CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



with caving horns, kicking heels, and straight-up tail, 

 come bellowing by between us and the river, then, 

 "Madam! all is lost, except honour!"' If we lose this 

 Fish at six o'clock, then suicide at seven. Our will is 

 made — ten thousand to the Foundling — ditto to the 



Thames Tunnel ha — ha — my Beauty! Methinks 



we could fain and fond kiss thy silver side, languidly 

 lying afloat on the foam as if all further resistance 

 now were vain, and gracefully thou wert surrender- 

 ing thyself to death! No faith in female — she trusts 

 to the last trial of her tail — sweetly workest thou, 

 O Reel of Reels! and on thy smooth axle spinning 

 sleep'st, even, as Milton describes her, like our own 

 worthy planet. Scrope — Bainbridge — Maule — princes 

 among Anglers — oh! that you were here! Where the 

 devil is Sir Humphrey.'^ At his retort .^^ By mysterious 

 sympathy — far off at his own Trows, the Kerss feels 

 that we are killing the noblest Fish whose back ever 

 rippled the surface of deep or shallow in the Tweed. 

 Tom Purdy stands like a seer, entranced in glorious 

 vision, beside turreted Abbotsford. Shade of Sandy 

 Govan! Alas! alas! Poor Sandy — why on thy pale 

 face that melancholy smile! — Peter! The GafF! The 

 GafF! Into the eddy she sails, sick and slow, and al- 

 most with a swirl — whitening as she nears the sand 

 — there she has it — struck right into the shoulder, 

 fairer than that of Juno, Diana, Minerva, or Venus 

 [10] 



