Little Rivers [36]
in a passive,
silent way, the soul of man also. Then, after we had discussed the
year's fishing, and the mysteries of the camera, and the deep
question of what makes some negatives too thin and others too
thick, we must go out to see the big salmon which one of the ladies
had caught a few days before, and the large trout swimming about in
their cold spring. It seemed to me, as we went on our way, that
there could hardly be a more wholesome and pleasant summer-life for
well-bred young women than this, or two amusements more innocent
and sensible than photography and fly-fishing.
It must be confessed that the horse-yacht as a vehicle of travel is
not remarkable in point of speed. Three miles an hour is not a
very rapid rate of motion. But then, if you are not in a hurry,
why should you care to make haste?
The wild desire to be forever racing against old Father Time is one
of the kill-joys of modern life. That ancient traveller is sure to
beat you in the long run, and as long as you are trying to rival
him, he will make your life a burden. But if you will only
acknowledge his superiority and profess that you do not approve of
racing after all, he will settle down quietly beside you and jog
along like the most companionable of creatures. That is a pleasant
pilgrimage in which the journey itself is part of the destination.
As soon as one learns to regard the horse-yacht as a sort of moving
house, it appears admirable. There is no dust or smoke, no rumble
of wheels, or shriek of whistles. You are gliding along steadily
through an ever-green world; skirting the silent hills; passing
from one side of the river to the other when the horses have to
swim the current to find a good foothold on the bank. You are on
the water, but not at its mercy, for your craft is not disturbed by
the heaving of rude waves, and the serene inhabitants do not say "I
am sick." There is room enough to move about without falling
overboard. You may sleep, or read, or write in your cabin, or sit
upon the floating piazza in an arm-chair and smoke the pipe of
peace, while the cool breeze blows in your face and the musical
waves go singing down to the sea.
There was one feature about the boat, which commended itself very
strongly to my mind. It was possible to stand upon the forward
deck and do a little trout-fishing in motion. By watching your
chance, when the corner of a good pool was within easy reach, you
could send out a hasty line and cajole a sea-trout from his hiding-
place. It is true that the tow-ropes and the post made the back
cast a little awkward; and the wind sometimes blew the flies up on
the roof of the cabin; but then, with patience and a short line the
thing could be done. I remember a pair of good trout that rose
together just as we were going through a boiling rapid; and it
tried the strength of my split-bamboo rod to bring those fish to
the net against the current and the motion of the boat.
When nightfall approached we let go the anchor (to wit, a rope tied
to a large stone on the shore), ate our dinner "with gladness and
singleness of heart" like the early Christians, and slept the sleep
of the just, lulled by the murmuring of the waters, and defended
from the insidious attacks of the mosquito by the breeze blowing
down the river and the impregnable curtains over our beds. At
daybreak, long before Favonius and I had finished our dreams, we
were under way again; and when the trampling of the horses on some
rocky shore wakened us, we could see the steep hills gliding past
the windows and hear the rapids dashing against the side of the
boat, and it seemed as if we were still dreaming.
At Cross Point, where the river makes a long loop around a narrow
mountain, thin as a saw and crowned on its jagged edge by a rude
wooden cross, we stopped for an hour to try the fishing. It was
here that I hooked two mysterious creatures,
silent way, the soul of man also. Then, after we had discussed the
year's fishing, and the mysteries of the camera, and the deep
question of what makes some negatives too thin and others too
thick, we must go out to see the big salmon which one of the ladies
had caught a few days before, and the large trout swimming about in
their cold spring. It seemed to me, as we went on our way, that
there could hardly be a more wholesome and pleasant summer-life for
well-bred young women than this, or two amusements more innocent
and sensible than photography and fly-fishing.
It must be confessed that the horse-yacht as a vehicle of travel is
not remarkable in point of speed. Three miles an hour is not a
very rapid rate of motion. But then, if you are not in a hurry,
why should you care to make haste?
The wild desire to be forever racing against old Father Time is one
of the kill-joys of modern life. That ancient traveller is sure to
beat you in the long run, and as long as you are trying to rival
him, he will make your life a burden. But if you will only
acknowledge his superiority and profess that you do not approve of
racing after all, he will settle down quietly beside you and jog
along like the most companionable of creatures. That is a pleasant
pilgrimage in which the journey itself is part of the destination.
As soon as one learns to regard the horse-yacht as a sort of moving
house, it appears admirable. There is no dust or smoke, no rumble
of wheels, or shriek of whistles. You are gliding along steadily
through an ever-green world; skirting the silent hills; passing
from one side of the river to the other when the horses have to
swim the current to find a good foothold on the bank. You are on
the water, but not at its mercy, for your craft is not disturbed by
the heaving of rude waves, and the serene inhabitants do not say "I
am sick." There is room enough to move about without falling
overboard. You may sleep, or read, or write in your cabin, or sit
upon the floating piazza in an arm-chair and smoke the pipe of
peace, while the cool breeze blows in your face and the musical
waves go singing down to the sea.
There was one feature about the boat, which commended itself very
strongly to my mind. It was possible to stand upon the forward
deck and do a little trout-fishing in motion. By watching your
chance, when the corner of a good pool was within easy reach, you
could send out a hasty line and cajole a sea-trout from his hiding-
place. It is true that the tow-ropes and the post made the back
cast a little awkward; and the wind sometimes blew the flies up on
the roof of the cabin; but then, with patience and a short line the
thing could be done. I remember a pair of good trout that rose
together just as we were going through a boiling rapid; and it
tried the strength of my split-bamboo rod to bring those fish to
the net against the current and the motion of the boat.
When nightfall approached we let go the anchor (to wit, a rope tied
to a large stone on the shore), ate our dinner "with gladness and
singleness of heart" like the early Christians, and slept the sleep
of the just, lulled by the murmuring of the waters, and defended
from the insidious attacks of the mosquito by the breeze blowing
down the river and the impregnable curtains over our beds. At
daybreak, long before Favonius and I had finished our dreams, we
were under way again; and when the trampling of the horses on some
rocky shore wakened us, we could see the steep hills gliding past
the windows and hear the rapids dashing against the side of the
boat, and it seemed as if we were still dreaming.
At Cross Point, where the river makes a long loop around a narrow
mountain, thin as a saw and crowned on its jagged edge by a rude
wooden cross, we stopped for an hour to try the fishing. It was
here that I hooked two mysterious creatures,