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1. The only sure remedy is to go a-fishing, as this is rest, recreation and exercise all in one.
2. It is a recreation to dress flies when one cannot fish, most interesting to follow the colours of the insects on the water, and often profitable to copy a local pattern that is favored by the trout.
3. Too great pains cannot be taken with body and legs, and you will note that the best fancy flies are usually harmonious in coloration. In Nature this appears to be always true. The natural flies are dressed to perfection by their Maker, in the most delicate and perfect colours:  All are in harmony with no glaring or unpleasant contrast.

Theodore Gordon

"There is certainly something in angling that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit and a pure sincerity of mind."
Washington Irving

"Let it be seen that a love of the gentle art openith first the heart then the fly-book and soon the stores and experience of knowledge garnered up through long years, wheresoever we meet a "brother of the angle" ; and that to us angling is an employment of our idle time, which is not then idly spent; that therein we find "a rest to the mind, a cheerer of the spirits, a diverter of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a moderator of the passions, a procurer of contentedness, and that it begets habits of peace and patience in those that possess and practice it."
Thaddeus Norris From - Fishing with the Fly

"It has been said that the angler, like the poet, is born, not made.  This is a self-evident fact.  Few men have risen to the dignity of anglers who did not in early youth feel the unconquerable impulse to go a fishing.  There are, of course, noteworthy exceptions, but the rule holds good.  It might be added, too, that the genuine angler is almost invariably a poet, although he may not be a jingler of ryhmes- a ballad monger.  Though, perhaps, lacking the art of vessification, his whole life is in itself, a well-rounded poem, and he never misses the opportunity to "cast his line in pleasant places."
F. E. Pond "Fishing with the Fly"

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the worlds more full of weeping
than you can understand.
excerpt from " The Stolen Child"
W.B. Yeats
from The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats

“There is a great deal of superfluous tackle pictured and described in English books on angling. There is the clearing ring, the angler’s friend, baiting-needle, disgorger, paternoster, kill-devil, a plummet to get the depth of water, etc, etc, which would better grace the window of a tackle shop, or a museum of useless tackle, than an angler’s wallet. It is amusing and even wonderful, what an amount of such stuff an ardent, green angler, with a flush pocket, can collect. As he grows older in the art, of course he throws it away, or imposes it as a present on some one no less verdant than he was himself a few summers before, exclaiming with that ancient philosopher: “Lord, how many things there are in this world of which Diogenes hath no need!”

-- Thaddeus Norris

John Donne

The Bait

Come live with mee, and bee my love,
And wee will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and christall brookes:
With silken lines, and silver hookes.

There will the river whispering runne
Warm'd by thy eyes, more then the Sunne.
And there the'inamor'd fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swimme in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channell hath,
Will amorously to thee swimme,
Gladder to catch thee, then thou him.

If thou, to be so seene, beest loath,
By Sunne, or Moone, thou darknest both,
And if my selfe have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legges, which shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poore fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowie net:

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleavesicke flies
Bewitch poore fishes wandring eyes.

For thee, thou needst no such deceit,
For thou thy selfe art thine owne bait,
That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
Alas, is wiser farre then I.

People that have not been inoculated with the true spirit may wonder at the infatuation of anglers – but true anglers leave them very contentedly to their wondering, and follow their diversions with a keen delight. Many old men there are of this class that have in them a world of science – not science of the book, or of regular tuition, but the science of actual experience.  Science that lives, and will die with them; except it be dropped out piecemeal, and with the gravity becoming its importance, to some young neophyte who has won their good graces by his devotion to their beloved craft. All the mysteries of times and seasons, of baits, flies of every shape and hue; worms, gentles, beetles, compositions, or substances found by proof to possess singular charms.  These are a possession which they hold with pride, and do not hold in vain.  After a close day in the shop or factory, what a luxury is a fine summer evening to one of these men, following some rapid stream, or seated on a green bank, deep in grass and flowers, pulling out the spotted Trout, or resolutely but subtilely bringing some huge Pike or fair Grayling from its lurking place beneath the broad stump and spreading boughs of the alder.  Or a day, a summer’s day, to such a man, by the Dove or the Wye, amid the pleasant Derbyshire hills; by Yorkshire or Northumbrian stream; by Trent or Tweed; or the banks of Yarrow; by Teith or Leven, with the glorious hills and heaths of Scotland around him.  Why, such a day to such a man, has in it a life and spirit of enjoyment to which the feelings of cities and palaces are dim.  The heart of such a man – the power and passion of deep felicity that come breathing from mountains and moorlands; from clouds that sail above, and storms blustering and growling in the wind; from all the mighty magnificence, the solitude and antiquity of Nature upon him – Ebenezer Elliott only can unfold.  The weight of the poor man’s life – the cares of poverty – the striving of huge cities, visit him as he sits by the beautiful stream – beautiful as a dream of eternity, and translucent as the everlasting canopy of heaven above him; -- they come, but he casts them off for the time, with the power of one who feels himself strong in the kindred spirit of all things around; strong in the knowledge that he is a man; an immortal – a child and pupil in the world-school of the Almighty.  For that day he is more than a king – he has the heart of humanity, and faith and spirit of a saint.  It is not the rod and line that floats before him – it is not the flowing water, or the captured prey that he perceives in those moments of admission to the heart of nature, so much as the law of the testimony of love and goodness written on everything around him with the pencil of Divine beauty.  He is not longer the wearied and oppressed – the trodden and despised – walking in threadbare garments amid men, who scarcely deign to look upon him as a brother man – but he is reassured and recognised to himself in his own soul, as one of those puzzling, aspiring, and mysterious existences for whom all this splendid world was built, and for whom eternity opens its expecting gates.

