39 



ing we seldom think, except in murmuring dreams 

 of rheumatism and water-rats, and eye-sight often 

 fails, 



" When comes still evening on, and twilight grey 

 Has in her sober livery all things clad." 



Moreover, it is chiefly the home-haunting angler, 

 he whose " lines have fallen in pleasant places," 

 who dwells habitually by river side, or sees " beneath 

 the opening eyelids of the morn'" some broad an- 

 cestral lake gladdening his daily gaze, in moon- 

 light sparkling with bright columnar fire within its 

 cincturing trees, or greener margins, he, or some 

 happy friend who shares his dwelling, alone can 

 cast his angles in the night. No man, who " long 

 in populous city pent," wanders for a time in lone- 

 some gladness by the side of glittering waters, can 

 wait with patience for a summer night, however 

 beautiful may be the countless stars 



" That sparkle in the firmament of June." 



Whether he will or no, he must wend his way 

 to grassy bank, or pebbly shore, or alder-skirted 

 brink, and if there he fishes all the live-long day, 

 he cannot fish at night, at least he ought not so to 

 do. He who spareth not the rod hateth himself, 

 and produces a degree of fatigue and satiety which 

 ought never to mingle with his healthful toil. 



Suppose, then, that the gentle reader does not 

 fish at night, that he dines heartily (sero sed serio), 

 imbibes moderately, takes tea sedately, and has 

 still an hour to spare before a light supper, let 



