Arguably the first written account of fly fishing in Australia
The Hobart Town Magazine – Volume 1. 2 April 1833
A DAY’S FISHING IN THE PLENTY.
“Of recreation there is none—
So I see as fishing is alone;
All other pastimes do no less,
Than mind and body both possess:
My hand, alone, my work can do,
So I can fish and study too.”—Izaak Walton.
Most courteous of readers! Art thou a fisher? We do not mean a mere bobber for jolly-tails, or black fish, but an enthusiastic, hearty angler, one, who is “born to it,” as Izaac Walton hath it; —and who will follow it with energy and spirit, wading like a crane, fording up to the arm-pits, and diving, like a Platypus, if it should be requisite. “And are there such noodles in the world, as to do all this for the sake of a dozen or two of mullets?” asks some quiet and sedate elderly gentleman, who entertains the same opinion of angling, as that scurrilous fellow Swift, did:—namely, that it is a pastime performed with a rod and a string—with a worm at one end, and a fool at the other !—But, softly, good Mr. Cynic !—and just favor us with five minutes of your valuable time, and still more valuable attention, while we prove to you, beyond all dispute, past, present, and to come, that angling is not the silly affair you think it is, and that it was practised by wiser and better men than ever you and I can hope to make ourselves. Now, just listen!—so we “let this pass,” and return, with unimpaired vigour, to the subject now before us.
“And for you, that have heard many grave, serious men, pity anglers, let me tell you, Sir, (it is Izaak Walton who speaks,) there be many men, that are by others, taken to be serious and grave men, whom we condemn and pity. Men that are taken to be serious and grave, because nature hath made them of a sour complexion; money-getting men, (Izaak Walton loquitur-men that spend all their time, first in getting, and next, in anxious care to keep it;— men, that are condemned to be rich, and then always busy or discontented; for these poor, rich men, we angler’s pity them perfectly, and stand in no need to borrow their thoughts, to think ourselves so happy. No, Sir! (Hold up your head, Mister Cynic, and do not be abashed!) we enjoy a contentedness above the reach of such dispositions; and, as the learned and ingenious Montaigne says, like himself freely, “When my cat and I entertain each other, with mutual apish tricks, (as playing with a guitar) who knows but that I make my cat more sport than she makes me? Shall I conclude her to be simple, that has pastime to begin or refuse to play as freely as I myself have? Nay,—who knows but that it is a defect of my not understanding her language, (for doubtless cats talk and reason with one another) that we agree no better?—and who knows, but that she pities me for being no wiser, than to play with her, and laughs and censures my folly for making sport for her, when we two play together?”
Thus wisely speaks Montaigne concerning cats; and, although we feel wonderfully inclined to enter, here, into a long and (of course) a learned dissertation on these most useful and most capricious of animals, still, the subject to which this article must be devoted, precludes an indulgence in any such capriccio: we must, therefore, confine ourselves to the “matter in hand,” and deport ourselves accordingly.
Touching the matter of Montaigne’s cat, we opine, Mr. Cynic, that, in the way of illustration, we have made some small advance towards the establishment of our position, namely, that angling is not a silly pastime; although we must confess, that it would puzzle us exceedingly to establish any connexion between cats and angling;
We have intimated, that angling has been pursued by wise and good men, as a pleasurable relaxation from the toil of business, or the intensity of study. In proof of this, let us merely mention the names of Horatio Nelson, Walter Scott, and Humphrey Davy—three of the most illustrious names, which this, or any other age can boast of. We wish we could add to this glorious triad, the name of Wellington; but, although an excellent soldier, and no very bad hand at statesmanship, his Grace has not handled a fishing-rod since he rambled through “Datchet Mead”—a merry, careless, unambitious school-boy. Indeed, soldiers, generally speaking, are indifferent anglers: we know not why—but so it is; and the only soldier, with whom me were acquainted, who could throw a fly with anything like skill, was an old pensioner in Wales, whom la fortune de la guerre had deprived of an eye and a leg; but he was an extraordinary man in many respects, and, amongst other things, he could hop with his wooden pin higher and faster than any man in the district. He is still alive, and, we hope merry; long may he “dot and go one,” and continue to ensnare the golden trout of the dark-waved Dee!