-- Thaddeus Norris

"But if the salmon and trout must be classified as elite in this mythical social structure then let the black bass be given permanent status as the working class of American gamefish.  He's tough and he knows it. . .  . .He's a bass sax grumbling, get-down blues in the bayou.  He's a factory worker, truck driver, wild catter, lumberjack, barroom bouncer, dock walloper, migrant farmhand, and bear wrassler.  And if it's a fight you're looking for, he'll oblige anytime, anywhere.  Whether it's a backwater at noon, a swamp at midnight, or dockside at dawn, he'll be there waiting.  He's a fierce-eyed, foul-mouthed, tobacco chewing redneck who has traveled to every corner of the nation, paying his way and giving no quarter."
Pat Smith, "Old Iron Jaw", Lamar Underwood's Bass Almanac (1979)

"The music of angling is more compelling to me than anything contrived in the greatest symphony hall."
A. J. McClane, "Song of the Angler (1875-1940)

"I stoop as low as needed when searching for "classic" bamboo fly rods.  I've been to the "fleaest" flea markets, the most run-down junk stores, the dirtiest re-sale shops, the swarthiest pawn shops, etc.- all places my wife wouldn't dare set foot in."
JIMMY D. MOORE, "Down & Dirty Bamboo" (2004)

When if or chance or hunger's powerful sway
  Directs the roving trout this fatal way,
    He greedily sucks in the twining bait,
      And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat.
        Now, happy fisherman; now twitch the line!
          How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!
      -John Gay Rural Sports (canto I, l. 150)

The cheapness of the recreation abates not its pleasure, but with rational persons heightens it; and if it be delightful the charge of melancholy falls upon that score, and if example, which is the best proof, may sway any thing, I know no sort of men less subject to melancholy than anglers; many have cast off other recreations and embraced it. but I never knew any angler wholly cast off. though occassions might interrupt, their affections to their beloved recreation; and if this art may prove a Noble brave rest to thy mind, it will be satisfaction to his, who is thy well-wishing Friend.

Colonel Robert Venables in The Experienced Angler

The minds of anglers being usually more calm and composed than many others, especially hunters and falconers, who too frequently lose their delight in their passion, and too often bring home more of melancholy and discontent than satisfaction in their thoughts; but the angler, when he hath the worst success, loseth but a hook or line, or, perhaps, what he never possessed, a fish; and suppose he should take nothing, yet he enjoyeth a delightful walk by pleasant rivers in sweet pastures, amongst odoriferous flowers, which gratify his senses and delight his mind; which contentments induce many, who affect not angling, to choose those places of pleasure for their Summer's recreation and health.

Colonel Robert Venables in The Experienced Angler

Bumper stickers

"I fish, therefore I lie."

"Fishing is not a matter of life or death. It's more important than that."

"My rod and reel, they comfort me."

Fishing may be termed a disease with some men, but it is not necessarily catching.
Tony Spezio

I imagine that no art has ever been learned from books. Fly fishing is no exception.
G. E. M. Skues

I don't lie about the size of the fish I catch, I just remember them bigger.
Alan Di Soma

For the man who has everything, trout fishing is the greatest gift.
Jody Moore

Behold the fisherman.
He riseth up early in the morning
And disturbeth the whole household.
Mighty are his preparations.
He goes forth full of hope,
Returning when the day is far spent
Smelling of strong drink and the
Truth is not in him.
Kevin Anderson from a plaque from his Grandfather

Through fishing and hunting, we are confronted with the fact that we are part of the web of life and the natural world, NOT apart from the natural order of things, as our daily lives may often suggest.
Ed Engleman

"The two best times to fish is when it's rainin' and when it ain't."

-- Patrick McManus

"Men and fish are alike. They both get into trouble when they open their mouths."

-- Jimmy D. Moore

The Fishing was good, it was the Catching that was bad.
A.K. Best

If fishing is interfering with your business, give up your business.

- Sparse Grey Hackle (Alfred W. Miller).

