108 
FOREST AND 3TREAM„ 
[Aug. §, 18&6. 
friends, and their silence waB only seeming, and musing 
in an abstracted way was a rare and pleasant gift, he 
said: "It is not so with the chronically absent-minded, 
who may be heavy-browed, but are vinegar-visaged and 
constitutionally morbid, and would no sooner think of 
angling than of robbing the exchequer of the realm. An 
editor's life is neither the best nor the worst in which 
to cultivate this rare gift. There are those in the 
profession who can so concentrate their thoughts that 
the pertinacious pleadings of a score of office-seekers 
cannot tangle the thread of their meditations. And 
sometimes even the least abstracted among us have to 
throw off sentences amid such persistent din that bedlam 
itself would blush at the clatte?. What little of the art 
came to .me by nature and compulsory practice has been 
strengthened by the opportunities for silent meditation 
afforded by the habit of angling." Thus spoke the weary 
political editor, and we read between the lines his disgust 
with the horde of office-seekers, who under the ante civil- 
service laws rendered miserable the life of every man who 
had "inflooence" in the smallest degree; but the deduction 
which he draws, that the practice of angling conduces to 
deliberate thought, is one that should commend its prac- 
tice to parents as the best of all sports for their sons. 
The murdering instincts of a boy are often satisfied with 
the death of a low form of animal life which cannot suffer 
as much pain as mammals or birds, under any circum- 
stances, because their nervous organizations are lower. 
Shakespeare was greatly in error when he wrote, in effect, 
that "the smallest worm when trodden under foot feels 
pangs as great as when a giant dies." (Memory.) Suffer- 
ing is entirely a m,atter of nerves. A worm which can be 
cut in two and go on living and pa-haps grow into two 
worms cannot si^er much. Pull a lobster's claw from its 
body and a new one grows. Pull a limb from a mouse 
and the animal dies. 
Under date of July 3, 1878, Mr. Dawson wrote me: 
"No pastime is so attractive to me as angling; and when 
not at it I greatly like to talk and write about it, ethic- 
ally, not scientifically, for I have never been able to 
master an ology of any kind," and then he goes on to ask 
about the details of grayling fishing. Some time before 
this I called on him and enlarged on the pleasures of a 
trip to the Au Sable River, Michigan, with Mr. Daniel H. 
Fitzhugh, of Bay City, and of the capture of the gentle 
grayling. He listened awhile and then asked: 
"How large do grayling ^row?" 
"Those we took were fish that would weigh from 
i to lilbs., but some have been taken that would weigh 
US much as 21' s." 
"My boy," he seemed to be fond of addressing me in 
this way, perhaps because of the fact of the great dis- 
parity of years when we first fished together back of 
Kinderhook Landing, or because his son, George S. , was 
my schoolmate, "you talk enthusiastically about this new* 
fish, which never exceeds 2lb8. in weight; did you ever 
take a salmon?" 
"No, but—" 
"Well, I have, and the grayling may be a good little 
fish for those who have never hooked bigger game, but it 
seems rather small to one who has taken a salmon." 
This was a setback from an enthusiastic angler, and 
after pulling myself together I ventured to suggest that 
his angling literature, as far as I had read it, rather 
placed the weight and number of fish in the background, 
and that, as the originator of the saying that ' 'it is not all 
of fishing to fish," I had thought that the newly discov- 
ered grayling might interest him. He saw the point at 
once, became interested in the fish and went to Michigan 
to take them, an account of which can be found in his 
"Angling Talks," published by Forest and Stream in 
1883— a most interesting little work, full of flavor of the 
woods and waters. 
Mr. Dawson died Feb. 17, 1883, after a few days' illness, 
aged seventy years. His life had been such an active 
one, and as a political leader he was so prominent, that 
his death produced a profound sensation. The Albany 
Atqus, politically opposed to Mr. Dawson, said of him: 
"To journalism this man bore no undistinguished rela- 
tion. He was a ready, wise, dangerous writer. He was 
a Greek to be feared when he came bearing presents. 
* * * He was very able in stating a case for a party; 
he was even abler in stating a case against a party. He 
■was ablest in giving a man either a fatal defense or a 
fatal attack. His genius ran to combat; battle was his 
element. Eoutine tired him. Peace gave him a sense of 
ennui." 
