THE MICROBE 



I had become pretty handy with a trout-rod for a boy 

 of fourteen, and could kill two or three dozen fish on 

 a good day, treat a half-pounder in the water with 

 respect, and spin a Devon minnow, when the state 

 of the river demanded that alternative, reasonably 

 well. A worm in our circle was for some reason 

 absolutely taboo. I think the prejudice against it 

 was, and still is, pretty strong in Devonshire. But 

 as previously recorded, I had learned a great many 

 other things too, particularly a good deal of physical 

 geography, with trout, incredible though the fact 

 may seem, as a sort of basis for it. I had already 

 divided England into two distinct portions, one 

 worthy of desire, the other of no account at all. I had 

 always in my mind an as yet imperfectly defined line 

 which ran down from Yorkshire slantingwise to 

 south Devon. West of this line was mentally tabu- 

 lated a good country, one of hills and moors and rapid 

 trouting streams. East of it was a dull stodgy region 

 of tame outlook and sluggish rivers, mainly given over 

 to coarse fish. Wales and the north, particularly the 

 former, as I had looked constantly upon its distant 

 mountains, both from Exmoor and from Shropshire, 

 was to me a land of dreams and future trouting possi- 

 bilities strongly tinged with romance. I have that 

 feeling about England still, with certain modifications, 

 and couldn't shake it off if I tried, though I know 

 nearly the whole of both sides of that line and can draw 

 the last with greater precision. The sentiment of 

 locality or atmosphere was extraordinarily active in 

 my youthful breast even then, and at seventeen or 

 eighteen it had grown stronger still. It was Catholic 



25 