Angling is an art. At the lower extreme, true, it is a most prosaic affair, what with all the mechanized devices concocted in the name of fishing tackle, the use of the ancient offal of fowl and other such appetizing tidbits. But, rising from this, it attains great heights as practice, observation, and skill are blended with the enchantment, appreciation, and beauty of all nature to create an inner peace that, in the final analysis, is the true angler’s great adventure.

Izaak Walton, in his classic of angling literature, The Compleat Angler, likened the art of angling to “the knowledge of Mathematics, Musik, and the rest of those precious arts, which by God’s appointment or allowances were preserved from perishing in Noah’s flood.”

The Contemplative Angler by Roy Wall

ST. ANTHONY TO THE FISHES

Although the infinite power and providence of God (my dearly beloved Fish) discovers itself in all the works of his creation, as in the heavens, in the sun, in the moon, and in the stars, in this lower world, in man, and in other perfect creatures; nevertheless the goodness of the Divine Majesty shines out in you more eminently, and appears after a more particular manner, than in any other created beings. For notwithstanding you are comprehended under the name of reptiles, partaking of a middle nature between stones and beasts, and imprisoned in the deep abyss of waters, notwithstanding you are tost among billows, thrown up and down by tempests, deaf to hearing, dumb to speech, and terrible to behold: notwithstanding, I say, these natural disadvantages, the Divine Greatness shows itself in you after a very wonderful manner. In you are seen the mighty mysteries of an infinite goodness. The holy scripture has always made use of you, as the types and shadows of some profound sacrament.

Do you think that, without a mystery, the first present that God Almighty made to man, was of you, O ye fishes? Do you think that without a mystery, among all creatures and animals which were appointed for sacrifices, you only were excepted, O ye fishes? Do you think there was nothing meant by our Saviour Christ, that next to the paschal lamb he took so much pleasure in the food of you, O ye Fishes? Do you think it was by mere chance, that when the Redeemer of the World was to pay a tribute to Caesar, he thought fit to find it in the mount of a fish? These are all of them so many mysteries and sacraments, that oblige you in a more particular manner to the praises of your Creator.

It is from God, my beloved Fish, that you have received being, life, motion, and sense. It is he that has given you, in compliance with your natural inclinations, the whole world of waters for your habitation. It is he that has furnished it with lodgings, chambers, caverns, grottoes, and such magnificent retirements as are not to be met with in the seats of kings, or in the palaces of princes. You have the water for your dwelling, a clear transparent element, brighten than crystal; you can see from its deepest bottom everything that passes on its surface; you have the eyes of a lynx, or of an argus; you are guided by a secret and unerring principle, delighting in everything that may be beneficial to you, and avoiding everything that may be hurtful; you are carried on by a hidden instinct to preserve yourselves, and to propagate your species; you obey, in all your actions, works and motions, the dictates and suggestions of nature, without the least repugnancy or contradiction.

The colds of winter, and the heats of summer, are equally incapable of molesting you. A serene or a clouded sky are indifferent to you. Let the earth abound in fruits, or be cursed with scarcity, it has no influence on your welfare. You live secure in rains and thunders, lightnings and earthquakes; you have no concern in the blossoms of spring, or in the glowings of summer, in the fruits of autumn, or in the frosts of winter. You are not solicitous about hours or days, months or years; the variableness of the weather, or the change of seasons.

In what dreadful majesty, in what wonderful power, in what amazing providence did God Almighty distinguish you among all the species of creatures that perished in the universal deluge! You only were insensible of the mischief that had laid waste the whole world.

All this, as I have already told you, ought to inspire you with gratitude and praise towards the Divine Majesty, that has done so great things for you, granted you such particular graces and privileges, and heaped upon you so many distinguishing favours. And since for all this you cannot employ your tongues in the praises of your Benefactor, and are not provided with words to express your gratitude; make at least some sign of reverence; bow yourselves at his name; give some show of gratitude, according to the best of your capacities; express your thanks in the most becoming manner that you are able, and be not unmindful of all the benefits he has bestowed upon you.

No wonder, then, that the fly-fisher loves at times to take a day all by himself; for his very loneliness begets a comfortable feeling of independence and leisure, and a quiet assurance of resources within himself to meet all difficulties that may arise.

n      Thaddeus Norris in “The American Angler’s Book”

