to go cautiously in pursuit, is to allow the salmon to run out with an
enormous length of line; the line is submerged--technically speaking,
_drowned_--in the water, the strain of the supple rod is removed from the
fish, who finds the hook loose in his mouth, and rubs it off against the
bottom of the river. Thus speed of foot, in water or over rocks, is a
necessary quality in the angler; at least in the northern angler. By the
banks of the Usk a contemplative man who likes to take things easily may
find pretty sure footing on grassy slopes, or on a gravelly bottom. But
it is a different thing to hook a large salmon where the Tweed foams
under the bridge of Yair down to the narrows and linns below. If the
angler hesitates there, he is lost. Does he stand still and give the
fish line? The astute creature cuts it against the sharp rocks below the
bridge, and the rod, relieved of the weight, leaps straight in the
fisher's hand, and in his heart there is a sense of emptiness and sudden
desolation. Does he try to follow, the chances are that his feet slip;
after one or two wild struggles he is on his back in the water, and
nearly strangled with his fishing-basket. In either case the fish goes
on his way rejoicing, and, after the manner of his kind, leaps out of the
water once or twice--a maddening sight.

Adventures like this are among the bitter memories of the angler. The
fish that break away are monstrous animals; imagination increases their
bulk, and fond desire paints them clean-run and bright as silver. There
are other chances of the angler's life scarcely less sad than this. When
a hook breaks just as the salmon was losing strength, was ceasing to
struggle, and beginning to sway with the mere force of the stream, and to
show his shining sides--when a hook breaks at such a moment, it is very
hard to bear. The oath of Ernulphus seems all too weak to express the
feelings of the sportsman and his wrath against the wretched
tackle-maker. Again, when the fish is actually conquered; when he is