In the Upper Mississippi there are black bass and mascallonge; in the brooks that, rising amid the hills of that region, swell its current, there are trout; in neighboring lakes black bass and perch abound; among the Rocky Mountains are found several species of trout; and in the waters of Oregon and California salmon are plentiful.
Although the largest trout in the United States are taken in Maine, in the Umbagog region, the greatest number and the most vigorous are found in Lake Superior, where fish of two pounds weight can be captured to the heart’s content. The fish of Maine are of rich and strong color, while those of Lake Superior have the bright sides and delicate tints of the sea-trout. All brook trout, however—the genuine salmo fontinalis—have the peculiar bright vermilion specks that distinguish them from kindred species, and these are distinctly visible upon the silver sides of the fish of Lake Superior.
The innumerable rivers of the State of Maine are interwoven together in such a manner that the fisherman, urging his silent canoe with dripping paddle or stout pole, gliding beneath the arching boughs that shade in gloom the narrow stream, or pushing boldly into the open lakes, can pass from one region of waters to another, and, making short portages, explore in a continuous trip rivers that run north, east, and west. To the true sportsman, armed with pliant rod and feathered hook for the seduction of the merry trout, and trusty rifle loaded with heavy ball for the destruction of the lordly moose, nothing surpasses the intense enjoyment of wandering amid the forest wilds from river to river, threading the uninhabited groves, or following the unknown and unnamed stream, and leaving to whim or chance, or the influence of luck, to determine his final destination. Alone with his single guide he is content; accompanied by a friend, still better pleased; in a party of associates perfectly happy; blessed by the society of ladies—real ladies and true wood nymphs—he is in Elysium.
Or, he may coast the shores of our western lakes, where the bright sun sparkles on the rippling surface, and only seek the shade upon the land to avoid its heat; there he may kill the black bass, the mascallonge, and in Lake Superior the trout; fleeing from the approaching storm to some sheltered nook, he partakes the inland ocean’s varying moods, passing the days upon its surface and the nights amid the neighboring forests; stopping occasionally to use the light shot-gun and kill a few woodcock or partridges, and now and then slaying a duck upon the route.
In the wide world there is no other country so propitious to the fisherman as the northern part of North America; it furnishes every variety of sport, from the delicate refined fishing of the transparent ponds and over-fished trout-preserves of Long Island, to the coarser and easier sport of killing with large flies and heavy rods the countless hosts of Maine, the Labrador coast, or Lake Superior; from the casting the menhaden bait into the boisterous ocean for striped bass, to the trolling amid the Thousand Isles of the St. Lawrence for the ugly and powerful mascallonge; from the capture of the noble salmon to that of the spirited black bass. In fact, there is so much and so good fishing everywhere, that it is difficult to give a preference or lay out any specific directions. You may go by railroad to Cape Vincent, and thence by steamboat to Clayton or Alexandria bay, and fish the St. Lawrence; or take the ocean steamer from Boston to Eastport, and thence to Calais, and explore the St. Croix River for land-locked salmon; or continue on to St. John, and by railroad and stage or steamer to the Nipisiquit, and kill the true salmon—salmo salar—king of fish; or you may take the railroad from Boston to Bethel and cross by stage into the Umbagog region of Maine, and visit its innumerable lakes with unpronounceable names, or may embark on the steamboat at Cleveland, and wake up, after two days’ tranquil voyage, at the Sault Ste. Marie, the outlet of Lake Superior; or you may stop anywhere on any of these routes, even out in the ocean, on the way to New Brunswick, if you please, where there are pollock or haddock, and have good fishing. There is excellent fishing close to New York city, and better still the farther you recede from it.
It is true the fisherman will not find those refined comforts that the more cultivated and densely peopled districts of Europe afford; but he will receive a hearty welcome and wholesome entertainment at the country tavern or the farmer’s house. If, however, he have youth and tolerable hardihood, he should look for no such reception; but, carrying his canvas-home, enjoy the luxury of unrestrained independence, kill and cook his own dinner, and sleep in the pure air of the wilderness. He will have to surrender a few necessaries that habit has made so, but he will be repaid a thousandfold by increased happiness and improved health; he will not have servants to wait on him, nor desserts or wines to pamper him; but he will have his guide to instruct, and abundant food to support him. He will acquire an insight into the mystery of woodcraft, and learn a few of its wonders and delights; he will come to rely upon his own stout muscles and sharp eyes, and return to the city a renovated being. Or, if he have sufficient enthusiasm and high courage, he may cast aside all trammels, and taking his rifle or rod, salt pork, and hard bread, strike off into the trackless forest with no covering to shield him from the rain or sun, no floating thing of beauty to bear him in its bosom over the water, no store of provisions to fall back upon if fish do not rise and the bullet flies astray; but bearing bravely up against heat and weariness, sleeping, amid the rain and storm, wrapped in the heavy coat, catching or killing game sufficient for daily food, or going hungry till better luck shall interpose. This, indeed, is manhood; and our country, with its vast solitudes, its unbroken forests, its network of water-courses, its endless chains of lakes, its vast mountains and limitless prairies, offers inducements for such a life that no other land possesses.
