“Sitting like patience on a monument,”

and selling the remnant of his life below cost price in the pursuit of angling,—­that “art of ingeniously tormenting,”—­a feeling,

“More in sorrow than in anger,”

is excited at his profitless inhumanity.

Vainly do all the disciples of honest Izaak Walton discourse, in eulogistic strains, of the pleasure of the sport.  I can imagine neither pleasure nor sport derivable from the infliction of pain upon the meanest thing endowed with life.

This may be deemed Brahminical, but I doubt that man’s humanity who can indulge in the cruel recreation and murder while he smiles.

“What, heretical sentiments,” exclaims some brother of the angle, (now I am an angle, but no angler.) “This fellow hath never trudged at early dawn along the verdant banks of the ‘sedgy lea,’ and drunk in the dewy freshness of the morning air.  His lines have never fallen in pleasant places.  He has never performed a pilgrimage to Waltham Cross.  He is, in truth, one of those vulgar minds who take more delight in the simple than the—­gentle!—­and every line of his deserves a rod!”

PRACTICE.

“Sweet is the breath of morn when she ascends With charm of earliest birds.”—–­Milton.

“Well, this is a morning!” emphatically exclaimed a stripling, with a mouth and eyes formed by Nature of that peculiar width and power of distension, so admirably calculated for the expression of stupid wonder or surprise; while his companion, elevating his nasal organ and projecting his chin, sniffed the fresh morning breeze, as they trudged through the dewy meadows, and declared that it was exactly for all the world similar-like to reading Thomson’s Seasons!  In which apt and appropriate simile the other concurred.

“Tom’s a good fellow to lend us his gun,” continued he—­“I only hope it ain’t given to tricking, that’s all.  I say, Sugarlips, keep your powder dry.”

“Leave me alone for that,” replied Sugarlips; “I know a thing or two, although this is the first time that ever I have been out.  What a scuffling the birds do make”—­added he, peeping into the cage which they had, as a precautionary measure, stocked with sparrows, in order that they might not be disappointed in their sport—­“How they long to be on the wing!”

“I’ll wing ’em, presently!” cried his comrade, with a vaunting air—­” and look if here ain’t the very identical spot for a display of my skill.  Pick out one of the best and biggest, and tie up a-top of yonder stile, and you shall soon have a specimen of my execution.”  Sugarlips quickly did his bidding.

“Now—­come forward and stand back!  What do ye think o’ that, ey?” said the sportsman—­levelling his gun, throwing back his head, closing his sinister ocular, and stretching out his legs after the manner of the Colossus of Rhodes—­“Don’t you admire my style?”