# An Angler at Large/Chapter 16

To the True Purist all things are pure. We are not all true purists. In every angler, however, the purist lurks. In one he is predominant, in another he is subordinate to the hunter. I confess that in me the hunter is the top dog. When I see a trout, for instance, a beast of prey rises within me and chokes the sportsman. I want to catch, not to fish. But when I see a bull-head the lust of slaughter is less fierce—I cannot say why—and I am ready to be an artist for art's sake. The fact is that I have not the skill to be a purist in trout-fishing, and I know that there are many anglers who are in like case. The object of that which follows is to indicate to these, my weaker brethren, a direction in which their better natures may perhaps find room for development. Let it be understood that I do not address the purist of the chalk-stream. That which follows is intended for those whose purity is equal only to the strain attendant upon the ​pursuit of flat-fish. Lofty minds can find no food for thought here.
The capture of the flounder (Pleuronectes flesus) does not at first sight seem to offer much opportunity for the exercise of preciosity. But it is possible that neolithic man regarded the trout itself as an article of diet rather than as a field for research, and where the flounder is concerned anglers are, generally speaking, in the same stage of civilisation as he. Yet, if the best of us have learned to see fario as he is, may not the bunglers grope after a clearer vision of flesus,
With my friend MacAlister I was seated in the Arctic Circle on a sunny afternoon by the side of a certain sea-stream, the entrance, that is to say, and the exit of the Atlantic into and out of a tidal lake. MacAlister had beaten the water cruelly until it had nearly all fled away into the sea. I may add that he had caught nothing. He had beaten the water, but the water had beaten him. The sea-trout lay off the mouth of the sea-stream and laughed in their beards. As for me, being clean-shaven, I laughed in my sleeve. MacAlister did not laugh at all. There was no sport to be had. We were, therefore, in a mood peculiarly suitable for the reception of the puristic seed when we were aware of Master Peer Gynt, who came delicately, on bare feet, over the pebbles ​and entered the water. In his hand he carried a little spear. This he drove through the body of a flounder, which he threw upon the bank, and again, and yet again. Here was a worthy sport indeed. But we had no spears.
Necessity is the mother of purism. The trout-fisher, having no worm, imagines the artificial fly. The flounder-fisher, having no spear, imagines the landing-net. To catch a flounder in a landing-net is not so easy as it sounds. To begin with, your flounder is a very fearful and crafty fish. He is so fearful that he has made himself exactly like the sand and weed on which he lives. It is therefore very difficult to find him, unless one has exceptional eyesight like Master Peer Gynt. He is so crafty, that when you disturb him by treading about in the water he flits imperceptibly to a new spot, where, with a single shiver of his body—a feat of leger-de-corps in which he has no equal—he covers himself with sand. His little horrid eyes alone remain visible, and these he fastens upon you with a cold stare, full of malevolence.
The first step in puristic flounder-fishing must now be taken, the hypnotism of the quarry. The practitioner will fix his eyes on those of the flounder, and will approach him cautiously from behind. On reaching the flounder he will lower his landing-net until it is upright in the water, ​touching bottom a few inches in front of the flounder's nose. This manoœuvre can be executed only if the angler maintains the hypnotic gaze. If his eye wavers for an instant the flounder will see the descent of the landing-net and dart away. All being ready, the purist will advance the right foot and tread heavily on the tail of the flounder. The flounder will then dash into the landing-net. This is the crude form of the sport.
MacAlister and I soon tired of such simple work, and began to refine upon it. We allowed the puristic part of our natures full play. We raised flounder-fishing to the dignity of what it is—an art. First of all we ruled out all spears, baits, and hooks. These we left to Master Peer Gynt and the pot-hunters. Then we made a law that no flounder should be touched except on clean sand. This was necessary, because MacAlister had shown symptoms of wishing to take his hands to them among the weed. The man who would guddle flesus would be capable of any infamy. Thirdly, we decided that any fish which should bolt into the net before he should actually be trodden on, should be considered "foul started" and returned to the water. We fixed a size limit—a two-and-threepenny French fireproof frying-pan. Then we made any but round-mouthed landing nets unlawful and impure. A ​V-shaped net, owing to the large space of sand which it straddles when inverted, gives the quarry little or no chance. We agreed that any fish which should evade the net once should be let alone, for after he has been driven from place to place for some time a flounder loses heart, and allows himself to be taken with ridiculous ease. Even a good sportsman will respect a gallant and skilful antagonist, and rejoice in his escape: but as purists we were actuated by a still higher principle. With the purist it is first time or not at all. The proper exercise of his skill is to him of such moment that one bungle disqualifies him in his own eyes from proceeding further in the matter.
I could fill many volumes with suggestions for the elevation of flounder-fishing; but a too elaborate exposition would defeat my object, which is not to instruct, but to set others in the way to learn. The truth is only to be found by patient personal search. The seeker, once his feet are set in the right path, must work out his own salvation. It is enough if I have shown him a means of purging his soul of some dross, of clearing some of the mud from his waders. I have offered him one or two stepping-stones. For the rest of the journey across the gulf let him trust to his own higher nature—not to mine.