Were we to indulge ourselves in recording all the great names of illustrious anglers, we should fill a volume instead of a mere article: We must, therefore, refer the curious in such matters to Jamblichr De Vita Pythagoras; Dionys; Halicarnassi Epistol; ad C’neium Pomp; (Ed.Reischc\m); Basil; Archiepisc; Cosar; (Ed. 1618,/, with several other works equally learned and accessible, not omitting good, old, gossiping Izaak Walton, who, though mentioned “last,” is, by no means “least in our dear love!” And if our worthy friend, the Cynic, should still persist in his heresy— which will be very surprising, after he has read diligently the authorities we have selected—we beg leave to submit to his consideration, the following morceau from honest Izaak, aforesaid:—” Oh, Sir! Doubt not but that angling is an art; is it not an art to deceive a trout with an artificial fly? A trout! that is more sharp-sighted than any hawk, and more watchful and timorous than the highmettled Merlin is bold.—Doubt not, therefore, Sir, but that angling is an art, and an art worth learning; the question is, (mark this, Mr. Cynic)—whether you are capable of learning it. For angling is somewhat like poetry—men are to be born so: I mean, with inclinations to it, though both may be heightened by discourse and practice; but he that hopes to be a good angler, must not only bring an inquiring, searching, observing wit; but he must bring a large measure of hope and patience, and a love and propensity to the art itself; but, having once got and practised it, then, doubt not, but angling will prove to be so pleasant, that it will prove to be like virtue, a reward to itself.”‘
But angling has been stigmatized as a dull, unsocial, stupid pastime. Angling dull and stupid! Heaven help the egregious blockhead who thinks so! Why, there is an interest beyond comparison, and excitement beyond measure, in the true and manly practice of the art; and an idiot of ten years standing, if he have but a feeble glimmer of mind left, would find a stirring occupation for it in his lonely wanderings by the river’s brink. We positively pity that man, who can find no food for delightful contemplation in the splendid glories of nature—who can travel all the way from Dan to Beersheba, and cry out that all is barren! We are quite certain, that there never yet existed that strange anomaly, a perfectly irreligious fisher; the thing is morally impossible! That man must have a dull and deadened soul, indeed, who can behold with apathy, those ever-active operations of nature, which are visible in leaf and flower—in beast and bird—in field and fell—in the wood, the stream, the mountain and the forest; and the habit of thought, engendered by the fisher’s solitary pastime, sprinkled, moreover, as it is, with its gentle excitement, is extremely favorable to the indulgence of those sentiments, which lift us up from earth to heaven, and which fill us with gushes of irrepressible and holy love for the great and gracious God who made us, the earth, and all that is therein,—urging us instinctively and joyously to exclaim :—” O Lord! How manifold are thy works; in wisdom hast thou made them all; the earth is full of thy riches!”‘ No!—the honest and amiable angler cannot gaze upon—
“The stately compass of the lofty sky,
And in the midst, thereof, like burning gold,
The flaming chariot of the world’s great eye.”
without knowing and feeling, that every tiling around him is a portion of that glorious and gracious system, which has for its object the comfort and welfare of heedless and unthankful man. Let the scoffer scoff then, and the Cynic snarl; let the sour, serious man of money and Mammon, whose soul is wrapt up in the accumulation of the gold he worships, stigmatize angling as a dull and unprofitable occupation; but do you, our excellent and most gentle “brother of the angle,”‘ take up your rod, sling on your basket, and accompany us in a “Day’s Fishing in the Plenty,”‘—singing, as we trudge along :—
“Oh! the gallant fisher’s life,
It is the best of any ;—
‘Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And ’tis belov’d by many:
Other joys,
Are but toys,
Only this
Lawful is;
For our skill,
Breeds no ill—
But content and pleasure.”
But, before we set out, let us look to our tackle, and see if it be in good time and excellent abundance:—
“Our rod and our line, our float and our lead,
Our hooks and our plummet, our whetstone and knife,
Our basket, our baits, both living and dead,
Our net, and our meat, for that is the chief;
Then must we have thread, and hairs great and small,
With our smart fishing-basket, and so we have all!”
