a flood with minnow, and
thereby made huge baskets, the big fish running up to feed, out of the
loch. But, when last I rowed past Meggat foot, the delta of that
historic stream was simply crowded with anglers, stepping in in front of
each other. I asked if this mob was a political "demonstration," but
they stuck to business, as if they had been on the Regent's Canal. And
this, remember, was twenty miles from any town! Yet there is a burn on
the Border still undiscovered, still full of greedy trout. I shall give
the angler such a hint of its whereabouts as Tiresias, in Hades, gave to
Odysseus concerning the end of his second wanderings.

When, O stranger, thou hast reached a burn where the shepherd asks thee
for the newspaper wrapped round thy sandwiches, that he may read the
news, then erect an altar to Priapus, god of fishermen, and begin to
angle boldly.

Probably the troops who fish our Border-burns still manage to toss out
some dozens of tiny fishes, some six or eight to the pound. Are not
these triumphs chronicled in the "Scotsman?" But they cannot imagine
what angling was in the dead years, nor what great trout dwelt below the
linns of the Crosscleugh burn, beneath the red clusters of the rowan
trees, or in the waters of the "Little Yarrow" above the Loch of the
Lowes. As to the lochs themselves, now that anyone may put a boat on
them, now that there is perpetual trolling, as well as fly-fishing, so
that every fish knows the lures, the fun is mainly over. In April, no
doubt, something may still be done, and in the silver twilights of June,
when as you drift on the still surface you hear the constant sweet plash
of the rising trout, a few, and these good, may be taken. But the water
wants re-stocking, and the burns in winter need watching, in the
interests of spawning fish. It is nobody's interest, that I know of, to
take trouble and incur expense; and free fishing, by the constitution of
the universe, must end in bad fishing or in none at all. The best we can
say for it is that vast numbers of persons may, by the still waters of
these meres, enjoy the pleasures of hope. Even solitude is no longer to
be found in the scene which Scott, in "Marmion," chooses as of all places
the most solitary.

Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to dwell,
And rear again the chaplain's cell.

But no longer does

"Your horse's hoof tread sound too rude,
So stilly is the solitude."

Stilly! with the horn