the  gentle  creature,  which  the  ancient 


266  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

Romans,  in  what  are  appropriately  styled  the 
"  good  old  days/'  fed  on  spare  slaves.  In  Leg- 
horn we  used  to  spear  it  at  night,  that  is  to  say 
when  we  could  remember  to  miss  our  own  feet, 
which  generally  had  first  call.  It  cannot  be 
claimed  that  any  of  these  methods  come,  strictly 
speaking,  under  the  head  of  "  sport,"  yet  so  stub- 
born a  creature  would  not  be  manageable  on 
ordinary  gear. 


I  have  not,  if  the  Fates  are  kind,  baited  my  last 
hook  in  the  waters  of  Madeira.  First  tried  in  the 
spring  of  the  year,  that  is  not  a  climate  to  taste 
but  once.  The  beautiful  bay,  the  delicious  bathes, 
the  mackerel  fishing  within  ten  minutes  of  your 
bedroom,  the  pleasant  canters  in  the  cool  of  the 
afternoon  to  Cama  de  Lobos,  the  slower  and  more 
ambitious  ascent  of  mountain  sides  to  get  amazing 
views,  the  cooling  return  by  sledge  to  sea  level- 
memories  like  these,  to  say  nothing  of  a  hospi- 
tality that  those  only  can  appreciate  who  trave], 
invite  return.  Then  there  are  the  tunny.  They 
have  yet  to  be  reckoned  with.  So  far,  it  is  they 
that  have  done  the  reckoning,  but  the  account  is 
not  yet  closed.  That  the  smaller  kinds  at  any 
rate  are  occasionally  caught  napping  is  proved 
by  a  yarn  which  I  had  from  a  veteran  sea  captain, 
who  was  on  one  occasion  bound  from  Gibraltar 


268  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

to  New  York  in  a  Nova  Scotia  barque,  the  Scot- 
tish Bride.  She  was  not  copper-bottomed,  and 
as,  during  her  last  three  years  in  the  Mediterranean 
she  had  not  once  been  cleaned,  she  was  very  foul 
with  barnacles.  She  got  becalmed  off  Madeira 
on  a  sixty-fathom  bank,  and  the  fish  rose  in 
hundreds  after  the  barnacles,  were  caught  in  great 
number  by  the  crew,  and  followed  the  vessel 
almost  as  far  as  the  American  coast. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  this  unsophisticated 
behaviour  is  what  I  should  have  expected  of  tunny 
after  my  experiences  off  Madeira  and  Porto  Santo, 
but  education  may  have  done  something  for  them, 
as  it  has  for  most  fish  in  both  fresh  and  salt,  during 
the  last  few  years.  It  may  be  also  that  on  some 
future  occasion  I  shall  catch  them  in  more  friendly 
mood.  If  not  I,  someone  else.  It  matters  very 
little,  so  long  as  the  thing  is  done. 


HMC  OLIM   MEMINISSE   JUVABIT 


IX 

OLIM  MEMINISSE  JUVABIT 

THE  Margate  mullet  and  Madeira  tunny,  the 
mullet  that  were,  the  tunny  that  were  not,  have 
swum  to  the  very  shore  of  retrospect,  for  the  sum- 
mer that  is  gone  completes  the  quarter  of  a  century. 
Between  those  Lowestoft  quays  in  1880  and  the 
Kentish  pier  in  1905  memory  has  ranged  over 
strange  phantasy  of  hot  seas  and  cold,  and  heaving 
ocean  and  peaceful  estuary  ;  days  and  nights  on 
piers,  bridges,  beaches,  lighthouses  ;  summer  sols- 
tice north  of  the  Equator ;  and  south  of  it,  winter 
months,  that  should  be  summer  to  anyone  so 
accustomed.  Of  fishing-craft  reminiscence  em- 
braces such  a  medley  as  links  the  Berthon,  which 
we  carried  shoulder-high  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
the  ten-thousand-ton  liner  flying  the  burgee  of 
the  Union-Castle  company.  These  and  other 
pictures  shape  themselves  at  bidding,  some  sharp 
in  outline,  others  blurred  and  defiant  of  closer 
inspection.  As  the  old  scenes  are  revisited,  the 
old  battles  fought  again,  half  a  dozen  languages,, 
with  as  many  more  dialects,  echo  in  the  ear.  Now 
and  then  the  mind's  eye  spells  out  some  weird, 
uncouth  word  like  Koder,  Machiowler,  Chut,  and. 