And, now then, to the Plenty. “In leaving Richmond Hill,” as the Itinerary would state, “you pass on the left, Mason’s Hotel, and on the right, the neat and comfortable residences of Dr. Officer and Mr. Lindley, with Miss Ring’s “Establishment for Young Ladies,” and that best of all Colonial inns, “The Bush,” well kept by our old friend, Mrs. Bridger, and now under the industrious, able, and obliging superintendence of her nephew, Mr. Baker. By the way, a word or two here on Colonial Inns will not be misapplied, or supererogatory; for as we intend to render this a rambling sort of article, our readers must not be very much surprised, if we, occasionally, indulge in rhapsodizing on matters—foreign, it may be, to the immediate subject “on hand,” but, nevertheless, edifying in some degree, to the public in general. To return, therefore, to Colonial Inns. We had an idea, which was industriously instilled into our gentle bosom by our friends at home, that the inns in Van Diemen’s Land were mere huts; capable, perchance, of accommodating you with a “shake-down” in the stable, a tough and doughy damper, some lean mutton steaks, or some still leaner kangaroo—to say nothing of Colonial Beer—worse than the washings of a gun-barrel —and rum, that a “nigger” would sneeze at! Lo! and behold, then! What was our amazement, when, after a tedious voyage of five long months—during which, we were plentifully saturated with salt junk, and more than satisfied with the skipper’s sauciness —what, we say, was our amazement, when we found ourselves sitting down comfortably, to a splendid sirloin of roast beef—a couple of boiled chickens—3ome most exquisite kangaroo steamer, “with other articles too numerous to particularize”—as Mr. Stracey would say—in a very delightful apartment, at that very delightful Cabaret, the Ship, in Hobart Town! There were no symptoms of the hut here! The wines were good, the bottled porter and ale most deliciously ripe and excellent, while the rum punch, prepared by the skilful hand of Mr. Wise, would fearlessly challenge competition with the preparation of the most curious compounder at home. But, were we to enter here upon a general and particular description of all the good inns, it has been our happy lot to meet with in this Colony, we should awfully enlarge our present article: this most important and most interesting subject shall receive due attention and most elaborate illustration on some future occasion—for the present, we shall only declare—and we do so boldly and fearlessly—that Van Diemen’s Land can safely challenge any country of like standing and extent as to the number, quality, and excellence of its inns.—We are not afraid of the result: Sir. Wises punch, would, almost, of itself, establish the preference; but we have abundance of corroborative and collateral evidence to adduce at the right and fitting season—and we most certainly shall do so; for the present, we shall once more return to the original and proper subject of this article—namely, “a day’s fishing in the Plenty.”
We are, now, fairly on our way to this lively little river—and we have left Richmond Hill some two or three hundred yards in our rear. Keeping the high road, we see before us a very beautiful expanse of woodland and water scenery. The banks of the Derwent on the opposite side of the river, are diversified by several well cultivated, though small farms; and, in enumerating the useful objects on the opposite bank, we must not omit the mention of the Ferry House, kept by Mr. Stephenson, who is so well known for civility, and attention to his guests, and for the readiness with which he attends to the calls of passengers, at all seasons and in all hours—no small virtue, let us observe, when the “fresh”‘ in the Derwent runs sometimes, at the rate of eight or ten knots an hour. Pursuing our route, we presently arrive at Bell’s Terrace; (so called from Major Bell, the engineer, who made the road,) and overhanging the river, at a height of several hundred feet. There is something extremely grand and fine in the various views from this terrace. Below, on the right, the river glides slowly, darkly, and silently towards the distant ocean; bounded on one side by smiling fields and green meadows, and, on the other, by the road—in some parts, the wattled bush—in others, huge rocks, piled, like “Pelion upon Ossa”—and lifting their brown and bare and rugged sides to the rough elements—unscathed by their fury— unmoved by their inclemency. And, then, they appear as if they would topple, and tumble down upon the heads of those, who gaze admiringly upon them. But, it is not so. There they are, safe, secure, and so firmly moored, that a very strange and powerful “combustion of the elements” would be necessary to “unship” them from their situation.
As you proceed, exultingly, towards the Plenty, you reach, about a mile or so from Richmond Hill, a sharp diversion in the road, which here sweeps round a small gully, and takes the name of the Horse-shoe Bridge. Just above this, as you ascend to the commencement of Bells Terrace, you will perceive, on the left a “bright, green spot,” somewhat encumbered with wood, but easily cleared, and presenting in our opinion, one of the most delightful spots imaginable for the erection of a residence. A gentle, well-wooded hill, covered with green sward, rises smoothly and shelteringly behind, while the river rolls along the flat below, bounded by broad patches of fertile cultivation, and dotted with white weatherboarded cottages. The declivity to the river is too steep for a garden, but we could find room for one on the flat by the house, and as soon as we have planned and laid it out, we shall forthwith commence its cultivation; and, we flatter ourselves, that in the course of a couple of years, the grounds and gardens at Bryntirion, (for so we have christened it) will be worthy of a visit from the curious in matters horticultural and botanical; at all events, they shall ever be accessible to their inspection; and, if we are at home, we shall be very happy to crack a bottle of our own grape or gooseberry wine, with a “brother of the angle,” as he passes by on his way to the Plenty.