People that have not been inoculated with the true spirit may wonder at the infatuation of anglers—but true anglers leave them very contentedly to their wondering, and follow their diversions with a keen delights. Many old men there are of this class that have in them a world of science—not science of the book, or of regular tuition, but the science of actual experience. Science that lives, and will die with them; except it be dropped out piecemeal, and with the gravity becoming its importance, to some young neophyte who has won their good graces by his devotion to their beloved craft. All the mysteries of times and seasons, of baits, flies of every shape and hue; worms, gentles, beetles, composition, or substances found by proof to possess singular charms.  These are a possession which they hold with pride, and do not hold in vain. After a close day in the shop or factory, what a luxury is a fine summer evening to one of these men, following some rapid stream, or seated on a green bank, deep in grass and flowers, pulling out the spotted Trout, or resolutely but subtilely bringing some huge Pike or fair Grayling from its lurking place beneath the broad stump and spreading boughs of the alder. … Why, such a day to such a man, has in it a life and spirit of enjoyment to which the feelings of cities and palaces are dim. The heart of such a man—the power and passion of deep felicity that come breathing from mountains and moorlands; from clouds that sail above, and storms blustering and growling in the wind; from all the mighty magnificence, the solitude and antiquity of Nature upon him …. The weight of the poor man’s life—the cares of poverty—the striving of huge cities, visit him as he sits by the beautiful stream—beautiful as a dream of eternity, and translucent as the everlasting canopy of heaven above him;--they come, but he casts them off for the time, with the power of one who feels himself strong in the kindred spirit of all things around; strong in the knowledge that he is a man; an immortal—a child and pupil in the world-school of the Almighty. … It is not the rod and line that floats before him—it is not the flowing water, or the captured prey, that he perceives in those moments of admission to the heart of nature, so much as the law of the testimony of love and goodness written on everything around him with the pencil of Divine beauty. He is no longer the wearied and oppressed—the trodden and despised—walking in threadbare garments amid men, who scarcely deign to look upon him as a brother man—but he is reassured and recognized to himself in his own soul, as one of those puzzling, aspiring, and mysterious existences for whom all this splendid world was built, and for whom eternity opens its expecting gates.

  --William Howitt in Rural Life in England

Claudius Aelianus, lived in the first century, wrote De natura animalium -- The first, and indeed the only writer amongst the ancients who makes mention of fishing with the artificial fly. In the 15^th Book of his History, he says: “The Macedonians, who live on the banks of the river Astraeus, which flows midway between Berea and Thessalonica, are in the habit of catching a particular fish in that river by means of a fly called hippurus; a very singular insect it is – bold and troublesome like all its kind, in size a hornet, marked like a wasp, and buzzing like a bee.” From his account of these fish thy must have been trout, and he exactly describes the method in which a trout feeds at present, “when one of them sees the fly floating down towards him, he approaches, swimming gently under the water, fearing to move the surface lest his prey should be scared. Then drawing near underneath, he sucks in the fly, as a wolf snatches a sheep from the fold, or an eagle a goose from the farmyard, and having done so disappears under the ripple.” The fisherman, he adds, cannot use the natural fly, for a touch of the human hand rubs off its delicate bloom and destroys its wings. “Therefore,” he resumes, “they overreach the fish by an artful device. Round the hook they twist scarlet wool and two wings are secured on this wool from the feathers which grow under the wattles of a cock, brought up to the proper color with wax. The rod they use is six feet in length and the line is of the same length. Then the angler lets fall his lure. The fish attracted by its colour, and excited, draws close, and judging from its beautiful appearance that it will obtain a marvelous banquet, forthwith opens its mount, but is caught by the hook, and bitter indeed is the feast it enjoys, inasmuch as it is captured.”

A modern Irish street ballad satirizing the young women who fish for husbands begins –

As I rove out one evening down by the riverside,

To catch some trout and salmon where the streams so gently glide

Down by its brook my way I took, where there by chance did spy,

A lovely maid both plain and gay just as she passed me by.

From the anglers, eight dialogues in verse (possibly by Dr. Thomas Scott):

To a man of any compass of thought and experience in the world it is well-known that angling is not a mere recreation, but a business – a business which employeth most orders, professions and occupations among men. This might be fairly proved by an introduction of particulars. For instance we booksellers angle for authors, and authors angle for a dinner, or for fame. Again, doth not the lawyer angle for clients, the doctor for a fee, the divine for preferment, the statesman for secrets, the courtier for a pension, and the needy for a place? Further what is he who offereth a bribe, but a fisher for another man’s conscience? And what is he who taketh a bribe, but the silly fish that is caught with the bait? What is here said may suffice to show the universality of our author’s subject.

She spoke of the duty of being ready to welcome happiness as well as tender pain, and of the strength and endurance wins by being grateful for small daily choice, like the evening light, and the smell of roses, and the singing of birds. She spoke of the faith that rests on the Unseen Wisdom and Love like a child on its mother’s breast, and of the melting away of doubts and the warmth of an effort to do some good in the world.  And if that effort has conflict, an adventure, and confused noise, and mistakes, and an even defeats mingled with it, in the stormy years of youth, is not that to be expected? The burn roars and leaps in the den; the stream chase and frets through the rapids of the glen; the river does not grow calm and smooth until it nears the sea.  Courage is a virtue that the young cannot spare; to lose it is to grow old before the time; it is better to make a thousand mistakes and suffer a thousand reverses them to refuse the battle. Resignation is the final courage of old age; and it arrives in its own season; and is a good day when it comes to us. Then there are no more disappointments; for we have learned that it is even better to desire the things that we have than to have the things that we desire. And is not the best of all our hopes - the hope of immortality- always before us? How can we be dull or heavy while we have a new experience to look forward to?  It will be the most joyful of all our travels and adventures. It will bring us our best acquaintances and friendships. But there’s only one way to get ready for mortality, and that is to love this life, and live it as bravely and cheerfully and faithfully as we can.

