An Anglers Paradise. 19 
whirling mass ; to see them growing clearer, more defined, as Sol, 
more powerful, drives his weaker foe into oblivion; ah! that foe 
is “‘cornered” here, and in his power, and before him must melt 
away ; not so in the great city, where the mist is made by human 
beings into something else, and even Sol in all his grandeur often 
cannot lift the curtain when it falls upon St. Paul’s and West- 
mister. But here, to stand and see it lifting, leaving behind a 
view on which ’tis good to gaze, the moor, the rocks, the trees, 
the mountains hanging over all, and down below a peaceful valley 
with its river winding far till lost in the expanse of distance. 
But at our feet a brook, its mossy sides and rocky buttresses 
reflected in the still clear pools, the gossamer upon its banks still 
hung with dew-drops, and the plants upon its margin with their 
heads still hanging down as if in slumber. Sol has not touched 
them with his finger tips as yet. To gaze on such a scene inspires 
the town-born traveller with ecstasy, and a feeling as of awe and 
wonder rises within him, mixed with keen delight, as the water 
of the brook beneath him circles round a given point where Salmo 
touched its surface. A little one, ’tis true, but twas a Salmo 
really. See! there another rises. 
The traveller smiles a pleasant smile, brings forth his tackle, 
and essays to tempt the little fish into his creel—at the third cast 
he is successful, and steps lightly on to the next pool to try again 
—another fingerling is thrown upon the bank, and yet another, 
lured from its watery home. And this the traveller is content to 
call his fishing, and to view all things round as exquisitely beauti- 
ful; more beautiful because he holds a fishing-rod—it helps him 
to enjoy the scene most thoroughly and to make the best of 
everything. 
Then how much more, when climbing yonder bank he comes 
upon a pool larger than all the rest, and deeper too, a pool which 
human hands have made, and stocked; and here he tries his 
“gentle art”—soon has a rise—is into one, “A monster” quoth 
our tyro. Off goes the fish, out runs the line till thirty yards are 
gone, then slackens, and he reels him in awhile. But off he goes 
again, now plunges and then leaps from out the water, shewing 
for a moment his bright silvery scales—a full three-pounder 
surely—ah ! yes, he turns the scale at that when he is brought to 
