KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL. 



223 



the city. Only imagine — a bright day, a 

 peep from this window of a heath or furze 

 mountain ; and from that, a silvery sheet of 

 water ! All these conspired to tantalise me. 

 It was enough to try the patience of Job ! 



Next morning, breakfast was appointed at 

 nine "to a minute;" and determined to have 

 a good draught of nature, I started at five 

 a.m., and walked nearly a dozen miles, — one 

 of the happiest mortals alive, — and returned 

 with an appetite as sharp as the air on the 

 top of Scawfell Pikes. " Master isn't up 

 yet," again drawled forth the servant, as he 

 ushered me into the breakfast room. And 

 much in the same manner as the day before, 

 I waited until he made his appearance ; 

 suffering from hunger, and feeling very much 

 inclined to commit an outrage upon the loaf 

 on the breakfast table. 



I am very fond of angling; and this day 

 was to be devoted to pike fishing on one of 

 the lakes. My friend assured me that he 

 had everything " ready;" so I took little 

 trouble, knowing that the afternoon is as 

 good as any other time for the sport. A 

 walk was proposed in the meantime ; but, 

 first, we must have luncheon ; then take a 

 little wine ; then step over one of his fields 

 to look at a pie-bald pony; and then, "just 

 step in and take a glass of beer." And so 

 we got on our way just when we should 

 have been returning. We did return too 

 late for dinner, and, as it turned out, too late 

 for pike! I certainly enjoyed the walk; 

 but from a habit of always fulfilling punc- 

 tually my most trivial engagements, I could 

 not but think that the pike had the advan- 

 tage of me ; and I pictured them to my 

 mind's eye, poking about their sharp noses 

 in a more insolent style than did ever 

 Chartist Pike. 



We dined hurriedly ; and I absolutely re- 

 fused a second glass of wine, urging the 

 necessity of at once starting for the lake. 

 A little more dilly-dallying, and off we 

 marched ; and at eight got into the boat to 

 commence operations. 



" Here are two good lines, and hooks 

 strong enough for a twelve pounder," said 1, 

 beginning to have a foretaste of the luxury 

 of hauling a slimy monster over the boat's 

 bows. " But where ?" added I, gazing wildly 

 into the empty pan, " where are the bass ?" 



"Bass! eh? Oh, yes! the bass; we'll 

 soon get them." And so we would, if we 

 had brought a clasp-net. But Mr. Slowboy 

 had put off getting his mended, and so we 

 had to catch minnows to fish for them, which 

 we set about in the shallows. After much 

 trouble we got a few, and then spent some 

 more time in bass fishing, till the shades of 

 evening completely gathered o'er us, and 

 saw us return with — I speak positively for 

 myself — heavy hearts and light baskets, con- 



taining three or four bass, about three inches 

 long, and a dozen minnows. And this was 

 " our day's pike fishing !" 



Mr. Slowboy was not lazy though ! He 

 could walk thirty miles at a stretch ; that is, 

 provided he had two days' rest after it. 

 We determined then to start at ten, next 

 da}^, and visit the beautiful lake of Butter- 

 mere. The evening we were to spend in 

 trying to fish char — by no means an easy 

 task in the summer months. Ten o'clock 

 came, and with it breakfast. For a wonder, 

 my host was only an hour behind his time. 

 Breakfast over, I proposed to start. 



" Well, we'll off directly ; but my head's 

 rather bad." And so, one way or another, 

 he put it off till lunch ; and then the bitter 

 beer was bad, and quite unfitted him for 

 starting, at least just yet. Nor was it till 

 after dinner that we got off, for a walk of 

 eight miles ; reaching the inn about ten, 

 tired and wet. The rain had come on about 

 half-past eight, and had drenched us to the 

 skin ! 



But why detail every day's wrongs and 

 disappointments ? Each day brought forth 

 fresh causes of grief; and I inwardly deplored 

 my bad fortune, waiting anxiously for the 

 time of my departure. It came at last, and 

 Mr. Slowboy was to drive me to the station. 

 Somehow or another, the pony, or himself, 

 could not be got ready until it was too late ! 

 Thus I lost that day ; and to my vexation, I 

 broke several appointments at home. In 

 the morning I determined "not to be done." 

 My exasperation had reached its fullest ; and 

 at an early hour, long before my host 

 dreamed of daylight, I actually stole from 

 the h/mse without so much as saying " good 

 bye" to him ; walked to the railway station, 

 and got back to town. 



Most heartily was I out of humor with my 

 journey ; and I vow never again to accept an 

 invitation, be it never so flattering, until I 

 shall have satisfied myself that the host never 

 uses such a phrase as 



" Wait a Little ! " 



Should this meet the eye of Mr. Slowboy, 

 I trust it will have the effect of curing him 

 for ever of his habits of procrastination. 

 When next I see him, may I find him — 

 "a Specimen of Punctuality !" 



Music, when soft voices die, 

 Vibrates on the memory — 

 Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 

 Live within the sense they quicken ; 

 Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, 

 Are heap'd for the beloved's bed ; — ■ 

 So, dear! thy thoughts, when thou art 

 Love itself shall slumber on. 



gone, 



