Rural Sports.
ANGLING.
When genial spring a living warmth bestows,
And o’er the year her verdant mantle throws,
No swelling inundation hides the grounds,
But crystal currents glide within their bounds;
The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,
Float in the sun, and skim along the lake,
With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,
Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams.
Now let the fisherman his toils prepare,
And arm himself with every wat’ry snare;
His hooks, his lines peruse with careful eye,
Increase his tackle, and his rode retie.
When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain
Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain,
And waters tumbling down the mountain’s side,
Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide;
Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise,
And drive the liquid burthen thro’ the skies,
The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds,
Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds;
Upon a rising border of the brook
He sits him down, and ties the treach’rous hook;
Now expectation cheers his eager thought,
His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught;
Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,
Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.
Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws,
Which down the murm’ring current gently flows;
When if or chance, or hunger’s pow’rful 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
Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains,
And trickling blood his silver mail distains.
You must not ev’ry worm promiscuous use,
Judgment will tell thee proper bait to choose;
The worm that draws a long immod’rate size
The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies;
And if too small, the naked fraud’s in sight,
And fear forbids, while hunger does invite.
Those baits will best reward the fisher’s pains,
Whose polish’d tails a shining yellow stains:
Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss,
Cherish the sully’d reptile race with moss;
Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil,
And from their bodies wipe their native soil.
But when the sun displays his glorious beams,
And shallow rivers flow with silver streams,
Then the deceit the scaly breed survey,
Bask in the sun, and look into the day.
You now a more delusive art must try,
And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.
To frame the little animal, provide
All the gay hues that wait on female pride:
Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire
The shining bellies of the fly require;
The peacock’s plumes thy tackle must not fail,
Nor the dear purchase of the sable’s tail.
Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings,
And lends the growing insect proper wings:
Silks of all colours must their aid impart,
And ev’ry fur promote the fisher’s art.
So the gay lady, with expensive care,
Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air;
Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays,
Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays.
Mark well the various seasons of the year,
How the succeeding insect race appear;
In this revolving moon one colour reigns,
Which in the next the fickle trout disdains
Oft have I seen a skilful angler try
The various colours of the treach’rous fly;
When he with fruitless pain hath skimm’d the brook,
And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook,
He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,
Which o’er the stream a waving forest throw;
When if an insect fall, (his certain guide)
He gently takes him from the whirling tide;
Examines well his form with curious eyes,
His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, and size.
Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,
And on the back a speckled feather binds;
So just the colours shine thro’ every part,
That Nature seems to live again in art,
Let not thy wary steps advance too near,
While all thy hope hangs on a single hair:
The new-form’d insect on the water moves,
The speckled trout the curious snare approves;
Upon the curling surface let it glide,
With nat’ral motion from thy hand supply’d.
Against the stream now gently let it play,
Now in the rapid eddy roll away.
The scaly shoals float by, and seiz’d with fear,
Behold their fellows toss’d in thinner air;
But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait,
Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate.
When a brisk gale against the current blows,
And all the wat’ry plain in wrinkles flows,
Then let the fisherman his art repeat,
Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit.
If an enormous salmon chance to spy
The wanton errors of the floating fly,
He lifts his silver gills above the flood,
And greedily sucks in th’ unfaithful food;
Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey,
And bears with joy the little spoil away.
Soon in smart pain he feels the dire mistake,
Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake:
With sudden rage he now aloft appears,
And in his eye convulsive anguish bears;
And now again, impatient of the wound,
He rolls and wreaths his shining body round;
Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide,
The trembling fins the boiling wave divide;
Now hope exalts the fisher’s beating heart,
Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art;
He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes;
While the line stretches with th’ unwieldy prize;
Each motion humours with his steady hands,
And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands:
Till tir’d at last, despoil’d of all his strength,
The game athwart the stream unfolds his length.
He now, with pleasure, views the gasping prize
Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyes,
Then draws him to the shore, with artful care,
And lifts his nostrils in the sick’ning air:
Upon the burthen’d stream he floating lies,
Stretching his quivering fins, and gasping dies.
Would you preserve a num’rous finny race?
Let your fierce dogs the rav’nous otter chase;
Th’ amphibious monster ranges all the shores,
Darts through the waves, and ev’ry haunt explores;
Or let the gin his roving steps betray,
And save from hostile jaws the scaly prey.
