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[-114-]
X.
MY SWAN.
THERE was once a great Italian painter - the same who had a hand in
building Saint Peter's - who, when he came to be nearly eighty years of age,
when he was justly considered and renowned throughout Europe as the most learned
artist living, as a man who knew by heart every bone, ligament, muscle, and
vein, and could pourtray them with the most recondite foreshortening and the
most erudite symmetry - which, indeed, he could - designed a rough pencil
sketch, representing a very old man (himself) seated in a go-cart, drawn by a
little child; while underneath the drawing these [-115-] words
were written: 'Ancora impara' - 'Still he learns.' The
octogenarian sage - the oracle of art - was wise and modest enough to confess
how little he knew, and how much he had yet to learn.
Now, though I do not pretend to the learning of Michael
Angelo, or - I say it in all modesty - to know much about anything, I did
flatter myself that I was passably well read in 'public' lore - that, as I once
foolishly boasted, I had graduated in beer. Flippantly, as men of superficial
acquirements are prone to do, I summed up the phases of 'public' life in three
chapters. Fatuitous scribe! I had but broken the ground with the point of my
spade. Insensate! I had thought to do in a day what it would take years to
accomplish a moiety of. Impotent! I had essayed to dip the Mississippi dry with
a salt-spoon!
Consider the contemplative man's recreation. The fishing
public-house! On the banks of a suburban stream, or by the towing-path of a
canal, or by the mud-compelling, stream-restraining portals of a lock shall we
find the piscatorial public: the Jolly Anglers, maybe, or the Izaak Walton, or
very probably the Swan. What connection there can be between a Swan and the
gentle craft I know not; but it is a fact no less strange than incontrovertible,
that the Swan is the favourite sign for fishing-houses: the White Swan, the Old
Swan, The Silver Swan, the Swan and Hook, but the Swan, always.
The Swan, my Swan - on the little fishing river Spree (which
has been playing some astonishing freaks of late - overflowing its banks and
depositing roach and dace in back kitchens and dustbins) - always puts me in
mind of a very old man with very young legs; for whereas it is above, as far as
regards its upper and garret story, a quaint, moss-covered, thatched-roofed
edifice with crooked gable ends, and an oriel window with lozenge-panes, it is
below an atrociously modern erection of staring yellow brick with an impertinent
stuccoed doorway, and the usual rhetorical conventionalities in golden
flourishes about neat wines; fine ales, good accommodation, and the rest of it.
This doorway faces the high omnibus road, and is a sixpenny ride from the Bank -
a great convenience to anglers whose everyday occupations are of a City or
commercial cast. The sign of the Swan formerly stood in this high road, or at
least creaked and swung within an iron frame affixed to a post standing there.
This Swan was a brave bird [-116-] with a neck like
a corkscrew, and a head like the griffin's in the City Arms. There were faint
vestiges of a gold-laced cocked hat, and a rubicund red nose gleaming through
the whity-brown plumage of the bird, and old folks said that before the house
had been the Swan, it was known as the General Ligonier. Other old folks held
out stoutly that the cocked hat and rubicund nose belonged to the publican's
friend, the Marquis of Granby, while a third party swore hard that they were the
property of Admiral Byng, and that he was dissignified after they had shot him.
When Groundbait, the present landlord of the Swan, took the house, he caused the
sign to be removed as too shabby and tarnished, and agreed with Joe Copal, the
journeyman decorator, to paint a new one for a crown and a bottle of wine.
Unfortunately he paid the money and the liquor in advance, and Joe soon after
emigrated to Texas, leaving not only the sign unpainted, but a considerable
score for malt liquors and tobacco unsettled; whereupon Groundbait grew moody
and abstracted on the subject of signs; refusing to have a new one painted, and
replying haughtily to such friends as pressed him on the subject that 'the
gentlemen as used the Swan knew his 'ouse was the Swan without a swan being
painted up outside like a himage; and that if they didn't they might go to any
other swan or goose:' after which he was wont to expel several vehement whiffs
from his pipe, and knitting his brows, gaze ruefully at Joe Copal's unliquidated
score, which to this day remains in full chalk characters behind the parlour
door; it being as much as Dorothy the pretty barmaid's place is worth to meddle
with, or hint about effacing it. Groundbait has looked at it a good many times
since the discovery of the gold-fields in Australia, as he has an idea that
Texas may be somewhere that way; and that Joe, coming back repentant some day
with a store of nuggets, may call in and settle it.
