176 ANGLING REMINISCENCES. 



There are notches on't, along its butt, denoting the 

 length of great fish mastered by the skill of its first 

 possessor. I can recall, through means of these, many 

 of the venerable man's exploits, as related to us by his 

 own lips in the days of our childhood. Now that I 

 think on't, the pool we have lately been angling upon 

 was a prime favourite of his, and I hold some recol- 

 lections, too, of aiding him at the landing of a huge 

 salmon among yonder shallows. Yes, Jack, 'tis a dream 

 of yesterday. I have the kind eyes of the aged angler 

 beaming upon me, as I attempt to carry in my arms 

 the ponderous fish ; he relieves me silently of the 

 burden silently ! the familiar spectre cannot speak ! 

 there is no voice in the visions of memory ! 



Leister. How rapidly, Tom, fleets the mind over the 

 thousand links that connect it with the past, and with 

 what mysterious power it enters into the hermetic 

 chambers of Time ! Well hath one said, " There is no 

 such thing as forgetfulness ! " Standing here, I could 

 recount the tale of my boyhood those little plots of 

 which it was formed, until now lost sight of, even by 

 myself. 



May. The angler's grave ! What associations it 

 presents of one that hath trodden the vales of his native 

 land of a lover of peace, poetry, and the poor of 

 him who lived in contentment, and died 



Otter. Not on his bed, Bill. My ancient friend, 

 Mr. Brigstanes, fell a martyr to his angling enthusi- 

 asm, and was drowned, aged seventy-one, at a swollen 



