Jan. 9, 1909-] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
61 
and while enjoying an evening pipe and exhal¬ 
ing the meditative smoke, how the memory 
traverses the back trail, and one enjoys again 
in fancy the past sunny summer days. 
This must be characteristic of most anglers. 
Dropping the Noctes, I lay my hand on “Near 
and Far,” by Senior, and the first paragraph 
that catches my eye is a chapter called “Christ¬ 
mas Puffs.” He expresses so concisely the men¬ 
tal attitude of the average angler that I am 
tempted to quote him verbatim. 
“After forty the majority of us do our Christ¬ 
mas angling from the armchair and encourage 
a fair substitute for the real thing in the whirls 
and eddies of tobacco, rather than of the rush¬ 
ing river. May the brethren out in the open 
have a right merry time and sport to their soul’s 
content, making the most of the short, dark 
day, and topping up the merriment of the home 
circle by appearing in their midst at a respect¬ 
able hour, to be congratulated and admired. For 
the rest of us let us dedicate the incense of one 
pipe at least to the sport we love. 
“And believe me, of all the anglers’ memories, 
the best to draw upon are the most far-reaching. 
There never was and never will be fishing to 
equal that of the boyish days, when the world 
was as young as yourself, and there was noth¬ 
ing wrong and nothing ugly in all creation. 
“Talk about ecstacy! Why—but enough. If 
the reader be not an angler he would not under¬ 
stand me, gush I ever so strongly; if he be an 
angler, he will comprehend the Alpha and Omega 
of it all without another word. Yea, verily. 
Such is life. * * * I repeat—such is life.” 
So it is brethren, with anglers all, from the 
immortal Izaak to Red Spinner, and from Tickler 
to date. We glorify the summer day with its 
angling experiences and make light of the dis¬ 
appointments, while we regret its passing; and 
it is only when we delve deep for causes we 
realize that it is not the trout and trouting, or 
the sun and shadow of the summer day we sigh 
for, but for the lust of life, the joy of living, 
the hopes, joys, robust health and energy that 
were ours “when the world was as young” as 
ourselves, and that now are slipping forever 
from our grasp as from the imperfect grip of 
the angler slips the salmon, hooked, held, played 
—for a passing moment and then lost—lost for¬ 
ever and forever in the waters of oblivion. 
W. J. Carroll. 
[John Wilson (“Christopher North”) was born 
in Paisley, Scotland, in 1785, and after the death 
of his father, became the possessor of an estate 
valued at $200,000. He graduated from Glas¬ 
gow University and from Oxford, married Jane 
Penny, of l^iverpool, purchased the Westmore¬ 
land estate and settled down as a country gentle¬ 
man. Here he wrote many of his best poems 
and essays, practiced wrestling, boxing, cock- 
fighting, long distance walking and angling. At 
one time he owned a fleet of small boats, and 
was a companion of Wordsworth. But his in¬ 
terests were left to a relative, whose manage¬ 
ment was so bad that Wilson finally lost every¬ 
thing and went to Edinburgh to recuperate his 
fortune. He studied law, but apparently prac¬ 
ticed little. When Blackwood’s magazine was 
founded, Wilson obtained employment on it, and 
for it he wrote his “Noctes Ambrosianse” and 
other essays which brought him fame. In 1820 
he was elected professor of moral philosophy in 
Edinburgh University, where he remained for 
nearly twenty years until, after the death of his 
wife, he became an invalid through two attacks 
of paralysis. 
In writing of the great angler in the Scottish 
Field, James Meikle says it is no uncommon 
thing for the “ruling passion”—let the passion 
have been what it may—to remain strong even 
in death. There is loving and pathetic proof 
that it was so with John Wilson. In the beau¬ 
tiful sketch of his closing days, which was writ¬ 
ten by his own daughter, these words may be 
found: “It was an affecting sight to see him 
busy, nay, quite absorbed, with the fishing tackle 
scattered about his bed, propped up with pillows 
—his noble head yet glorious with its flowing 
locks. How neatly he picked out each elegantly 
dressed fly from its little bunch, drawing it out 
with trembling hand along the white coverlet. 
