176 THE VALLEY OF ENCHANTMENT 



of mere veracity. ' The angler,' quoth an American cynic, 

 ' goeth forth in the morning, and returneth at night ; the 

 smell of whisky is upon him, but the truth is not in him.' 

 True it is that if one unacquainted with the craft were to 

 form his estimate of salmon-fishing from the description 

 thereof in sporting journals, he would pronounce it a 

 pursuit fraught with extreme hazard of a watery grave, 

 and to be accomplished only with almost superhuman 

 exertion. The salmon must appear to him a creature 

 endowed with the energy of a torpedo, leaping at times 

 twelve feet into the air and running out such prodigious 

 lengths of line with such exceeding swiftness that an 

 incautious finger might easily be cut to the bone. But 

 those who have fished much in British waters wot well 

 that, although the noblest of fishes often exhibits an 

 agreeable degree of violence, it is exceedingly seldom 

 that he takes out a hundred yards of line or leaves the 

 pool in which he is hooked. In a river like the Rauma 

 it is different. There he is not only described as doing 

 such things, but he is pretty sure to do them; for the 

 angler has to reckon with more than the strength, spirit, 

 and dead-weight of his quarry : the volume and swiftness 

 of the current count for a full half of the chances of 

 combat, and occasions will arise when nothing less than 

 200 yards of line will serve to ensure success. This I was 

 about to realise in the few minutes remaining before 

 Sunday. 



I have said that my first feeling was to acquit Mr. Daven- 

 port of the amiable exaggeration which I had thought 

 discernible in his description of the stream. 



'The field of battle is before me,' he ivrote, 'white and 

 tumultuous at the head, smooth and black in the middle, 



