PREFACE 



" I WILL write a sort of a Book on Fishing," said 

 I to my friend Mr. Lobworm, when a fresh breeze 

 from the gentle south swept over the meadows, 

 " stealing and giving odours," and reminded me of 

 the many calm and pleasant hours I had spent by 

 the margin of some crystal stream. 



"You really had better do no such thing," 

 replied Lob. He was a man of few words. 



" Your very polite reason, if you please ? " 



" Why, the subject is utterly exhausted ; ninety- 

 nine books have been written upon it already, and 

 no man was ever the wiser for any one of them, 

 although many are clever and entertaining, and 

 moreover abound in excellent instructions." 



" Hold ! you forget dear old Izaac," said I, 

 " whose dainty and primitive work, the emanation 

 of a beautiful mind, has made many a man both 

 wiser and better ; for it is dictated throughout by 

 that wisdom of which it is written, ' Her ways are 

 ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.' ' 



"Therefore it is," replied Lobworm, "that I 

 would have you by all means to refrain : that book 

 will always stand unrivalled and unapproachable. 

 Excuse me, but 'ex quovis ligno non fit Mercurius.' ' 



