IN MEMORIAM. 143 
with the same spirit, he had induced me to accompany him. 
We were soon on the bank of the river, which was just 
clearing off after a flood. How well can I remember every 
incident connected with that first lesson in angling ; how 
patiently my cousin showed me how to put a minnow on 
the spinning flight, curving it so skilfully, that when drawn 
against the stream, it looked like one straight line of silver, 
and how expectantly I looked on, watching anxiously the 
result. I had not long to wait. A sudden splash, the glimpse 
of a bright golden side gleaming through the water, and the 
bending of his rod, proclaimed the capture of a good trout. 
He soon had it tired out, and then showed me how to net 
it. This victim was soon followed by another, and then 
comes a third. J was delighted, never before having wit- 
nessed anything of the kind. From that very hour I was 
a fisherman at heart, and at the present time am quite as 
great an enthusiast as ever my cousin was. I only wish 
that I could add “and as great an adept.” 
Yes, every moment of that happy half-holiday comes now 
as forcibly to my mind as though it happened yesterday, 
instead of well-nigh eighteen years ago. 
The next scene, some three years later, a bitter cold day 
in December, with a slight cover of snow upon the ground, 
the sky a steely blue, the hedges and trees sparkling with 
icicles. We had both left school now, and were about to 
enter upon the sterner lesson of life, viz., that of earning 
our own living ; but still, every day that we could get, and 
the evenings as well in summer time, were devoted tu our 
favourite sport. Under my cousin’s tuition I had advanced 
considerably in the gentle art, and could now hola my own 
with most people; on the present occasion, however, we 
were on our way to a village some seven miles distant from 
Ripon to fish with worm for grayling, a kind of sport much 
in vogue on the Yorkshire rivers, and known among the 
angling fraternity as “ swimming the worm.” We reached 
