Angling
AT THAMES DITTON.
For the Table Book.
Thames Ditton is a pretty little village, delightfully situated on the banks of the Thames, between Kingston and Hampton Court palace. During the summer and autumn, it is the much-frequented resort of the followers of Isaac Walton’s tranquil occupation.
The Swan inn, only a few paces from the water’s edge, remarkable for the neatness and comfort of its appearance, and for the still more substantial attractions of its internal accommodation, is kept by Mr. John Locke, a most civil, good-natured, and obliging creature; and, what is not of slight importance to a bon-vivant, he has a wife absolutely incomparable in the preparation of “stewed eels,” and not to be despised in the art of cooking a good beef-steak, or a mutton-chop.
But what is most remarkable in this place is its appellation of “lying Ditton”—from what reason I have ever been unable to discover, unless it has been applied by those cockney anglers, who, chagrined at their want of sport, have bestowed upon it that very opprobrious designation; and perhaps not entirely without foundation for when they have been unsuccessful in beguiling the finny tribe, the fishermen, who attend them in their punts, are always prepared to assign a cause for their failure; as that the water is too low—or not sufficiently clear—or too muddy—or there is a want of rain—or there has been too much of that element—or—any thing else—except a want of skill in the angler himself, who patiently sits in his punt, watching the course of his float down the stream, or its gentle diving under the water, by which he flatters himself he has a bite, listening to the stories of his attendant, seated in calm indifference at his side, informing him of the mortality produced among the gelid tribe by the noxious gas which flows into the river from the metropolis, the alarming effects from the motion of the steam-boats on their fishy nerves, and, above all, from their feeding at that season of year on the green weeds at the bottom.
However, there are many most skilful lovers of the angle who pay weekly, monthly, or annual visits to this retired spot; amongst whom are gentlemen of fortune, professional men, and respectable tradesmen. After the toils of the day, the little rooms are filled with aquatic sportsmen, who have left the cares of life, and the great city behind them, and associate in easy conversation, and unrestrained mirth.
One evening last summer there alighted from the coach a gentleman, apparently of the middle age of life, who first seeing his small portmanteau, fishing-basket, and rods safely deposited with the landlord, whom he heartily greeted, walked into the room, and shaking hands with one or two of his acquaintances, drew a chair to the window, which he threw up higher than it was before; and, after surveying with a cheerful countenance the opposite green park, the clear river with its sedgy islands, and the little flotilla of punts, whose tenants were busily engaged on their gliding floats, he seemed as delighted as a bird that has regained his liberty: then, taking from his pocket a paper, he showed its contents to me, who happened to be seated opposite, and asked if I was a connoisseur in “single hair;” for, if I was, I should find it the best that could be procured for love or money. I replied that I seldom fished with any but gut-lines; yet it appeared, as far as I could judge, to be very fine. “Fine!” said he, “it would do for the filament of a spider’s-web; and yet I expect to-morrow to kill with it a fish of a pound weight. I recollect,” continued he, “when I was but a tyro in the art of angling, once fishing with an old gentleman, whose passion for single-hair was so great, that, when the season of the year did not permit him to pursue his favourite diversion, he spent the greatest part of his time in travelling about from one end of the kingdom to the other, seeking the best specimens of this invaluable article. On his visits to the horse-dealers, instead of scrutinizing the horses in the customary way, by examining their legs, inquiring into their points and qualities, or trying their paces, to the unspeakable surprise of the venders, he invariably walked up to the nether extremities of the animals, and seized hold of their tails, by which means he was enabled to select a capital assortment of hairs for his ensuing occupation.”
After the new-comer had finished his amusing anecdote, the noise of a numerous flock of starlings, which had assembled among the trees in the park preparatory to their evening adjournment to roost, attracted his notice by the babel-like confusion of their shrill notes, and led him again to entertain us with a story touching their peculiarities.
“I remember,” said he, “when I was at a friend’s house in Yorkshire last autumn, there were such immense numbers of these birds, who sought their sustenance by day on the neighbouring marshes, and at night came to roost in his trees, that at length there was not room for their entire accommodation; the consequence of which was, that it became a matter of necessity that a separation of their numbers should take place—a part to other quarters, the remainder to retain possession of their old haunts. If I might judge from the conflicting arguments which their confused chatterings seemed to indicate, the contemplated arrangement was not at all relished by those who were doomed to separate from their companions—a separation, however, did take place—but the exiles would not leave the field undisputed. Birds, like aid-de-camps of an army, flew from one side to the other—unceasing voices gave note of dreadful preparation—and, at last, both sides took flight at the same instant. The whirring sound of their wings was perfectly deafening; when they had attained a great height in the air, the two forces clashed together with the greatest impetuosity; immediately the sky was obscured with an appearance like the falling of snow, descending gradually to the earth, accompanied with a vast quantity of bodies of the starlings, which had been speared through by hostile beaks-they literally fell like hail. It was then growing rather dusk; I could merely see the contending flocks far above me for some time—it became darker—and I returned to narrate this extraordinary aërial combat to my friend, who in the morning had the curiosity to accompany me to the field of battle, where we picked up, according to an accurate calculation, 1087 of these birds, some quite dead, and others generally severely wounded, with an amazing quantity of their feathers.”
I saw this amusing gentleman on the following morning sitting quietly in his punt, exercising his single-hair skill, nearly opposite to the little fishing-house.
E. J. H.
April, 1827.
TICKLING TROUT.
For the Table Book.
It is a liberty taken by poachers with the little brook running through Castle Coombe, to catch trout by tickling. I instance the practice there because I have there witnessed it, although it prevails in other places. The person employed wades into the stream, puts his bare arms into the hole where trout resort, slides his fingers under the fish, feels its position, commences tickling, and the trout falls gradually into his hand, and is thrown upon the grass. This is a successful snare, destructive to the abundance of trout, and the angler’s patient pleasure. The lovers of the “hook and eye” system oppose these ticklish practices, and the ticklers, when caught, are “punished according to law,” while the patrons of the “rod and line” escape. Shakspeare may have hinted at retribution, when he said
“A thousand men the fishes gnawed upon.”
Pope tell us that men are
“Pleased with a feather, tickled with a straw.”
P.