And you will remember that love is not getting, but giving; not a wild dream of pleasure, and a man is so desire-oh no, but is not that-it is goodness, and honor, and peace, and pure living-yes, love is that; and it is the best thing in the world, and the thing that lives longest.

It is a noble stream, stately and swift and strong. It rises among the dense forests in the northern part of New Brunswick—and moist upland region, of never-filling springs and innumerous lakes—and pours a flood of clear, cold water one hundred and fifth miles northward and eastward through the hills into the head of the bay of Chaleurs. There are no falls in its course, but rapids everywhere. It is steadfast but not impetuous, quick but not turbulent, resolute and eager in it’s desire to get to the sea, like the life of a man who has a purpose.

An angler, like an Arab, regards hospitality  as a religious duty.  There seems to be something in the craft which inclines the heart to kindness and good-fellowship. Few anglers have I seen who were not pleasant to meet, and ready to do a good turn to a fellow-fisherman with a gift of a killing fly or the loan of rod. Not their own particular and well-proofed favorite, of course, for that is a treasure which no decent man would borrow; but with that exception the best in their store is at the service of a brother.

The wild desire to be forever racing against old Father Time is one of the kill-joys of modern life. That ancient traveler is sure to beat you in the long run, and as long as you are trying to rival him, he will make your life of burden.  But if you will only acknowledge his superiority and profess that you do not approve of racing after all, he will settle down quietly beside you and jog long like the most companionable of creatures. That is a pleasant pilgrimage in which the journey itself is part of the destination.

What a charm there is in watching a swift stream!  The eye never wearies of following its curls and eddies, the shadow of the waves dancing over the stones, the strange, crinkly lines of sunlight in the shallows. There is a sort of fascination in it, lulling and soothing the mind into a quietude which is even pleasanter than sleep, and making it almost impossible to do that of which we so often speak, but which we never quite accomplish –“think about nothing.”

Indeed, it is not from the highest peaks, according to my experience, that one gets the grandest prospects, but rather from those of middle height, which are so isolated as to give a wide circle of vision, and from which one can see both the valleys and summits.  It is possible, in this world, to climb too high for pleasure.

How pleasant it his to fish in such a place and at such an hour!  And the novelty of the scene, the grandeur of the landscape, lend a strange charm to the sport.  But the sport itself it is so familiar that one feels at home—the motion of the rod, the feathery swish of the line, the site of the rising fish—it all brings back one hundred woodland memories, and thoughts of good fishing comrades, some far away across the sea, and, perhaps, even now sitting around the forest camp-fire in Maine or Canada, and some with whom we shall keep company no more until we cross the greater If into the happy country whither they have preceded us.

“Nay, let me tell you, there be many that have 40 times our estates, that would give the greatest part of it to be healthful and cheerful like us; who, with the expense of a little money, had ate, and drank, and laughed, and angled, and sung, and slept securely; and rose next day, and cast away care, and sung, laughed, and angled again; which are blessings rich men cannot purchase with all their money.” Izaak Walton; The Complete Angler.

It is one of the charms of life in the woods that it brings back the high spirits of boyhood and renews the youth of the world. Plain fun, like plain food, taste good out-of-doors. Nectar is the sweet of a maple-tree. Ambrosia is only another name for well-turned flap-jacks. And all the immortals, sitting around the table of golden cedar-slabs, make merry when the clumsy Hephaistos, playing the part of Hebe, stumbles over a root and upsets the plate of cakes into the fire.

The ideals, the attachments—yes, even the dreams of youth are worth saving.  For the artificial tastes with which age tries to make good their loss grow very slowly and cast but a slender shade.  

[ With respect to the fish that got away] The spectacles of regret always magnify.

Who can explain the secret pathos of  Nature’s loveliness? It a touch of melancholy inherited from our mother Eve. It is the unconscious memory of the lost paradise.  It is the sense that even if we should find another Eden, would not be fit to enjoy it perfectly, nor stay in it forever. 

The honest fisherman reflects that this world is only a place of pilgrimage, but after all there is a good deal of cheer on the journey, if it is made with a contented heart.  He wonders who the dwellers in the scattered houses may be, and weaves romances other shadows on the curtain windows.  The lamps burning in the wayside shrines tell him stories of human love and patience and hope, and of divine forgiveness.  Dream-pictures of life float before him, tender and luminous, filled with the vague, soft atmosphere in which the simplest outlines gain a strange significance. 

