Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66, No 405, July 1849. Various
cheeses. Did you ever know me incorrect in my figures, in any affirmation or denial, private or public?
BULLER.
Never. Beg pardon.
NORTH.
Now that the soups and fishes seem disposed of, I boldly ask you, one and all, gentlemen, if you ever beheld Four more tempting Jigots?
TALBOYS.
I am still at my Fish. No fish so sweet as of one's own catching – so I have the advantage of you all. This one here – the one I am eating at this blessed moment – I killed in what the man with the Landing-net called the Birk Pool. I know him by his peculiar physiognomy – an odd cast in his eye – which has not left him on the gridiron. That Trout of my killing on your plate, Mr Seward, made the fatal plunge at the tail of the stream so overhung with Alders that you can take it successfully only by the tail – and I know him by his colour, almost as silvery as a whitling. Yours, Mr Buller, was the third I killed – just where the river – for a river he is to-day, whatever he may be to-morrow – goes whirling into the Loch – and I can swear to him from his leopard spots. Illustrious sir, of him whom you have now disposed of – the finest of the Four – I remember saying inwardly, as with difficulty I encreeled him – for his shoulders were like a hog's – this for the King.
NORTH.
Your perfect Pounder, Talboys, is the beau-ideal of a Scottish Trout. How he cuts up! If much heavier – you are frustrated in your attempts to eat him thoroughly – have to search – probably in vain – for what in a perfect Pounder lies patent to the day – he is to back-bone comeatable – from gill to fork, Seward, you are an artist. Good creel?
SEWARD.
I gave Mr Talboys the first of the water, and followed him – a mere caprice – with the Archimedean Minnow. I had a run – but just as the monster opened his jaws to absorb – he suddenly eschewed the scentless phenomenon, and with a sullen plunge, sunk into the deep.
BULLER.
I tried the natural minnow after Seward – but I wished Archimedes at Syracuse – for the Screw had spread a panic – and in a panic the scaly people lose all power of discrimination, and fear to touch a minnow, lest it turn up a bit of tin or some other precious metal.
NORTH.
I have often been lost in conjecturing how you always manage to fill your creel, Talboys; for the truth is – and it must be spoken – you are no angler.
TALBOYS.
I can afford to smile! I was no angler, sir, ten years ago – now I am. But how did I become one? By attending you, sir – for seven seasons – along the Tweed and the Yarrow, the Clyde and the Daer, the Tay and the Tummel, the Don and the Dee – and treasuring up lessons from the Great Master of the Art.
NORTH.
You surprise me! Why, you never put a single question to me about the art – always declined taking rod in hand – seemed reading some book or other, held close to your eyes – or lying on banks a-dose or poetising – or facetious with the Old Man – or with the Old Man serious – and sometimes more than serious, as, sauntering along our winding way, we conversed of man, of nature, and of human life.
TALBOYS.
I never lost a single word you said, sir, during those days, breathing in every sense "vernal delight and joy," yet all the while I was taking lessons in the art. The flexure of your shoulder – the sweep of your arm – the twist of your wrist – your Delivery, and your Recover – that union of grace and power – the utmost delicacy, with the most perfect precision – All these qualities of a heaven-born Angler, by which you might be known from all other men on the banks of the Whittadder on a Fast-day —
NORTH.
I never angled on a Fast-day.
TALBOYS.
A lapsus linguæ– From a hundred anglers on the Daer, on the Queen's Birthday —
NORTH.
My dear Friend, you ex —
TALBOYS.
All those qualities of a heaven-born Angler I learned first to admire – then to understand – and then to imitate. For three years I practised on the carpet – for three I essayed on a pond – for three I strove by the running waters – and still the Image of Christopher North was before me – till emboldened by conscious acquisition and constant success, I came forth and took my place among the Anglers of my country.
BULLER.
To-day I saw you fast in a tree.
TALBOYS.
You mean my Fly.
BULLER.
First your Fly, and then, I think, yourself.
TALBOYS.
I have seen Il Maestro himself in Timber, and in brushwood too. From him I learned to disentangle knots, intricate and perplexed far beyond the Gordian – "with frizzled hair implicit" – round twig, branch, or bole. Not more than half-a-dozen times of the forty that I may have been fast aloft – I speak mainly of my noviciate – have I had to effect liberation by sacrifice.
SEWARD.
Pardon me, Mr Talboys, for hinting that you smacked off your tail-fly to-day – I knew it by the sound.
TALBOYS.
The sound! No trusting to an uncertain sound, Mr Seward. Oh! I did so once – but intentionally – the hook had lost the barb – not a fish would it hold – so I whipped it off, and on with a Professor.
BULLER.
You lost one good fish in rather an awkward manner, Mr Talboys.
TALBOYS.
I did – that metal minnow of yours came with a splash within an inch of his nose – and no wonder he broke me – nay, I believe it was the minnow that broke me – and yet you can speak of my losing a good fish in rather an awkward manner!
NORTH.
It is melancholy to think that I have taught young Scotland to excel myself in all the Arts that adorn and dignify life. Till I rose, Scotland was a barbarous country —
TALBOYS.
Do say, my dear sir, semi-civilised.
NORTH.
Now it heads the Nations – and I may set.
TALBOYS.
And why should that be a melancholy thought, sir?
NORTH.
Oh, Talboys – National Ingratitude! They are fast forgetting the man who made them what they are – in a few fleeting centuries the name of Christopher North will be in oblivion! Would you believe it possible, gentlemen, that even now, there are Scotsmen who never heard of the Fly that bears the name of me, its Inventor – Killing Kit!
BULLER.
In Cornwall it is a household word.
SEWARD.
And in all the Devons.
BULLER.
Men in Scotland who never heard the name of North!
NORTH.
Christopher North – who is he? Who do you mean by the Man of the Crutch? – The Knight of the Knout? Better never to have been born than thus to be virtually dead.
SEWARD.
Sir, be comforted – you are under a delusion – Britain is ringing with your name.
NORTH.
Not that I care for noisy fame – but I do dearly love the still.
TALBOYS.
And you have it, sir – enjoy it and be thankful.
NORTH.
But it may be too still.
TALBOYS.
My dear sir, what would you have?
NORTH.
I