168 ANGLING REMINISCENCES. 



ling piece of wood hath it been in its own time. 

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

 length of great fish mastered by the skill of its first pos- 

 sessor. I can recal, 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 car- 

 ry in my arms the ponderous fish ; he relieves me 

 silently of the burden silently! the familiar spec- 

 tre 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 her- 

 metic chambers of Time! Well hath one said, 

 " There is no such thing as forgetf ulness ! " Stand- 

 ing 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 na- 

 tive 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- 