Men may say what they will in praise of their houses, and grow eloquent upon the merits of various styles of architecture, but, for our part, we are agreed that there is nothing to be compared with a tent.  Is the most venerable and aristocratic form of human habitation.  Abraham and Sarah lived in it, and shared its hospitality with the angels.  It is exempt from the base tyranny of the plumber, the paper-hanger, and the gas-man.  It is not immovably bound to one spot of earth by the chain’s of the celler and a system of water-pipes.  It has a noble freedom of locomotion.  It follows the wishes of its inhabitants, and goes with them, the traveling home, as a spirit moves them to explore the wilderness.  At their pleasure, new beds of wildflowers surround it, new plantations of trees overshadow it, and new avenues of shining water lead to its ever-open door.  What the tent lacks in luxury it makes up in liberty: or rather let us say that liberty itself is the greatest luxury.  Another thing is worth remembering—a family which lives in a tent never can have a skeleton in the closet. 

Sometimes we caught plenty and sometimes few, but we never came back without a good catch of happiness. 

After all, the glow of life comes from friction with its difficulties.  If we cannot find them at home, we sally abroad and create them, just to warm up our mettle. 

When tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air
    Are wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;

When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow
    And leads the eyes toward sunset skies,
Beyond the hills where green trees grow;

Then weary is the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:
    I'm only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.

I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough
    Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plough.

The thistle-birds have changed their dun
For yellow coats to match the sun;
    And in the same array of flame
The Dandelion Show's begun.

The flocks of young anemones
Are dancing round the budding trees:
    Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these?

I think the meadow-lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,
    While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding-bells to woods around:

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,
    Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song-sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer:"

And, best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit-thrush repeats his psalm:
    How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music's balm!

'Tis not a proud desire of mine;
I ask for nothing superfine;
    No heavy weight, no salmon great,
To break the record, or my line:

Only an idle little stream,
Whose amber waters softly gleam,
    Where I may wade, through woodland shade,
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream:

Only a trout or two, to dart
From foaming pools, and try my art:
    No more I'm wishing--old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature's heart.

A river is the most human and companionable of all inanimate things. It has a life, a character, a voice of its own, and is as full of good fellowship as a sugar-maple is of sap. It can talk in various tones, loud or low, and of many subjects, grave and gay. Under favourable circumstances it will even make a shift to sing, not in a fashion that can be reduced to notes and set down in black and white on a sheet of paper, but in a vague, refreshing manner, and to a wandering air that goes

"Over the hills and far away."

For real company and friendship, there is nothing outside of the animal kingdom that is comparable to a river.

[When I invite my friend] to share my orisons, or wander alone to indulge the luxury of grateful, unlaborious thought, my feet … turn to the bank of a  river, for there the musings of solitude find a friendly accompaniment, and human intercourse is purified and sweetened by the flowing, murmuring water. It is by a river that I would choose to make love, and to revive old friendships, and to play with the children, and to confess my faults, and to escape from vain, selfish desires, and to cleanse my mind from all the false and foolish things that mar the joy and peace of living. Like David's hart, I pant for the water-brooks. There is wisdom in the advice of Seneca, who says, "Where a spring rises, or a river flows, there should we build altars and offer sacrifices."

[See] the song-sparrow, perched on his favourite limb of a young maple, dose beside the water, and singing happily, through sunshine and through rain. This is the true bird of the brook, after all: the winged spirit of cheerfulness and contentment, the patron saint of little rivers, the fisherman's friend. He seems to enter into your sport with his good wishes, and for an hour at a time, while you are trying every fly in your book, from a black gnat to a white miller, to entice the crafty old trout at the foot of the meadow-pool, the song-sparrow, close above you, will be chanting patience and encouragement. And when at last success crowns your endeavour, and the parti-coloured prize is glittering in your net, the bird on the bough breaks out in an ecstasy of congratulation: "catch 'im, catch 'im, catch 'im; oh, what a pretty fellow! sweet!"

In Professor John Wilson's Essays Critical and Imaginative, there is a brilliant description of a bishop fishing, which I am sure is drawn from the life: "Thus a bishop, sans wig and petticoat, in a hairy cap, black jacket, corduroy breeches and leathern leggins, creel on back and rod in hand, sallying from his palace, impatient to reach a famous salmon-cast ere the sun leave his cloud, . . . appears not only a pillar of his church, but of his kind, and in such a costume is manifestly on the high road to Canterbury and the Kingdom-Come." I have had the good luck to see quite a number of bishops, parochial and diocesan, in that style, and the vision has always dissolved my doubts in regard to the validity of their claim to the true apostolic succession.

