94 
THE TROUT. 
silent sepulchre, for upon that silty, gravelly, shelf of sand I 
resolve to land him, or lose all I have. And now I fancy him 
weary of life, as aged people that are weary of infirmities, yet 
I want courage to encounter him, lest fearing to lose him, 
which if I do I impair my reputation. However, here is 
nobody but trees to reprove me, except these rocks, and 
they tell no tales. Well, then, as he wants no agility to 
evade me, I’ll endeavor with activity to approach him, so 
that the difference between us will be only this, that he covets 
acquaintance with but one element, and 1 would compel him 
to examine another. Now he runs to divert me or himself, 
but I must invite him nearer home, for I fancy none such 
distance. 
“ Though his fins fag, and his tail wriggles, his strength 
declines, his gills look languid, and his mettle declineth — all 
of which interpret tokens of submission — still, the best news 
I bring him is summons of death. Yet, let not my rashness 
pre-engage me to the loss of my game, for, to neglect my ru- 
diments is to ruin my design, winch in plain terms, is the 
ruin of this resolute fish, who, seemingly, now measures and 
mingles his proportion with more than one element, and, 
doomed to a trance, he prostrates himself on the surface of 
the calms, dead to my apprehension, save only I want credit 
to believe him dead, when, calling to mind my former pre- 
cipitancy, that invited me to a loss, and so this adventure may 
prove, if I look not well about me, to land and strand him on 
that shelf of sand, where I resolve with my rod to survey his 
dimensions. Welcome on shore, my languishing combatant, 
if only to entertain my friend Arnoldus.” 
The following beautiful lines from the poet and fisherman 
Gay, “ run ” directly from the 11 reel” of his imagination, 
and from the crystal 11 waters ” of the fount of inspiration; 
every “ line ” 11 plumb'd " to the nicety of a “ hair” the 
** point ” needs but the aid of the “ Jly ” press of the printer 