The Swan has been a fishing-house for years, not only as in
the neighbourhood of a fishing stream and the resort of metropolitan anglers,
but also as a species of house-of-call for freshwater fishermen - a piscatorial
clearing-house - a fishing news-exchange, a social club-house for the amateurs
of the rod and line.
The little bar parlour of the Swan, which is of no particular
shape and has a paper ceiling, has a door covered on the inner-side half by a
coloured mezzotint of George the Third in jack-boots, on a horse like a
gambolling hippopotamus, reviewing [-117-] one
hundred thousand volunteers in Hyde Park; half by the famous abacus, or
slate - the tabular record of scores. Dorothy, the 'neat-handed Phillis' of the
Swan, albeit a ready reckoner and an accomplished artiste in stewing carp
and frying smelts, is not a very apt scholar; so she has devised a system of
financial hieroglyphics to cover her want of proficiency in the delineation of
the Arabic numerals. Thus in her money alphabet, a circle (o) stands for a
shilling; a half moon (() for sixpence, a Maltese cross for a penny,
and a Greek ditto for a halfpenny. Farthings are beneath the calculations of the
Swan; and pounds are represented by a very large O indeed; the agglomeration of
a score of circles into one circumference. The room is hung round with badges
and trophies of the piscatorial craft. Rods of all shapes and sizes, eel-spears,
winches, landing-nets, Penelopean webs of fishing-tackle, glistering armouries
of hooks, harpoons, panniers, bait-cans, and in a glass case a most wonderful
piscatorio-entomological collection of flies - flies of gorgeously tinted floss
silk, pheasants' feathers, and gold and silver thread-flies warranted to deceive
the acutest of fish; though if viewed through a watery medium, the flies come no
nearer Nature than these do, I have no great opinion of the fishes' discernment.
With all due reverence for the Eleusinian mysteries of fly-fishing - which I do
not understand, be it said. Over the fire-place is the identical rod and line
with which J.Barbell, Esq., booked the monstrous and European-famed jack in the
river Dodder, near Dublin, and in the year of grace eighteen hundred and
thirty-nine; in one corner are the shovel and bucket with and in which at the
same place and time the said jack, after being walked seven miles down the banks
of the Dodder, and cracking the rod into innumerable fissures (though the
superior article, one of Cheek's best, would not break), was ultimately landed.
Conspicuous between the windows is the portrait of J. Barbell, Esq., a
hairy-faced man, severely scourging a river with a rod like a May-pole; beneath
that, the famous jack himself in propria persona, in a glass case,
stuffed, very brown and horny with varnish, with great staring glass eyes (one
cracked), and a mouth wide open grinning hideously. He is swimming vigorously
through nothing at all, and has a neat fore-ground of moss and Brighton-beach
shells, and a backing of pea-green sky. There are very many other glass cases,
containing the mummies of other famous jacks, trout, roach, dace, and carp,
including [-118-] the well-known perch which was
captured after being heard of for five years in the back waters of the Thames
near Reading, and has a back fin nearly as large as Madame de Pompadour's fan.
Not forgetting a well-thumbed copy of dear old 'Izaak's Complete Angler;' a
price-list of fishing materials sold at the Golden Perch or the Silver Roach in
London, with manuscript comments of anglers as to the quality thereof pencilled
on the margin, and the contributions of the ingenious Ephemera to 'Bell's Life
in London,' cut from that journal and pasted together on the leaves of an old
cheesemonger's day-book; not forgetting these with a certain fishy smell
prevalent, I think I have drawn the parlour of the Swan for you pretty
correctly. The first thing you should do on entering this sanctuary of fishing
is to keep your skirts very close to your person, and to duck your head a little
- the air being at times charged with animal matter in the shape of dried
entrails twisted into fishing-lines, which flying about, and winding round your
clothes or in your hair, produce a state of entangelment more Gordian than
pleasant. The chairs and other articles of furniture are also more or less
garnished with hooks of various sizes, dropped from the parchment hook-books of
the gentlemen fishermen. These protrude imperceptibly, but dangerously, like
quills upon the fretful porcupine; and it is as well to examine your chair with
a magnifying glass, or to cause a friend to occupy it preliminarily, before you
sit down in it yourself.