Trudging nimbly along Bell’s Terrace, we gain the summit of the hill, and commence our descent to the flat by the Falls. A level road now takes us beneath Mr. Thomas Atkinson’s pretty estate of Maitlandville, and close to the river on the right. Here, during the months of January, February, and March, there is usually very good mullet fishing, the fish having now deserted the creeks and rivulets, and repaired to the rapid, but shallow scours and streams of the larger rivers; but as we are bent on a pilgrimage to the Plenty, we shall not stop even to wet our flies at the Falls, but away, at once, up into the hills.
“Away ! Our journey lies through dell and dingle,
Where the blithe lamb trips by its timid mother:
Where the tall gum tree, with its scattered boughs,
Chequers the sun-beam in the green sward valley.
Up and away! For lovely paths are these
To tread, when the glad sun is on his throne;
Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia’s lamp
With doubtful glimmer, lights the dreary forest.”
We are now fairly in the uplands, and up to our ancles in sand. It is yet earliest morning, and “the bush” is absolutely alive with the chirping of crickets and grasshoppers, the whirring of beetles, the chattering of parrots and magpies, and, high above all, the extraordinary scream of that extraordinary bird, the laughing jackass. Ever and anon, too, as you look down on the path, a lizard will dart away into the long grass, or perchance, a snake will rush into the brush-wood, giving, as it goes, one rapid piercing glance of its small bright eye, and leaving you standing with poised rod and “hair on end,” looking “unutterable things.” Oh! how we love the bush, and all its wild and wonderful beauties! Aye! even the venomous and terror-striking snake is an object of admiration, as it glides, with rustling scales, beneath the crumbling log; and the very beetle, as it whizzes like a burnished star before you, adds a joyous interest to the scene. It is true, we have not here as in India and Africa, the mighty roar of the lion and tiger, that shakes the very woods, and infuses terror into the bosoms of all minor animals; but we have the shrill scream of the eagle-hawk—to all intents and purposes an eagle itself—and, occasionally, a glimpse of its majestic figure, wheeling in wide circles over the brow of some lofty mountain. And as to other birds, we have a vast variety—not very highly distinguished, it may be, for the melody of their notes, but replete with gay and beautiful plumage, and full of wild and graceful motion. We have said nothing of the botany of the bush, because, were we once to enter upon that fascinating topic, we should not know when or how to leave off. This must serve for several separate and future articles, which we shall, according to our invariable custom, render as amusing and as edifying as possible. For the present, then, we shall leave the stately and the weather-beaten eucalyptus, the green and graceful mimosa, and the whole tribe of acacias, &c. &c. &c. and descend a rough ravine in the road, called “the Dry Creek.”
This is a wild and rugged spot. The road here makes a slight curve over the hill, and descends abruptly into a flat by the river side, bounded on one side by a wooded dingle, and on the other by a rough hill, covered with brush-wood, interspersed with a few larger trees, and here and there a brown bare rock. At the bottom is a rude log-bridge, and just beyond are two rude huts, in perfect keeping with the scene, and harmonizing greatly with its ruggedness.
We are now rapidly approaching the Plenty, and shall just reach Redlands in time for breakfast. There it is! that low brick house, in that beautiful broad flat on the left. The chimney smokes hugely, giving visible token of the good fare preparing for breakfast, and we are quite sure that Major Oakes will give us the reception he always gives his friends—warm, hearty, and sincere. We turn out of the main road therefore, and shortly find ourselves in the breakfast parlour at Redlands. What a grand meal is breakfast! we mean the real substantial copious, and most delightful “Dejune a lafourchette.” Ham, eggs, beefsteaks, cold meat, fish of course,—(and it is best broiled) with a splendid steamer, hot as heat itself, and as savoury as excellent cookery can make it—add to these, coffee and tea, with some of the genuine Redlands butter and cream, and you have a repast fit for old Jupiter and all his immortal comrades. We forget exactly who it is that remarks, there is nothing like the foundation of a good breakfast, when a body has an important days work to do; but we know from most expert experience, that the observation is full of truth and philosophy. It is truly astonishing, what an alteration a good breakfast effects on the mind and manners of an individual. The best tempered mortal breathing, even our kind hearted and amiable friend himself, will find his temper ruffled, and his suavity soured, after a walk of six miles before breakfast;—no sooner, however, is he favored with a seat at Major Oakes’s well spread board, and the first gentle fumie of the savoury steamer spreads itself over the pituitary membrane of his organ of scent, than his proverbial amenity returns—his good-natured phisiognomy beams with its wonted benevolent lustre, and joke and jest, wit and repartee, season a repast, fit, as we said before, for the immortal Gods.
