TROUT-FISHING 



Mention of the Aquarium revives a couple of personal reminiscences 

 connected with it. 



The first refers to an incident which, laughable as it may and does seem 

 now, provoked certain expletive comments at the time which will not 

 bear setting forth in type. I was then an assistant Whip in the House of 

 Commons, and, my party being in office, Saturday was the only day 

 on which I could escape to the waterside, Sunday being dies non for 

 fishers on the Itchen. This restriction added an almost painful zest to 

 the sport. A strong north-east wind careering downstream sometimes 

 proved calamitous; but on the occasion referred to all was most favour- 

 able. How well I remember that July morning — traversing the empty, 

 sunlit streets in a hansom (taxis were not yet even a dream of the future) 

 to catch the 6 a.m. at Waterloo — two blessed hours and a half in the train 

 and a ravenous onslaught on the eggs and home -baked at the lowly 

 Plough.* I received a shock, however, on landing at the wayside 

 station. The roads of the Itchen valley had been chosen as the scene 

 of summer manoeuvres; a large camp had been pitched in Avington 

 Park; the country lanes resounded under the wheels of transport and 

 artillery; the movements of columns of infantry and squadrons of cavalry 

 accounted for clouds of dust far and near; our once tranquil valley was 

 full of noise. 



Now I trust that I may be credited with a fair share of patriotic spirit, 

 nor was I insensible to the picturesque aspect of the occasion, for this 

 happened before our gallant defenders had been clothed in khaki from 

 head to heel. If anything could have indemnified me for interruption 

 of the country calm, it was the glorified presence of a battalion of Gordon 

 Highlanders marching through the village with pipes skirling and phila- 

 begs swinging. Finding that part of the river had been marked off for 

 the troops to bathe in, I hied away to the Aquarium, trusting to be able 

 to pursue my vocation in peace in that secluded spot. Disappointment 

 lay in wait for me here also; and disappointment is all too mild a term 

 to describe my feelings when the first thing that met my gaze was the 

 shining head of a fellow creature swimming right down the middle of 

 the pool. Hailing him, I told him he had no business there — that the place 

 allotted for the men to bathe was so-and-so. 



*' I'm not a man, I'm an officer," was the haughty response flung to 



*Which has now blossomed forth into a smart little hotel, with garage, shell spirit and all the rest of it. But I'll 

 warrant that the eggs are no fresher nor the home-baked more nutty in flavour than of yore. 



117 



