Rod-Fishing in the Nith. 25 



if you would go a fishing-, let your tackle be of the best (g-ood 

 tackle is far cheaper than bad in the end, no matter what you pay 

 for it), and your rod suited to your strength and the water you 

 are going to fish. 



When rod-fishing was first practised on the Nith I know not. 

 I have a rod, and not a bad one, which belonged to my grand- 

 father and must be getting on to a hundred years old, and I had 

 some salmon flies which mu.st have been some hundred and fifty 

 years old. They were mounted on thick, twisted horsehair, were 

 much of the same colour as those now in use, but were of a 

 strange and weird shape, and I feel sure that a salmon of to-day 

 with any self-respect, were he to see one in the water, would 

 turn and flee to the Solway, and bury himself in an agony of fear 

 in some thick bed of weeds. These flies were kept as a curiosity, 

 but some time ago, when I went to look for them that they mig-ht 

 accompany this paper, I discovered that the rats had eaten the 

 horsehair and the moths had eaten the feathers. 



Many people look upon rod-fishing as an amusement, which 

 is all very well for those who like it. Some ladies look on it as a 

 most useful way of getting rid of their husbands when they are 

 troublesome, and will suggest that the water is in good order, and 

 that they would like some trout for dinner, or for breakfast next 

 morning. The husband who is fishing is considered safe — he 

 cannot get into any mischief, so they think. But few think of the 

 enormous value of rod-fishing as a recreation for overworked men. 

 The hard-worked mechanic, who has toiled week after week in 

 workshop or factory, whose muscles have been strained to the 

 utmost, whose lungs are full of smoke and dust, is a better man, 

 morally and physically, for a few dajs' fishing in one of our lovely 

 glens. The air of the hills and moors is like champagne to him, 

 and the little stream (if he will but hearken) makes music for him 

 such as he can hear in none of his city haunts. 



But it is perhaps to the overwrought bram worker that rod- 

 fishing affords the greatest recuperation and rest. The professor 

 who has burnt the midnight oil too much, the doctor, the lawyer, 

 the clergyman, whose patients and clients and parishioners have 

 sorely tried his powers and his patience, becomes a new man 

 when for a few days, having clothed himself in some well worn 

 old suit of fishing garment, he casts off care and worries and 

 wanders, rod in hand, by some rippling stream. The wooded 