Then replacing it in his pocketbook, he would 
tell ever and anon of the streams he used to fish 
■•a 
LUNCHEON AT THE STREAM SIDE. 
of old, and of the deeds he had performed in his 
childhood and youth.” 
Mr. Wilson’s great strength was not often 
exerted save in the sports he was fond of, but 
on one occasion, Mr. Meikle tells us, he em¬ 
ployed it most effectively. One day, it seems, a 
professional fighting man of not a little renown 
barred Wilson’s way in the most insolent man¬ 
ner on a little bridge somewhere about Oxford. 
Without a moment’s hesitation Wilson told the 
man if he did not give way he would make him. 
“You’d be as well not to try that game on, 
mister; I’m Tom So-and-So,” the boxer said, 
laying particular emphasis on his name the while. 
“I don’t care who you are,” Wilson returned. 
“You’ll either clear the way or take the con¬ 
sequences.” 
In a minute or so more the pair were sailing 
into each other beautifully. The professional 
quickly discovered he had met more than his 
match, and as he dropped his hands for a sign 
that he wished no more, he said with a growl, 
“Why, you must either be the devil or Jock 
Wilson, of Magdalen.” 
With perfect good nature Wilson replied, “The 
a friendly pot of porter. —Editor.] 
Bass Fishing in the Rideau Lakes. 
When we arrived at Newboro Lock no one 
appeared, and we aroused the echoes. We blew 
the horn as the launch entered the long, narrow 
and winding cut, leading from the Upper Rideau 
Lake to Mud Lake, where we were going to 
fish. Any other blowing we did before we 
started as to our future catch was not done 
with a horn. 
The cut is the high watermark of the whole 
Rideau Canal system, as the waters flow east¬ 
erly from the Upper Rideau to the Ottawa River 
and southerly from Mud Lake to the St. Law¬ 
rence at Kingston. You wind through this cut 
for half a mile, now under a railway bridge, 
then under a bridge on the high road, through 
fields, past a tired old warehouse, and between 
the walls of several tree-clad rock cuts, until 
you arrive at the lock of Mud Lake. Sometimes 
you find the lock tender there and sometimes 
you do not. 
It was raining, and although we had a canopy, 
we were damp. Presently with dignity and an 
umbrella—for the Rideau Canal is a relic of 
imperial militarism and individualism of other 
days—the lockman appeared, and with one hand 
he carefully held the umbrella over his sacred 
person while with the other he leisurely opened 
the gate, and we got through. 
Mud Lake near the launch landing is weedy. 
Circling the weeds as best we could, we got the 
Winnifred within twenty feet of the wharf, 
when an immense bundle of weeds entangled 
in the screw, stopped the engine; but our guide 
was there, and throwing him a line, we were 
soon hauled to the wharf, where we tied up for 
the night. 
“How much bait will Oi bring, sor?” asked 
Dan. 
“Better bring as many as you think we will re¬ 
quire ; bring enough,” I said. 
Your guide buys your minnows from a man 
at Newboro who makes a business of supplying 
bait and fishing skiffs to fishermen. We ob¬ 
tained one skiff which we were to tow down 
the lake to the vicinity of the best fishing 
grounds, when with Dan as oarsman we would 
fish for the mighty bass, using minnows as bait 
and a light casting rod. 
Mud Lake is not all mud. There is plenty 
in places, and in those places the ducks in great 
numbers congregate, but a large portion of the 
lake is good navigable water, dotted here and 
there and everywhere with islands, islets and 
rock shoals where good fishing may be had. Bor¬ 
dered by drowned lands, these parts of the lake 
are filled with stumps, behind which, in the 
heat of the day, the bass lurk, ready to seize 
the well-cast bait as it splashes down in the 
shadow of a stump. 
“Will you throw, off that bow line,” I called 
to a wellwisher on the wharf, as with bait on 
board we prepared to start. “All ready, Fred. 
Keep her nose pointed at that big hemlock tree 
on the island until we have gone a couple of 
hundred yards, and when Dan gets things in 
ship shape he’ll take the wheel,” I shouted, with 
my hand on the flywheel handle. Fred kept 
her head on the tree all right, for the pet engine 
did not start. Round and round I whirled the 
flywheel in vain. Her nose still pointed to the 
same old tree and her stern playfully caressed 
the wharf. She just would not go. The batteries 