271 


272  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

automatically  each  conjures  up  its  appropriate 
human  figure,  the  scarred  German  student,  the 
weather-beaten  Cornishman,  the  gaunt  Asiatic, 
transplanted  to  another  soil,  who  worships  in 
the  Mosque.  Scarcely  a  bait,  but  recalls  a  sea- 
scape in  keeping  ;  the  sunlit  Devon  estuary  for 
the  sand-eel,  the  chalky  line  of  Kent  for  the  rock- 
worm  and  for  paste,  the  uncovered  Cornish 
harbour  for  the  pilchard,  the  last  a  memory 
rather  for  the  nose. 

A  pleasant  task  is  done.  The  persistent  per- 
sonal note,  which  may,  I  fear,  have  embroiled 
me  with  reviewers  hitherto  more  than  kind,  was 
explained  at  the  threshold.  A  respected  friend, 
to  whom  some  earlier  portions  of  the  book  were 
submitted,  took  exception  to  the  title.  He  was 
indignant,  in  short,  that  the  salt  of  a  man's  life 
should  be  associated  with  "  so  silly  an  ideal  as 
"fish-killing,  which  puts  you  on  a  level  with  otters 
"  and  porpoises,  or  rather  below  them,  since  they 
"  kill  more  fish  in  a  week  than  you  in  a  year.  .  .  . 
"  as  an  occasional  diversion  for  idle  hours,  perhaps, 
"  but  as  the  salt  of  life.  .  .  .  !  " 

Yet  retrospect  is  not  sweetened  only  by  mem- 
ories of  the  slain,  nor  is  the  salt  of  life  necessarily 
synonymous  with  its  ideals.  The  failures  survive 
with  the  successes  ;  to  each  the  due  niche.  The 
quaint  restfulness  of  Poole  is  not  spoilt  for  me 
because  I  caught  no  bass  from  its  bridge.  For 


ILEC  OLIM  MEMINISSE  JUVABIT    273 

all  its  lack  of  fish,  the  picturesque  stagnation  of 
Maldon  has  left  a  pleasant  memory.  I  never 
caught  a  mullet  in  the  Arun,  or  a  tunny  anywhere, 
yet  that  comely  Sussex  river,  flowing  through  lush 
meadows,  from  castle  to  pier,  is  as  glad  a  retro- 
spect as  the  Atlantic  islands  where  in  vain  I  sought 
the  mightiest  game  in  the  angler's  visiting  list. 

It  may  be  that  the  story  of  the  manner  in  which 
a  man  has  employed  his  leisure  reads  the  riddle 
of  his  failure  in  the  sterner  purposes  of  life.  In- 
deed, the  measure  of  that  leisure  may  furnish  the 
explanation.  Yet  he  will  not  hug  its  memory 
the  less.  If  from  time  to  time  he  looks  with  envy 
at  the  winners  in  life's  race,  who  were  his  equals, 
almost  perhaps  his  inferiors,  in  the  days  of  school, 
consolation  comes  with  the  conviction  that  he 
has  had,  if  a  less  profitable,  at  any  rate  a  more 
enjoyable  time  of  it  here  below.  Reflection  may 
also  bring  the  blessed  revelation  that  failure  and 
success  are  but  relative,  that  yesterday's  dis- 
appointment is  the  solace  of  to-morrow,  that 
there  are  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out 
of  it. 

Only  a  few  weeks  ago  I  saw  the  chequered  buoy 
which  revolves  in  conflicting  currents  a  little  way 
outside  the  entrance  to  Ramsgate  Harbour,  saw 
its  black-and-white  shell  with  a  friendly  eye. 
Yet  for  many  years  I  could  not  look  upon  it 
without  resentment,  for  the  suspicion  rankled 

19— (2272) 


274 


THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 


that  a  week  of  May  squandered  in  its  company 
in  1889  might,  spent  in  the  smell  of  oil,  have  given 
another  result  in  June.  And  then  came  the  assur- 
ance of  that  blessed  Anglo-Indian  that  the  goal 


NEARING    THE    END 


of  my  ambitions  sixteen  years  ago  would  ere  now 
have  been  my  tomb — and  the  buoy  is  forgiven. 
There  is  a  gentle  river  in  the  soft  West  country, 
more  than  once  referred  to  in  these  pages,  whereon 
one  evening  I  sat  idly  angling,  when  a  messenger 


