DOWN THE BECK 43 



cally, when poor Christopher Xorth lay on his 

 death-bed. In the intervals of his malady, he 

 had his fly-books brought to him, and derived a 

 melancholy pleasure from taking out his old 

 favourites one by one, and lovingly caressing 

 their bright plumage and carefully tied wings, as 

 they were spread out on the sheets. It must be 

 confessed that angling is justly open to the charge 

 of being a solitary, taciturn, meditative sport, which 

 shuts a man out from his kind. We are cynical 

 enough to fancy that if he be shut up with Nature 

 instead, he will suffer no great harm. Indeed, to 

 admit the impeachment is only tantamount to 

 owning that fishing, after all, is but of this world, 

 and necessarily an imperfect energy. Herein lies 

 its chief excellence in the eyes of hard workers; 

 so there is no need elaborately to refute the 

 objection. Let a man try it, and solvitur am- 

 hulanclo. So good is it that the aforesaid Dame 

 Juliana indulges in no exaggeration when she says 

 — pardon once more an angler's loquacity — " Ye 

 shall not use this forsayde crafty dysporte for no 

 covetysenes to th'encreasynge and sparynge of 

 your money oonly, but pryncypally for your solace, 

 and to cause the helthe of your body and especyally 

 of your soule." Though it be to our own loss, we 

 would nevertheless invite every reflective mind to 