There is such a thing as taking ourselves and the world too seriously, or at any rate too anxiously. Half of the secular unrest and dismal, profane sadness of modern society comes from the vain idea that every man is bound to be a critic of life, and to let no day pass without finding some fault with the general order of things, or projecting some plan for its improvement. And the other half comes from the greedy notion that a man's life does consist, after all, in the abundance of the things that he possesses, and that it is somehow or other more respectable and pious to be always at work making a larger living, than it is to lie on your back in the green pastures and beside the still waters, and thank God that you are alive.

The rod was a reward, yet not exactly of merit. It was an instrument of education in the hand of a father less indiscriminate than Solomon, who chose to interpret the text in a new way, and preferred to educate his child by encouraging him in pursuits which were harmless and wholesome, rather than by chastising him for practices which would likely enough never have been thought of, if they had not been forbidden. The boy enjoyed this kind of father at the time, and later he came to understand, with a grateful heart, that there is no richer inheritance in all the treasury of unearned blessings. For, after all, the love, the patience, the kindly wisdom of a grown man who can enter into the perplexities and turbulent impulses of a boy's heart, and give him cheerful companionship, and lead him on by free and joyful ways to know and choose the things that are pure and lovely and of good report, make as fair an image as we can find of that loving, patient Wisdom which must be above us all if any good is to come out of our childish race.

But when vacation came, with its annual exodus from the city, there was only one sign in the zodiac, and that was Pisces.

No country seemed to him tolerable without trout, and no landscape beautiful unless enlivened by a young river.

Among such scenes as these the boy pursued his education, learning many things that are not taught in colleges; learning to take the weather as it comes, wet or dry, and fortune as it falls, good or bad; learning that a meal which is scanty fare for one becomes a banquet for two--provided the other is the right person; learning that there is some skill in everything, even in digging bait, and that what is called luck consists chiefly in having your tackle in good order; learning that a man can be just as happy in a log shanty as in a brownstone mansion, and that the very best pleasures are those that do not leave a bad taste in the mouth.

 What could be more delightful than to spend an hour or two, in the early morning or evening of a hot day, in wading this rushing stream, and casting the fly on its clear waters? The wind blows softly down the narrow valley, and the trees nod from the rocks above you. The noise of the falls makes constant music in your ears. The river hurries past you, and yet it is never gone.

 "On my word, master," says the appreciative Venator, in Walton's Angler, "this is a gallant trout; what shall we do with him?" And honest Piscator, replies: "Marry! e'en eat him to supper; we'll go to my hostess from whence we came; she told me, as I was going out of door, that my brother Peter, [and who is this but Romeyn of Keeseville?] a good angler and a cheerful companion, had sent word he would lodge there tonight, and bring a friend with him. My hostess has two beds, and I know you and I have the best; we'll rejoice with my brother Peter and his friend, tell tales, or sing ballads, or make a catch, or find some harmless sport to content us, and pass away a little time without offence to God or man."

From: Little Rivers by Henry Van Dyke

There’s no music like a little river’s. It plays the same tune (and that’s the favourite) over and over again, and yet does not weary of it like men fiddlers. It takes the mind out of doors; and though we should be grateful for good houses, there is, after all, no house like God’s out-of-doors. And lastly, sir, it quiets a man down like saying his prayers.

n      Robert Louis Stevenson: Prince Otto

 It was not the walking merely, it is keeping yourself in tune for a walk, in the spiritual and bodily condition in which you can find entertainment and exhilaration in so simple and natural a pastime. You are eligible to any good fortune when you are in a condition to enjoy a walk. When the air and water taste sweet to you, how much else will taste sweet.!  When the exercise of your limbs affords you pleasure, and the play of your senses upon the various objects and shows of Nature quickens and stimulates your spirit, your relation to the world and to your self is what it should be – simple, and direct, and wholesome.

n      John Burroughs: Pepaeton.

If, however, on the other hand angling is looked upon with little favour by an unenlightened multitude, on the other hand there is no amusement to which those who practice it become so much attached.  Nor do we think that anglers generally can fairly be accused either of stupidity, or, let us say, patience. They have certainly in their ranks a larger proportion of men of literature and science than can be found among the followers of any other field sport; and for the comfort of those who have not the much-despised gift of patience, we could point to a number of celebrated anglers, who are by no means celebrated as possessing this virtue …. Angling, when once embarked in by any person possessed of a reasonable amount of soul and brains, becomes a passion, and like other passions will grow and feed upon the smallest possible amount of encouragement. Fish or no fish, whenever opportunity offers, the angler may be found at the water-side. If this only went on in fine weather, people could understand it, but now-a-days, even in summer, the weather is not always fine; and when a man is seen standing in the water for hours in a torrent of rain, with benumbed hands, and an empty basket, doubts of the individual’s sanity naturally suggest themselves, mixed with feelings of pity for the terrible consequences in the ways of colds, rheumatism, &c. … It is surely better to have fresh air and exercise, even in wet, than to be spending the whole day in some country inn, yawning over some second-rate novel for the third time ….