OLIM  MEMINISSE  JUVABIT    275 

ran  along  the  quay  waving  the  pink  slip  that 
told  me  of  an  action  lost  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
Had  the  intelligence  found  me  on  shore,  I  should 
doubtless  have  gone  to  the  telegraph  office  and 
wired  condolences  to  the  public-spirited  Society 
which  had  fought  on  purely  technical  grounds 
an  action,  with  which  my  personal  connection  was 
little  more  than  nominal.  This  remarkable  re- 
version of  two  findings  in  the  Court  below  would, 
I  knew,  inevitably  entail  on  the  Society  in  question 
a  heavy  loss,  which  I  felt  far  more  than  the  mere 
personal  annoyance  of  so  unlocked  for  a  result.  I 
might,  but  for  the  blessed  disability  of  being  in  a 
boat,  have  written  off  the  reel  some  absurd  letter  to 
the  Times,  which  that  journal  would  not  have 
published.  What  ?  The  tide  was  flowing  ;  the 
bass  were  on  the  feed.  To  perdition  with  copy- 
right and  all  the  far  off  turmoil  of  the  great  world  ! 
To  limbo  with  the  lawyers  ;  to  purgatory  with 
the  publishers  !  On  went  a  fresh  bait,  and  next 
moment  I  was  absorbed  in  a  struggle  so  vigorous 
as  to  banish  all  thought  of  my  lost  suit.  I  even 
forgot  to  cry  "  Down  with  the  House  of  Lords  !  ' 
By  the  time  two  more  bass  had  been  added  to 
the  five  already  in  the  boat,  the  tide  was  at  the 
full,  and  I  stepped  ashore  in  a  chastened  mood, 
which  realised  that,  whether  justice  had  been  done 
or  not,  the  heavens  were  not  falling. 

Some  there  are  who  regard  angling  and  kindred 


276  THE  SALT  OF  MY  LIFE 

pursuits  as  proper  rather  to  the  period  of  extreme 
youth,  when  the  broader  purposes  of  life  have  not 
been  seriously  engaged  in.  This  is  a  fallacy,  for 
one  of  its  strongest  claims  on  the  devotee  is  its 
potence  as  an  elixir  of  youth.  The  keen  angler 
is  always  young,  and  even  when  rheumatism  and 
other  legacies  of  the  years  that  lie  behind  debar 
him  from  kneeling  in  wet  grass  to  stalk  his  trout, 
or  from  staying  on  the  water .  on  any  but  the 
warmest  days,  the  memories  of  more  robust  sport 
bring  with  them  a  measure  of  consolation. 

The  angler  has  indeed  an  advantage  over  the 
devotees  of  most  other  sports  and.  games.  The 
shooting  man  is  compelled  by  the  march  of  years 
to  confine  himself  to  the  grouse  butts  or  coverts, 
for  the  exercise  of  rough  shooting  and  walking 
generally  is  too  much  for  all  but  the  hardiest 
when  life  is  over  the  brink  of  the  hill.  The  cricketer 
the  footballer,  the  polo  player  are,  in  the  process 
of  years,  reduced  to  the  position  of  lookers  on. 
Golf,  it  is  true,  affords  gentle  exercise  for  even  an 
octogenarian ;  and  the  man  who  can  take  croquet 
seriously  in  his  youth  could  probably  do  as  much 
on  his  hundredth  birthday. 

It  is  borne  home  to  some  of  us,  who,  from  force 
of  circumstances  or  by  inclination,  work  hard  in 
other  directions,  that  the  old  interest  in  our  fish- 
ing sometimes  palls  ;  and  we  realise  with  regret 
that  our  loyalty,  which  no  failure  would  have 


ILEC  OLIM  MEMINISSE  JUVABIT    277 

undermined  twenty  years  ago,  needs  feeding  with 
continual  success. 

The  pity  of  it  ! 

It  is  well  for  the  fisherman  whose  sport  still 
holds  first  place  in  his  affections  when  time,  or 
his  own  temper,  has  robbed  him  of  his  friends. 

For  me,  when  the  salt  shall  have  lost  its  savour, 
let  them  ring  down  the  curtain. 

The  play  will  be  ended.