As pretty full instructions have been given in the Game Fish of North America to aid the learner in commencing his experiences of camp life, the reader who desires such information is referred to that work; but whether he shall go into the solitary wilderness, away from man and human habitation, or can only tear himself from business for a few hours for a flying visit to some quiet preserve near the bustling city, he should never forget that he is a sportsman, and owes the duties of moderation, humanity, patience, and kindness under all circumstances; that he cannot slaughter or poach; and that, from his profession, he should ever be a gentleman. He should never forget the words of that most amiable of our fraternity—the splendid shot, the skilful angler, the genial companion, and the graceful writer, now long since gathered to his final resting-place—who was known to the public under the name of J. Cypress, Jr.:
“No genuine piscator ever tabernacled at Fireplace or Stump-pond who could not exhibit proofs of great natural delicacy and strength of apprehension—I mean of things in general, including fish. But the vis vivida animi, the os magna sonans, the manus mentis, the divine rapture of the seduction of a trout, how few have known the apotheosis! The creative power of genius can make a feather-fly live, and move, and have being; and a wisely stricken fish gives up the ghost in transports. That puts me in mind of a story of Ned Locus. Ned swears that he once threw a fly so far and delicately and suspendedly, that just as it was dropping upon the water, after lying a moment in the scarcely moving air as though it knew no law of gravity, it actually took life and wings, and would have flown away but that an old four-pounder, seeing it start, sprang and jumped at it full a foot out of his element, and changed the course of the insect’s travel from the upper air to the bottom of his throat. That is one of Ned’s, and I do not guarantee it, but such a thing might be. Insects are called into being in a variety of mysterious ways, as all the world knows; for instance, the animalcula that appear in the neighborhood of departed horses; and, as Ned says, if death can create life, what is the reason a smart man can’t? Good fishermen are generally great lawyers; ecce signa, Patrick Henry and Daniel Webster. I have known this rule, however, to have exceptions. But the true sportsman is always at least a man of genius and an honest man. I have either read or heard some one say, and I am sure it is the fact, that there never was an instance of a sincere lover of a dog, gun, and rod being sent to bridewell or penitentiary.... If I were governor and knew a case, I would exert the pardoning power without making any inquiry. I should determine without waiting to hear a single fact that the man was convicted by means of perjury. There is a plain reason for all this. A genuine sportsman must possess a combination of virtues which will fill him so full that no room can be left for sin to squeeze in. He must be an early riser—to be which is the beginning of all virtue—ambitious, temperate, prudent, patient of toil, fatigue, and disappointment; courageous, watchful, intent upon his business; always ready, confident, cool; kind to his dog, civil to the girls, and courteous to his brother sportsmen.”
To constitute a sportsman, therefore, it is not sufficient merely to be able to catch fish; although a very important element in the angler’s composition, it is not all that is required, nor will it alone entitle him to full fellowship with the fraternity. He must have higher aspirations and nobler gifts; he must look beyond the mere result to the mode of effecting it, regarding, perhaps, the means more than the end. Any unfair trick or mean advantage he must never take, even to fill a vacant creel or empty pocket; he must never slay the crouching bevy, huddled in terror before his pointer’s nose; he must never resort to the grapple or the noose, no matter how provokingly the wary trout, lying motionless in the clear water, may disdain his choicest flies; and, when the nature of the fish pursued induces it to accept the imitation, he can use the natural bait, only in extreme cases and at great risk to his reputation. The noblest of fish, the mighty salmon, refuses bait utterly, and only with the most artistic tackle and the greatest skill can he be taken; the trout, which ranks second to the salmon, demands an almost equal perfection of both, and in his true season, the genial days of spring and summer, scorns every allurement but the tempting fly. The black bass prefers the fly, but will take the trolling-spoon, and even bait, at all seasons; whereas the fish of lesser station give a preference to bait, or accept it alone. This order of precedence sufficiently proves what every thorough sportsman will endorse—that bait-fishing, although an art of intricacy and difficulty, is altogether inferior to the science of fly-fishing; and that the man who merely follows it without higher aspiration, and uses a worm equally for the beautiful trout and the hideous cat-fish, cannot claim to be a sportsman. Occasionally there is a person who will use the bait with wonderful ability, and entice the reluctant fish against their will to an unwished-for meal; but he never experiences the higher pleasures of his pursuit—his enjoyment in making a neat and killing fly, his satisfaction at its success, his delight in putting it properly upon the water, and his gratification when with it and his frail tackle he shall have overcome the fierce and stubborn prey. Therefore to his many other qualities, the true sportsman must add a thorough knowledge of fly-fishing, and only can the use of artificial fish or fly, or casting the menhaden bait for bass, be termed SUPERIOR FISHING.