■ About five months before his death he retired from his 
editorial labors, although his well-knit frame and com- 
pact form showed no more sign of weariness than did his 
mind. The Argus said: "Pneumonia wrestled the life 
out of this Scot, they say. Doubtless it did. 'Twas 
pneumonia of which he died. But how came his consti- 
tution to take it? Through cold? Why, he had summered 
for years in water knee-high, or waist-high, putting up 
jobs on fish. Why, he had repeatedly slept on the floor of 
lumber cabins o' winter nights, his feet to a flre and his 
head under an open window, in the Michigan woods. He 
had the conquering will that defied wet and blasts. Did 
his prolonged labors undermine his constitution? Em- 
phatically no! He was ever strongest in harness. When 
he went to press every day he went to bed every night to 
sleep the easy-breathing, refreshing sleep of a boy. 
Knocking off work unsettled this man's strength. Labor 
was a tonic to him. He would have lived through sheer 
love of labor had he remained a scalp taker, every day, 
armed with his keen pen and keener thought. None can 
be blamed. He quitted work because he said he wanted 
to quit it. He thought that lessening the tension would 
enable him to play in the youth of old age. And he 
loved to play. But work was his best play. Then he 
played with thunder." 
Only once did Mr. Dawson hold public office. He was 
postmaster of Albany from 1861 to 1867, at a time when his 
pen was most actively engaged in the patriotic work of 
upholding the integrity of the Union. But he did not 
Slop at writing editorials and equipping his eldest son for 
the army. He publicly announced that he would pay to 
the families of any six printers who would volunteer $4 
per week during the time they remained in the United 
States service, and he did it. One of the six, Charles 
Van Allen, of Bethlehem, Albany county, went out with 
my regiment in August, 1862, and died in Andersonville 
prison Sept, 18, 1864. His wife received the pay for 
iifcarly a year after he died, or for the full term of his 
toiiiistment, some $624, all to one family. 
V. eorge Dawson was a member of the Baptist Church, a 
Sunday-school teacher and lay preacher. A noble man 
and a most charming one to be in camp with. Entirely 
without ostentation, his acts of charity were known to 
but few, and if within his power his pencil would be 
drawn through most of these lines, written by one who 
is proud to have known him, and to have called him 
friend. Fred Mathbe, 
THE FISH IN THE SWIM AND AFTER. 
What he does and why he does it. 
The one particular fisherman is Rex L. I don't think 
there is any need for me to give you his name in full, is 
there now? And he it is who taught me all that I know 
about fish and fishing, at least about the scientific part of 
it. I adore science if the teacher only makes it interest- 
ing, but how many professors are there who have that 
happy faculty? I only know that if Rex, dear old fellow, 
had been the science professor in our school I should 
have known a great deal more than I do about many 
things. 
I knew Rex ever so many years ago, when I was quite a 
little girl. I think I always knew him; but the longest 
ago that I remember clearly is one summer when I was 
ten years old and we were all in camp in the Adirondacks, 
and Rex had a camp near us and took me out in his boat 
fishing with him. I dearly loved the excitement of fight- 
ing with the fish, especially when it was a big fish, that 
rushed first to all points of the compass, then jumped into 
the air and dived down again, "flirting between zenith 
and nadir," as Rex says, which are really not points of 
the compass at all, although I don't see why they shouldn't 
be. But all the same, I used to be very sorry for the fish, 
and thought it very cruel, and Rex used to say that the 
fish didn't mind it at all and enjoyed the sport just as much 
as he did, at least as long as they were in the swim. 
Well, the other day Rex came to challenge me to a 
game of lawn tennis. It was a beautiful day and I was 
glad of anything for distraction, so I assented gladly, and 
we went to the park and had a lovely game, or rather 
several games, until I was not exactly tired, but just in 
the right frame of mind for sitting down with Rex under 
the trees and enjoying a delightful chat: and Rex's talk is 
always so instructive and interesting. 
I don't know how it happened. I dare say Rex could 
explain it to me if I were to ask him; but all at once I 
felt as if it were the old Adirondack times over again and 
Rex and I was sitting in the boat fishing, so I asked him 
if he were still as fond of fishing as he used to be. 
At the mention of the word fishing a soft light came 
into his eyes — and Rex has beautiful eyes — and a far 
away yearning look, which made me realize the appro- 
priateness of those charming lines of Campbell's on 
Arnold Winkleried: 
"You might have seen with sudden grace 
The very thought steal o'er his face." 
