THE GREY SCULL. 167 



I make my escape, for it was one after my own heart ; 

 but my rod was in my hand, and " hoc age " has always 

 been my maxim. Besides the day began to alter, and 

 a fine fresh breeze arose, which came up the river ; 

 clouds appeared over the horizon, which kept gathering, 

 and brought on slight showers and passing shadows, 

 with occasional bursts of sunshine that glittered on the 

 curl of the water. Now, as far as my experience goes, 

 this is the best sort of weather for sport. The pre- 

 judice, notwithstanding, I believe, runs in" favour of a 

 grey day ; but such a one has often deluded my ex- 

 pectations : at which time I have found the fish dull and 

 sulky, when I was in hopes they would be up and 

 stirring. It is not meet that they should study Zim- 

 merman. 



It was now the month of September, and I was ex- 

 pecting to catch some of the grey scull that come for- 

 ward at that season. These fish are of a goodly shape ; 

 but though fresh from the sea are not quite so glossy 

 in their scales, or so rich in flavour, as your brown - 

 backed salmon that comes up early in the spring. They 

 are altogether of a greyer colour than that beautiful 

 fish, and derive their name from that circumstance. 



So soon as I had changed my tackle, my enthusiastic 

 companion came sauntering up to me. I am not quite 

 clear that he was fully sensible of my presence, for his 

 heart seemed still to be amongst the Apennines with 

 Poussin. I made an attempt to dislodge him, and 

 bring him down to the level of my own ideas. 



" You know," said I, " that Gaspar was a great 

 sportsman, though it is not probable that he ever caught 



M 4 



