148 
THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY 
trout did not bite, I, as a boy might be supposed to do, at- 
tributed the failure, not to the philosophy of the fish, but to 
their want of appetite. 
I love fly-fishing; because it is fishing divested of much of 
its barbarity. I mean, of course, the artificial fly. It is all 
very fair to catch a voracious fish, while he is endeavouring to 
gobble up what he supposes a nice little fly. I always disliked 
to use live bait, and never did when I could avoid it. Walton 
had many kind feelings, and in instructing you how to impale 
a frog in such a manner as to keep the poor devil alive as long 
as possible, he pathetically urges it upon you to “ use him as 
though you loved him;” for which affectionate admonition 
he has been sneered at most unmercifully by half a dozen peo- 
ple, who although they may be very accomplished writers, 
are no fishermen. But in my early fishing days, I learnt more 
humanity from Thomson than from any other person, and 
for a long time, whenever I thought of going a fishing, I 
had humming in my ears: 
“But let not on your hook the tortured worm, 
Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds ; 
Which by rapacious hunger swallowed deep, 
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast 
Of the weak, harmless, uncomplaining wretch, 
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.” 
These lines saved many a worm. It was Thomson, I 
think, who, some lady said, showed plainly in his works, 
that he was a great fisherman and a great swimmer; but 
who, notwithstanding the lady’s sagacity, and I must say 
that she drew a very fair inference, judging from his works, 
never took a fishing rod in his hand, and never went into 
ihe sgvater. Thomson’s worm puts me in mind of a time 
'when I was trying to entice into my pouch some Trout from 
the Choconut creek — You have been there with me — They 
were shy, and I thought I would try some other bait, and 
searching around I found a worm. My head had been 
running on mixed mathematics, and the doctrine of 
chances — a foolish thing to puzzle one’s self with when fish- 
ing. As I sauntered along, I had been proving to myself 
that the probability of two subsequent events, both happen- 
ing, is equal to the product of the probability of the hap- 
pening of those events, considered separately. Q. E. D. 
And had demonstrated the thing in my head most scholas- 
tically, when I said to myself, — Here is this poor worm. 
What was the chance that in the immense extent of this 
globe, it should be here, in this spot; and in the great 
lapse of time since the formation of worms, that this very 
one should have existed at all; and if existing, been here, 
at this point of time; and that I — the individual I — 
should be here now , of all times; and be here in this spot 
in all space, for the purpose of catching a Trout. That be- 
ing here, at this time, of all times past, present, and to 
come, I should have found this worm, of all the worms of 
the earth, and should put it on this hook, among the trillions 
of hooks, t8 catch a particular trout, in this particular creek, 
of all the creeks in the world. And yet that chance has 
become a certainty! Prove me that, Mr. De Moivre! 
Poh! poh! ’tis all a folly, and it shan’t happen; and you 
shan’t be put upon this hook, nor be eaten by that trout, 
poor little worm. There, go off with you — wriggle away 
as fast as you can, and thank the doctrine of chances for 
your escape; and I’ll bother myself no more with them: I 
dare say it was they that made me lose that last trout. 
What fishing may be compared with fly-fishing for trout, 
in a fine, clear, spring brook, overarched by spreading 
beeches, birches, and elms! — the day so warm as to give a 
pleasing consciousness of the protection derived from the 
majestic trees — the water so clear as to tempt you from the 
bank to walk into the stream, that runs dancing over stones 
and pebbles, or whirling around rocks, as if for the purpose 
of forming lurking places for the trout. You throw your 
fly, and they see it in its light descent, and dart at it; but 
one, more alert than his fellows, springs out of the water 
and seizes it, before it reaches the surface! I am sure, my 
dear E. , that you will always recollect that fishing when 
we caught thirty-six dozens, (or was it it thirty-five and a 
half? I always said that; but you contended that it was 
thirty-six,) and the boy who attended with the horse and 
panniers, could scarcely put them away, wrapped up in the 
fresh green leaves, as fast as we caught them. Do you re- 
collect the pool, where I stood over my knees in the water, 
and from one place, caught my fishing-bag full three times 
over — the boy being called that often to empty it ? When, 
as the fly was descending, we could see trout dashing from 
different parts of the clear water, to the point where it was 
expected to fall, and the surface would be thrown into 
ebullition by the struggle among them to see who should 
be the fortunate fellow to seize it? Do you recollect what 
a delicious lunch we made that day, about twelve o’clock, 
you may call it a dejeuner a-la-fourchette, if you please 
— having been walking in the stream, the forest all the 
way overhead, from sunrise — how we sat on the bank, sub 
tegmine fagi, with our feet in the water, and how often you 
exclaimed, “ How delightful this is!” Do you remember 
how the pellucid stream put us in mind of Professor 
Carlyle’s translation from the Arabic poet, in lines which 
might be supposed to describe the limpid rivulet before 
us : 
“ So smooth the pebbles on its shore, 
That not a maid can thither stray, 
But counts her strings of jewels o’er, 
And thinks the pearls have slipped away.” 
Do you recollect, as we lay thrown back upon the grass, 
