98 FISHING GOSSIP. 
to Mr. Bagnall, provided he can but satisfactorily 
achieve his everlasting pot of beer, in which to 
“pledge the memory,” etc. Poor Cowper may hide 
his diminished head. Nay, we doubt whether the 
birthplace of Shakespeare himself would evoke more 
than a passing stare from Mr. Bagnall, unless coupled 
with the facilities for swallowing malt liquor. Even 
the anticipation of the grand ruins of Betchworth 
Castle cannot suggest a more poetical prepara- 
tion than a “call in at the Old Punch Bowl,” 
and the imbibing of “a portion of the celebrated 
Reigate ale, to circulate the blood and comfort the 
stomach.” As it was at Betchworth, so was it at the 
Thatched House, and so it was at Highbury—“ Beer, 
beer, beer!” or, as Bon Gaultier’s fat old woman 
would say, “ Stout, more stout!” In fine, the vaunted 
“local and historical allusions” promised by Mr, 
Bagnall’s preface almost in every instance resolve 
themselves into visits to pot-houses or other places 
connected directly or indirectly with what he calls 
“ edible enjoyments.” 
Yes, the “ gentle” craft is certainly becoming 
plebeian! It is afflicted with a literature as large 
perhaps as that of all other field sports put together, 
and of which nine-tenths would appear to have been 
written for the purpose of showing how silly and 
offensive vulgar people can become when smitten by 
the cacoéthes seribendi. We had recently occasion to 
