THE LITERATURE OP FLY FISHING. 219 



Andrew Lang has left a picture of himself 

 fishing which will live as long as men like good 

 fishing and good letters. But one who knew 

 him and has fished with him many times on 

 many waters from Galloway to Hampshire may 

 perhaps be allowed to say that he exaggerates 

 his deficiencies. The truth is that he loved 

 fishing so well that he cared not if he caught 

 fish or not. He loved the game. He was never 

 so happy as by a river. He has told this admir- 

 able both in prose and verse; and perhaps he 

 expresses himself best in his well-known lines : 



Brief are man's days at best; perchance 

 I waste my own, who have not seen 



The castled palaces of France 



Shine on the Loire in summer green. 



But no. Scotland has a nearer and dearer 

 claim. 



Nay, Spring I'd meet by Tweed or Ail, 

 And Summer by Loch Assynt's deep, 



And Autumn in that lonely vale 



Where wedded Avons westward sweep. 



Or where, amid the empty fields, 



Among the bracken of the glen, 

 Her yellow wreath October yields, 



To crown the crystal brows of Ken. 



The Tweed was his early love, and he never 

 changed. But afterwards I think that the 

 Test, Itchen and Kennet claimed an equal 

 share. 