If you come to the Swan to fish you cannot do better than
tackle (I do not use the word with the slightest intention of punning)
Groundbait, the landlord, immediately. That Boniface will be but too happy to
tell you the latest fishing news, the most approved fishing places, the
neighbouring gentry who give permissions to fish. He knows of fish in places you
would never dream of: he has cunningly devised receipts for ground-bait: his
butcher is the butcher for gentles, his oil-shops are the shops for greaves; he
has hooks that every fish that ever was spawned will gorge, lines that never
break, rods that never snap. If you would go farther a-field after an essay at
the mild suburban angling of the River Spree, he will put you up to rare country
fishing spots, where there are trouts of unheard of size, eels as big as
serpents, pikes so large and voracious that they gnaw the spokes of
water-wheels; of quiet Berkshire villages, where the silver Thames murmurs
peacefully, gladsomely, innocently between sylvan banks, [-119-]
through a green thanksgiving landscape, among little islets, quiet,
sunny, sequestered as the remote Bermnudas; where the river, in fine, is a river
you may drink and lave in and rejoice ever, forgetting the bone factories and
gas-works and tanneries, the sweltering sewerage, inky colliers, and rotting
corpses below Bridge.
If you come to the Swan merely as an observer of the world,
how it is a wagging, as I do, you may take your half-pint of neat port with
Groundbait, or shrouding yourself behind the cloudy mantle of a pipe, study
character among the frequenters of the Swan. Groundbait does not fish much
himself. The engineer has an objection to see himself hoist with his own petard.
Doctors never take their own physic. Lawyers don't go to law. Groundbait, the arbiter
piscatorium, the oracle, the expert juré of angling, seldom takes
rod in hand himself. He has curiously a dominant passion for leaping, darting
the lancing pole, swinging by his hands, climbing knotted ropes, and other feats
of strength and agility. He has quite a little gymnasium in his back garden,
leading to the river - a kind of gibbet, with ropes and ladders, an erection
which, when he first took the Swan, and set up his gymnastic apparatus, gave his
neighbour and enemy, the Reverend Gricax Typhoon, occasion to address several
stinging sermons to the congregation sitting under him at little Adullam,
touching the near connection between publicans and the most degraded of mankind,
such as public executioners, with a neat little historical parallel concerning
Mordecai and Haman.
The angling company frequenting the Swan are varied and
eccentric. Rarely, I am of opinion, is eccentricity so prevalent as among
Anglers. Take Mr. Jefferson Jebb, among his intimates known as Jeff. He is
something in the City, that mysterious place, the home of so many mysterious
avocations. Every evening during the summer months, and every Sunday throughout
the year, he comes to the Swan to fish or to talk of fishing. He is intensely
shabby, snuffy, and dirty, and wears a beaver hat brushed all the wrong way and
quite red with rust. On one finger he wears a very large and sparkling diamond
ring. His boots are not boots but bats - splay, shapeless, deformed canoes, with
bulbous excrescences on the upper leather. When he sleeps at the Swan, and you
see the boots outside his door, they have an inexpressibly groggy, wall-eyed,
shambling appearance, and sway to and fro of their own accord like the Logan or
rocking stone in Cornwall. I think Jeff must be in [-120-]
the habit of drinking coffee at breakfast, and, purchasing dried
sole-skins wherewith to clear the decoction of the Indian berry, be continually
forgetting to take his purchases out of his pockets, for there is a fishy smell
about him, constant but indescribable. He never catches any fish to speak of. He
does not seem to care about any. His principal delight is in the peculiarly
nasty process of kneading together the compound of gravel, worms, and soaked
bread, known as ground-bait, small dumplings of which ordinarily adhere to his
hands and habiliments. He smokes a fishy pipe, and frequently overhauls a very
greasy parchment-covered portfolio filled with hooks. His line or plan of
conversation is consistent and simple, but disagreeable, consisting in flatly
contradicting any assertion on angling, or, indeed, any other topic advanced by
the surrounding company. This peculiarity, together with a general crustiness of
demeanour and malignity of remark, have earned for him the sobriquets of
the 'hedgehog,' 'old rusty,' 'cranky Jeff,' and the like. If he be not a
broker's assistant, or a Custom House officer in the City, ho must certainly be
a holder of Spanish bonds, or Mexican scrip, or some other description of soured
financier.
