THE RIVER-SIDE. 43 



Gaff. So be it, Bill. But this meadow is sweet and 

 fragrant. What hinders us, now that the air is hot 

 and the fish dull, to seat ourselves awhile on the 

 grass ? Hollo ! Doctor ; thou must keep to our com- 

 pany, and not probe the water against all usage. 

 There is nothing to be made out of it at present. 



Swivel. Indeed, sagacious sir ! This nibble refutes 

 thee at the outset ; look, what a masterly tug ! and 

 there again ! my line is forced out. I have him. 



Gaff. An eel, Doctor. Ha ! ha ! 



Swivel. No bad fish, Master Timothy ; nay, the 

 very pick of dainties to those who are men of dis- 

 cernment. 



Gaff. Such as thyself, for instance. But the ugly 

 rascal has gorged thy hook to his centre ; bisect him 

 if thou art wise, and uprip his catacombs. 



Swivel. As you say, Tim ; we shall unfold our 

 lancets, and lay on among his vitals. 



Gaff. His vitals, Doctor the vitals of an eel ! Thou 

 must needs shred him into morsels ere thou findest 

 them. 



Leister. Barbarous and inhuman talk ! unworthy of 

 anglers and of a refined age ! Gaff and Swiveltop, you 

 are twain unnaturally savage souls. Dash at once the 

 poor, lingering reptile against the ground ; it will put 

 an end to its sufferings, and save us the pain of listen- 

 ing to your abhorrent and damnable schemes. 



Swivel. O rare sentimentalist ! Know you not 

 that eels are heretics, and we the inquisition ? But 