            “Though sluggards deem it but an idle chase,    

            And marvel men should quit their easy chair,

            The toilsome way and long long league to trace;

            Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air,

            And life that bloated ease can never hope to share.”

That angling is good for exercise is certain.  That it is also good for amusement is equally certain; but the pleasure derived from the catching of fish, like that derived from other field sports, is more easily felt than described.  There can be no doubt, that by the great majority of people an amusement is valued on proportion as it affords room for the exercise of skill – there is more merit, and therefore more pleasure, in excelling in what is difficult – and though we may astonish some of our readers, we assert, and shall endeavor to prove, that angling is the most difficult of all field sports.  It requires all the manual dexterity than the others do, and brings more into play the qualities of the mind, observation, and the reasoning faculties.  .. The angler’s wits, in fact, are brought into direct competition with those of the fish, which very often, judging from the result, prove the better of the two.

Beside the mere  pleasure of fishing, however, angling has more varied attractions than almost any other amusement. To the lover of nature no sport affords so much pleasure. The grandest and most picturesque scenes in nature are to be found on the banks of rivers and lakes. ….

We shall now mention in detail the advantages of fishing up, in order to show its superiority over the old method.

The first and greatest advantage is, that the angler is unseen by the trout.  Trout, as is well know, keep their heads up stream; they cannot remain stationary in any other position.  This being the case, they see objects above and on both sides of them, but cannot discern anything behind them, so that the angler fishing down will be seen by them twenty yards off, whereas the angler fishing up will be unseen, although he be but a few yards in their rear.  The advantages of this it is impossible to over-estimate.  No creatures are more easily scared than trout; if they see any object moving on the river’s bank, they run into deep water, or beneath banks and stones, from which they will not stir for some time. 

The next advantage of fishing up we shall notice, is the much greater probability of hooking a trout when it rises.  In angling down stream, if a trout rises and the angler strikes, he runs a great risk of pulling the flies straight out of its mouth; whereas, in fishing up, its back is to him, and he has every chance of bringing the hook into contact with its jaws.  This, although it might not seem of great importance to the uninitiated, tells considerably when the contents of the basket come to be examined at the close of the day’s sport; indeed, no angler would believe the difference unless he himself proved it.

Another advantage of fishing up is, that it does not disturb the water so much.  Let us suppose the angler is fishing down a fine pool.  He, of course, commences at the top, the place where the best trout, and those most inclined to feed, invariably lie. After a few cast he hooks one, which immediately runs down, and by its vagaries, leaping in the air, and plunging in all directions alarms all its neighbours, and it is ten to one if he gets another rise in that pool.  Fishing up saves all this. The angler commences at the foot, and when he hooks a trout, pulls it down, and the remaining portions of the pool are undisturbed.

The last advantage of fishing up is, that by it the angler can much better adapt the motions of his flies to those of the natural insect.  And here it may be mentioned as a rule, that the nearer the motions of the artificial flies resemble those of the natural ones under similar circumstances, the greater will be the prospects of success. 

The great point in fly dressing, is to make the artificial fly resemble the natural insect in shape, and the great characteristic of all river insects is extreme lightness and neatness of form.  Our great objection to the flies in common use is, that they are much too bush; so much so, that there are few flies to be got in the tackle-shops which we could use with any degree of confidence in clear water. Every possible advantage is in favour of a lightly-dressed fly; it is more like a natural insect; it falls lighter on the water, and every angler knows the importance of making his fly fall gently, and there being less material about it, the artificial nature of that material is not so easily detected; and also, as the hook is not so much covered with feathers, there is a much better chance of hooking a trout when it rises. We wish to impress very strongly upon the reader the necessity of avoiding bulky flies.

W.C. Stewart

In this pleasant and harmless Art of Angling a man hath none to quarrel with but himself, and we are usually so entirely our own friends, as not to retain an irreconcilable hatred against ourselves, but can in short time easily compose the enmity; and besides ourselves none are offended, none are endamaged; and this recreation falleth within the capacity of the lowest fortune to compass, affording also profit as well as pleasure, in following of which exercise a man may employ his thoughts in the noblest studies, almost as freely as in his closet.

The minds of anglers being usually more calm and composed than many others.  The angler, when he hath the worst success, loseth but a hook or line, or, perhaps, what he never possessed, a fish; and suppose he should take nothing, yet he enjoyeth a delightful walk by pleasant rivers in sweet pastures, amongst odoriferous flowers, which gratify his senses and delight his mind.

[The angler] leads the most happy life; and if this art do not dispose and incline the mind of man to a quiet calm sedateness, I am confident it doth not, as many other delights; cast blocks and rubs before him to make his way more difficult and less pleasant.  I know no sort of men less subject to melancholy than anglers; many have cast off other recreations and embraced it. but I never knew any angler wholly cast off. though occassions might interrupt, their affections to their beloved recreation.