The arm-chair immediately beneath the portrait of J. Barbell,
Esq., is the property, by conquest, by seniority, and by conscription, of Mr.
Bumblecherry, Captain Bumblecherry, who has been a brother of the angle, and a
supporter of the Swan for twenty years. For the last five he has boarded and
lodged beneath Groundbait's hospitable roof. In his hot youth he was an
exciseman; for some years he has been a gentleman, existing on the
superannuation allowance granted him by a grateful country. He keeps a vehicle
which be calls a 'trap,' but which is, in reality, a species of square
wicker-work clothes-basket on wheels, drawn by a vicious pony. Bumblecherry is a
very square, little old man with a red scratch wig, a bulbous nose, and a fangy
range of teeth. He looks very nearly as vicious as his pony. He bids you good
morning in a threatening manner; scowls when you offer him a light for his pipe,
and not unfrequently takes leave of the parlour company at night with the very
reverse of a benediction. He is a very bad old man; and when he speaks to you
looks very much as if he would like to bite you. He does not believe in
anything, much, except fishing, at which recreation he is indefatigable; fishing
at all times and all seasons when it is possible to fish, singing the while, in
a coffee-mill voice, a [-121-] dreary chaunt,
touching 'those that fish for roach and dace.' In the evening, when he is in a
decent humour, he will volunteer an equally dismal stave called 'The Watchman's
nervous,' and a certain song about a wheelbarrow, of whose twenty-four verses I
can only call to mind one, running, I think,
The Mayor of Hull come in his coach,
Come in his coach so slow-
And what do you think the Mayor come
for?
Why, to borrow my wheelbarrow-Oh, oh,
oh!'
Ad libitum.
It is a sight to see the captain savagely fishing
in all weathers, fair or foul; pouring maledictions on all who dare to meddle
with his tackle; gloomily cooking the fish he has caught, or driving doggedly
along in the basket-cart with the vicious pony - which brute anon attempts to
bite crossing passengers, anon stands stock still, whereat Bumblecherry gets out
and kicks him till he moves again. He abuses Dorothy very frequently, but as he
occasionally makes her presents of odd banks of floss-silk he uses in
fly-making, meat-pies, and other confectionary, and once attempted to kiss her
in disengaging a double-barbed hook from her dress, there is a report that he
means to marry her, and at his decease endow her with the fabulous wealth he is
supposed to have accumulated during his connection with the British excise.
A frequent visitor to the Swan is a tall, high-dried French
gentleman in a short cloak, decorated with the almost obsolete poodle collar.
Nobody knows his name, so he is generally called, with reference to his foreign
extraction, as the Moossoo.' He is a very assiduous, but pensive and melancholy,
fisherman, and, sitting on a stump with the poodle collar turned up over his
countenance, looks very like 'Patience on a monument.' In hot weather he will
not disdain to take off his stockings, and, rolling up his trousers, fish
barelegged at a considerable distance from the bank. He is an amateur in the
breeding and care of gentles and worm-bait, and generally carries about with him
a box of lob-worms, which, he laments to Mrs. Groundbait (who speaks a little
French), are continually getting loose, and walking up and down the stairs of
his house 'la canne a la main' - an anecdote I venture to relate
with a view to signalling a peculiarity, hitherto unknown, in the natural
history of lob-worms.
In summer weather a great crowd of dandy fishermen [-122-]
invade the Swan. These gay young brothers of the Angle - bucks of
Cheapside and exquisites of the Poultry - come down on afternoons and Sundays in
the most astonishing fishing costume, and laden with the most elaborate
fishing-tackle. Wide-awake hats of varied hue, fishing-jackets of curious cut,
veils, patent fishing-boots, belts, pouches, winches like small steam-engines,
so complicated are they; stacks of rods, coils of lines, bait-cans painted the
most vivid green: such are the panoplies of these youths. Tremendous is the fuss
and pother they make about bait and hooks, elaborate are their preparations,
bold and valorous their promises, but, alas! frequently and signally lame and
unsatisfactory their performances. With all their varied armament and intricate
machinery, I have seen them, many a time and oft, distanced and defeated by a
stick and a string, a worm at one end, and a little barelegged boy at the other.