TROUTING ON JESSUP’S RIVER. 513 
On we staggered bravely—splash! splash! drip! drip. 
Above us, under, and on every side, the gelid rain! As ig 
an incessant shower bath, far more exhausting than a pro- 
tracted plunge—so was this wading through wet bushes 
beneath the pitiless pelting rain. I am sure that it abstracted 
a greater amount of vital heat and strength from us than 
wading the same length of time in cold water would have 
done. At least I never remember to have been more utterly 
exhausted than when we reached the bridge, and found, to 
our great joy, the wagon in waiting. 
Fortunately, our host had been prudent enough to bring 
blankets with him, and wrapping our shivering bodies in 
these, we hurried off on our return. It was no use going 
to our shantee for comfort—the fire was out, and the rain 
had set in for a week to come, and it was a poor affair at 
best. Though it was a break-neck road, I urged him with 
chattering teeth, to drive faster; but the immovable Piscator 
quietly suggested that I should “take it easy!” I stared at 
the man, for I was excessively nervous and irritable, politely 
wishing him in a warmer place with his philosophy. He only 
laughed, and as that made me still more angry, I was soon 
nearly warmed up again. 
Strange as the remedy may seem to those who are not 
familiar with the miracles of bathing, I took forthwith a bath 
of very cold water on reaching home. This warmed me 
instantly and thoroughly, and then the flesh brush and dry 
clothes completed the magical process of immediate transfer 
from the arctic to the tropics, which my sensations underwent, 
without the aid of fire or sun. 
I never felt more delightfully than I did when I sat down 
to a fine dinner that evening in the old Tavern, and very 
much of this pleasurable feeling of entire comfort I attributed 
to the prompt use of the cold bath. I have mentioned 
Piscator’s hydrophobia, so i be the external application of 