There are several favorite and frequented spots in the Plenty, where mullet mostly abound; and, without a chart of its course, we cannot well describe in writing the exact geographical situation of the spots in question. But we can give the reader a few general hints, by the adoption of which, we scruple not to aver, he will derive great and peculiar advantage. First then, let him look to his bait. A small reddish worm, denominated the brandling, is about the best he can use. This is found in dunghills, or in rich made earth, and if it is used. without having scoured, it will, generally, be found very “taking.” But roe prefer the “Jig” to any bait, natural or artificial. Perhaps, certain sturdy predilections, associated with some of the best, most delightful, and most deep rooted recollections of our youth, lead us to this choice. We are, ourselves, more than half inclined to think that this is the case; and, at all events, the artificial fly is a very dangerous and successful snare for the mullet. We have generally used a red hackle, and the fern-fly, and these, from “early morn to evening’s shade,” are decidedly “killing;” when, however, the sun is progressing towards his “ocean bed,” and his beams are withdrawn from the dancing waters, a small white-winged moth-like fly, is the most captivating. In England we use such a fly, with fatal success, at the edge of night; but here, heaven help us, we have no edge to night at all; but plunge at once in medias res. With the flies we have mentioned, then, tolerable execution, by skilful management, may be reckoned upon in the Plenty: and if the angler will pay attention to the following remarks, he must be a desperate and most daring bungler if he does not fill his fishing basket.
When you come to a smart stream or scour, we think the worm will be your best weapon; but mind how you use it. We can assure you, from our own trifling experience, that a very great deal depends upon the mode of using the worm. In the first place, mind, particularly, how you place it on the hook. If you let a single spot of the polished snare appear, the cunning fish will pass it by, if not positively unnoticed, at all events, only so noticed, as to convince you that he has detected your design. Cover then the hook, barb, point, shaft and all; and take heed, not to leave too large a portion of your worm, dangling and writhing beyond the point; if you do, the first hungry and ferocious fish will seize upon the superfluous portion, gobble it quickly up, and leave your hook, gliding denuded through the water—a very laughing-stock to the whole piscatory assemblage. Very often, however, when the fish are not hungry, they will not take a worm at all: we have positively seen them wriggle slowly and coquettishly towards the bait, take it quietly in their mouths, give it one soft experimental suck, and then turn away with the most grave contempt imaginable. This is one of the most provoking things that can happen to an, angler, and is to be avoided only by substituting the fly for the worm. You may cheat them in this way, for as they usually dart at the fly, to make sure of him upon the earliest instant of his arrival, they have not time to make any unpleasant discoveries. In the still pools, or under banks, where the water is deep, the fly is decidedly the best. Recollect, we are speaking of creek fishing, and, more especially of the Plenty; for, as “different minds incline to different objects,” so do the fish of different waters incline to different habits. Experience therefore, based upon sound and attentive observation, is the only sure guide to the angler in these matters.
As to the best times for fishing, we assume, that early morning is the best, then mid-day, and then evening, leaving the afternoon, or from two till about five, last on the list. But so much depends upon the weather, that these periods are subject to considerable variation. Warm weather is decidedly favorable to the ensnaring of mullet, and sun shine, especially in a strong stream or ripple, is by no means unfavorable. The best season is spring, that is from Michaelmas to Christmas, for the creeks; and the summer for the large rivers; but we have known the mullet to remain in the Plenty till February.
Carefully observant of the directions, we have here promulgated, we proceed to our favorite scours and holes in the Plenty, beginning just below Major Oakes’s garden, and so fishing down the stream, regardless of snakes, lizards, centipedes, and all creeping things, filling our baskets with some of the finest silver-bellied and hogbacked mullets,* which are contained in this picturesque rivulet. By noon we have crawled as far as Glen Leith, where we make a capital lunch on broiled fish, new potatoes, and bottled porter, and then proceed, “tarrying no further question”—to the river side, to renew our murderous sport, which we pursue with unrelenting vigor, till our baskets will positively contain no more. We then wend our way towards Charlie’s Hope, where the Colonial representative of Dandie Dinmont, George Thompson, Esq., J.P. gives us a hearty welcome to dinner, which is urgently re-echoed by his hospitable help-mate; and after a quiet chat about “Auld Lang Syne”—seasoned by a tumbler or two of very excellent whisky toddy—we set out in the cool evening to walk home by moonlight —after a delightful “day’s fishing in the Plenty.”
PISCATOR.
- By whose sagacious invention these fish received the title of mullet, we know not; they are to all intents and purposes, a species of smelt, and, when first caught, they have the same cucumber-like odour.