And Rex leaned back against the tree in an easy, grace- 
ful attitude, with his hands clasped around his knees and 
began to talk, 
" Yes, I love fishing," he said in a pleasant, dreamy 
way, "not merely for the sport itself, although that af- 
fords scope for the display of some of the finer talents; 
nor even for the indulgence of what may be scientifically 
characterized as the ultimate motive, that is the providing 
the fish for the pan; although the appetite engendered by 
a day's sport, and the admirable suitability of the fish to 
gratify and alleviate it at the same time, produce a sense 
of satisfaction with ourselves and our surroundings, 
which is really nothing more than an intuitive apprehen- 
sion of the beautiful adaptation of means to ends which 
pervades aU nature. 
"But the real charm of fishing is in the accessories: 
collateral enjoyments, to which the instinctive impulse to 
go fishing is only an admirable provision of nature to 
guide us to higher pursuits. Nature allures us as we allure 
the fish, by holding before us an object which lures our 
senses, as the well-tied fly lures the senses of the fish; 
but having enticed us into the wilderness, away from the 
engrossing pursuits of city life, the scales fall from our 
eyes, which are opened to the calm enjoyment of the 
somber and stately pine forests, the sublimity of the 
mountain peaks, the busy hum of the omnipresent mosqui- 
to and the bright, laughing ripple cn the face of the spark- 
ling brook. The phenomena thus transmitted through the 
senses generate impressions upon the sensitive substance 
of the brain, which by reflex action upon half obliterated 
impressions of bygone experiences carry a man outside 
himself as it were, and cause his whole being to swell 
with mingled emotions. Yes, catching fish," he contin- 
ued, "is not the whole of fishing." 
There was a pause after this, dm-ing which Rex ap- 
peared to be recalling bygone scenes, while I was methodi- 
cally engaged in committing his instructive lesson to 
memory, 
"But about the fish," I asked at length, "is it not pain- 
fid for then^? I can't help putting myself in their place." 
"That is where you err," he said; "you can only ap- 
proach the problem objectively, and it is consequently 
impossible for me to analyze the precise state of mind in 
which the fish participate in the sport. Fish have brains, 
which, although smaller in proportion to their frames 
than those of the higher vertebrates, are nevertheless 
constructed on the same general type, and as function 
corresponds to organ, it is perfectly safe to conclude that 
they have intelligence; but no matter what the measure 
of their intelligence, they can reason only from the facts 
as they present themselves, and from their previous ex- 
periences. 
"Now, what are "the facts in the case of a fish taking 
an artificial fly? He tries to get away with it, and his 
first impression is doubtless one of astonishment that so 
small a creature should have so strong a pull, and his one 
dominant idea is to hold fast to him. His destructive 
impulse is in the ascendant. When he finds he can get 
no further, and that the fly is dragging him against his 
will, the combative impulse is aroused; he grasps the fly 
viciously, makes a determined plunge, and revels in the 
delicious sense of final triumph over his small but power- 
ful foe, and in the pleasurable excitement springing from 
the healthy exercise of all his powers and the fierce fer- 
ment of his emotions. When at length he is momentarily 
exhausted with the struggle and finds the fly leading him 
whither he would not, he goes quietly, that he may re- 
cover his breath and be prepared for a renewal of the 
joyous struggle. His sensations as he alternately yields 
and triumphs presumably correspond precisely with those 
of the fisherman, the joyous excitement in both cases 
^ being tempered on the fisherman's part with anxiety lest 
' the fish should ultimately get away, and on the part of 
the fish lest he should finally have to let go the fly." 
"But surely," I objected, "the hook must give the fish 
great pain." 
"Not at all," he replied. "In the first place, by a beau- 
tiful ordination of nature the horny plates of a fish's 
mouth are without any nerves of sensation, and even if a 
fish be hooked in some other part provided with nerves, 
the nervous sensibility of fish is very low, the only pain is 
in the momentary prick, and that is forgotten instan- 
taneously in the excitement of the sport. No matter how 
much a fish's mouth may be torn, he is always ready to 
renew the struggle with a second fly, after he has had 
time to recover his wind." 
"But surely," I urged again, "the poor fish must be 
filled with anxiety and alarm when he finds that he can- 
not get rid of the fly and recover his liberty." 
"By no means," rejoined Rex. ' 'You argue on the hypo- 
thetical presumption that the fish has your knowledge of 
the ultimate consequences to which it is all tending, pro- 
viding, which is not always the case, that the fisherman 
triumphs; but these ultimate consequences altogether 
transcend the fish's experience. What can an inexperi- 
enced fish know about frying pans. No, the conclusions 
of science are that the fish experiences the most delicious 
excitement in angling which his nature is capable of, at 
least as long as he is in the swim." 
"Yes," I retorted, "as long as he is in the swim. But 
what about his sensations after he is in the boat? Do 
not his struggles there indicate pain and anxiety amount- 
ing to terror?" 