I never wander where the bordering reeds
O’erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weeds
Perplex the fisher; I, nor choose to bear
The thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear;
Nor drain I ponds the golden carp to take,
Nor troll for pikes, dispeoplers of the lake.
Around the steel no tortur’d worm shall twine,
No blood of living insect stain my line;
Let me, less cruel, cast the feather’d hook,
With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook,
Silent along the mazy margin stray,
And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.
Gay.
GOOD-LIVING.
A Domestic Scene.
Gent. I wish, my dear, you would not keep the carriage an hour always at the door, when we go to a party.
Lady. Surely, my dear, it could not have waited half so long; and that was owing to the unusual length of our rubber.
Gent. I feel exceedingly unwell this evening, my head aches confoundedly, and my stomach is very uneasy.
Lady. You know, my dear, Mr. Abernethy told you, that after such a severe fit you ought to be very careful and moderate in your living.
Gent. Mr. Abernethy is a fool. Can any body be more moderate than I am? you would have me live upon water-gruel, I suppose. The rich pudding, indeed, that Mrs. Belcour made me eat, might possibly not have sat quite easy on the soup, and the salmon, and the chicken and ham, and the harrico, and the turkey and sausages; or, it is possible, the patties I eat before dinner might not perfectly agree with me, for I had by no means a good appetite when I sat down to dinner.
Lady. And then, you know, you eat so many cakes, and such a quantity of almonds and raisins, and oranges after dinner.
Gent. How could I have got down Belcour’s insufferable wine, that tasted of the cork, like the fag bottle at a tavern dinner, without eating something?
Lady. And I am sure you drank a glass of Madeira with every mouthful almost at dinner; for I observed you.
Gent. Why how could one swallow such ill-dressed things, half cold too, without drinking? I can’t conceive what makes me feel so unwell this evening; these flatulencies will certainly kill me. It must be the easterly wind we have had for these three days that affects me: indeed, most of my acquaintance are complaining, and the doctors say, disorders are very prevalent now.——What can I have? John, make me a tumbler of brandy and water—make it strong, and put ginger enough in it. I have not the least appetite—what can I have?
Lady. There is ham, and, I believe, some chicken—
Gent. Why, do you think I have the stomach of a ploughman, that I can eat such insipid things! Is there nothing else?
Lady. There is a loin of pork—perhaps you could relish a chop, nicely done?
Gent. Why, if it was nicely done, very nicely, perhaps I could; I’ll try—but remember it must be done to a moment, or I shan’t be able to touch it—and made hot—and some nice gravy. Confound these parties!—could any thing be more stupid. While Martin was sleeping on one side of me, there was Bernard on the other did nothing but bore me about his horses, and his wines, and his pictures, till I wished them all at old Harry—I think I shall have done with parties.
Lady. I am sure, my dear, they are no pleasure to me; and, if they were, I pay dear enough for it: for you generally come home in an ill humour—and your health and your pocket too suffer for it. Your last bill came to more than ninety pounds, besides your expenses at Cheltenham—and the next thing, I suppose, will be a voyage to Madeira, or Lisbon—and then what will become of us?
Gent. What, do you grudge me the necessaries of life? It is I that am the sufferer—
Lady. Not entirely so: I am sure I feel the effects of it, and so do the servants. Your temper is so entirely changed, that the poor children are afraid to go near you—you make every body about you miserable, and you know Smith lost his cause from your not being able to attend at the last assizes, which will be nearly the ruin of him and his family. Two days before you were tolerably well, but after you had dined at ——’s, you were laid up.
Gent. Nay, I was as much concerned at it as any body could be; and I think I had reason to be so, for I lost three hundred pounds myself—but who can help illness? Is it not a visitation of Providence? I am sure nobody can live more temperately than I do—do you ever see me drunk? A’n’t I as regular as clockwork? Indeed, my dear, if you cannot talk more rationally, you had better go to bed. John! why don’t you bring the brandy and water! and see if the chop is ready; if I am not better in the morning, I am sure I shall not be able to attend my appointment in the city——
There will always be a few ready to receive the hints of experience, and to them only can this scene be useful.