CHAPTER VII 



" Whate'er Lorraine light touched with softening hue, 

 Or savage Rosa dashed, or learned Poussin drew." 



Exploring one morning the upper parts of the 

 river, with my trout rod in my hand, I came to a 

 little meadow in a vale where the stream played in 

 mazes beneath hanging coppices. In this seques- 

 tered spot, I espied a gentle angler — I may say 

 particularly gentle. His mode of fishing appeared 

 so novel, that I was induced to pry a little into it ; 

 so I ventured to approach him, and asked what 

 sport he had been having. 



" Oh, glorious, glorious, — perfectly enchanting ! 

 All Paradise is around me ! " 



I took notice, however, that although he held 

 his rod pretty much in the usual piscatorial position 

 of altitude, his fly was by no means on the water, 

 but lay very comfortably dry upon the furzes on the 

 bank side, and that, whatever his hand might 

 pretend to be doing, his mind was not at that 

 moment particularly bent upon a capture. Whilst 

 he stood entranced, I took the liberty of lifting up 

 the lid of his basket, in which I descried nothing 

 but a pair of gloves — not a fish reposed in it. It 