"No," rejoined Rex, "all his struggles after coming to 
the landing net are fairly attributable to reflex action. 
You know what that is?" 
"Perhaps not quite clearly in the case of the fish," I re- 
plied, "please explain." 
"Well, it is an activity which he is bound to engage in 
by the mere property of his physical constitution, irre- 
spective of any mental effort — in fact an activity which 
his body must engage in whether his mind assents or not. 
In illustration: if you were to let me take off your boot 
and tickle the sole of your pretty little foot, you would 
draw it away immediately." 
"Yes, of course," I retorted, "because I should feel it." 
"No, not because you would feel it," he replied, "but 
because you couldn't help it. If a man's back was 
broken he would have no consciousness of any feeling in 
his feet, but if anyone were to tickle them he would draw 
them away precisely as if he did feel it, by what is called 
simple automatic reflex action, which means that one 
part of a sensitive substance, being touched, receives an 
impression which is at once communicated to other parts 
and sets them in motion. In your case it would be a 
double-actioned automatic movement, because the im- 
pression would be simultaneously transmitted to the brain, 
in which it would produce not only an impression, but a 
sensation also, and your will would give voluntary assent 
to a movement which under any circumstances would he 
made involuntarily. The struggles of a fish on a hook 
when he is being pulled in and finds he cannot get rid of 
the fly are also the result of double automatic reflex 
action, which impels him to reflect upon himself and 
upon the fly, but not to cast reflections upon the fisher- 
man, whose character and motive and part in the pro- 
gramme altogether transcend the fish's experience." 
Of course I wouldn't let him tickle my foot, because I 
know exactly what the sensation is; but I wouldn't have 
thought it possible that a person who couldn't feel it 
would act just as if she did, but Rex says so, and he 
knows. Apropos to this, I remember reading somewhere 
"that we are curiously and wonderfully made." 
I adore science if it is only made interesting, as Rex 
knows how to make it, but although he had wrapped me 
up carefully when we sat down, I was getting chilly, and 
suggested a move homeward. 
We talted very little by the way, for somehow the 
faster you walk the slower you think, but I was able to 
memorize his exact language carefully and was very par- 
ticular to do so, especially that about the double-actioned 
automatism, which is very interesting and instructive. I 
don't pretend that I understand it exactly, but Rex has 
studied it and he knows. It is enough for me to accept 
the general conclusion to which the argument pointed — 
"that fish were created expressly for participating in the 
sport of angling, without sense of pain or appreciation of 
ultimate consequences" — those were Rex's exact words — 
and "that, lured by the fly precisely as man is lured by 
them, they engage in the struggle with as keen an appre- 
ciation of its pleasures as the fisherman himself." Rex 
remarked too on the way home, "that although when 
the fish jumps the act is due simply to conscious auto- 
matic reflex action, the fish always takes advantage of 
his position to effect a reconnoissance, and that having 
sighted the line his one idea is to snap it, which he takes 
a malicious and consequently intelligent pleasure in 
doing." Alice Demarest. 
Cranberry Lake, Adirondacks. 
Cranberry Lake in the Adirondacks is furnishing some 
capital sport this year, Mr. George B. Wood, of Syracuse, 
writes to Mr. Fred Mather from Cranberry Inlet under 
date of July 26: 
"Friday I caught a trout of S^lbs. Yesterday, one Slbs. , 
one 21b8 , one l^lbs. Last week three fellows caught twen- 
ty-eight trout, total weight 631b8,, including two at 41bsi 
each. I supply two houses with trout for four, using only 
a fly, and am having great sport. This is the best all- 
round year trout-producing section in the Adirondacks, 
and the fish are larger than in any other place I know 
or have heard of. I calculate to leave here a week 
from Thursday, and to get home about Aug. 6 or 7. 
Two days before I shall fish for keeps; then look out. I 
want two or three 4 or 5-pounders. Thought sure I had 
one last night about 7 o'clock. A lunker took my fly 
(Reuben Wood) No. 4 hook, and when it struck it was like 
the side of a barn; he fought like a tiger. When near the 
surface a surge was made the size of a wash tub; in about 
ten minutes I had the fellow safe. If I bad lost the fish 
he would not have weighed loz. less than 51bs. He was 
hooked just near the pectoral fin, and I tell you he made 
a circus; actual weight 3lbs., length 18in. I have a copy 
of Forest and Stream with me, which affords lots of fim 
and brings out a series of stories and fish lies. 
Geo. B. Wood." 
